Page 19 of Single-Minded
Truly, I’m determined to let it all go, but sometimes it sneaks up on me and I’m so pissed at Michael for lying to me that I want to take an ice pick and jam it through his eye socket.
But anyway, here I am, all dolled up for our divorce/coming out party. My hope is that the party will bring me some sort of peace, some closure, and help me move on. But the reality of it feels like pouring salt on my wounded heart.
Our guests aren’t due to arrive for another twenty minutes or so. Michael exits the bathroom, half unzipped and his belt unbuckled, tucking his shirt into his pants.
I gasp. “Oh my gawd,” I say, pointing at his crotch. “What the hell is that?”
“What?” he asks. I hook my finger around a minuscule elastic strap, snapping it against his skin.
“That,” I say. “Are you actually wearing a zebra-print man-kini?”
His eyes dance. “Thong!”
“Wow,” I say. Because there are no other words.
“Wait,” he laughs, “there’s more!” He pulls what looks like a miniaturized garage door opener out of his front jeans pocket, and squeezes the little button. Suddenly, the zebra thong is alive with flashing lights in red, blue, and yellow.
“Wow. Just wow. It’s like Las Vegas on your crotch,” I say.
“It’s a celebration! Tonight is your debutante ball!” He giggles, pouring me a glass of champagne. “You’re a single girl for the first time in your life!”
“And so are you,” I crack.
He smiles, hugs me close, and raises his glass. “Cheers!”
We sip our champagne and I try to stifle tears burning my eyes. I willnotcry. I love Michael, he broke my heart, and it’s over. And also I sometimes want to wring his f-ing neck.Deep breath. Just let it all go.
I dry my eyes on Michael’s shirt, a black, skintight number I don’t recognize. His blond hair is stiff with product, his eyebrows (and arms, ew) look freshly waxed, he’s sporting too-cool motorcycle boots and a thumb ring.
“Oh my gawd, “I say, looking him over. “You look so gay right now.”
He beams. “Thanks!”
Michael picked out my outfit for the evening, a slinky aqua dress that shows off my legs. So there’s that upside to having a gay husband.
“And for the finishing touch,” he says, pulling a pink box down from the closet with great flourish. Opening the box, he reveals a sparkling rhinestone tiara nestled on hot-pink velvet.
“Oh no,” I say, backing out of the room. “I think only one person in the not-so-happy couple should be bejeweled,” I motion toward his light-up thong, “and you’ve already got us covered.”
“Oh yes,” he says, chasing me down the hallway with the tiara. “Tonight is about fun, about new beginnings, about reintroducing the most gorgeous, charming, and brilliant woman I’ve ever known to society.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a debutante.”
“You are tonight, cookie.”
“I’m not wearing that,” I say.
“It’s either this or the thong,” he says. And I reluctantly reach for the tiara.
I hate thongs.
16
Apparently, straight people have no idea what to wear to a gay-divorce-slash-coming-out party. Friends show up wearing neon-colored feather boas and bejeweled Elton John sunglasses. At least three of our male neighbors arrive decked out in drag, which is inexplicable to say the least. It might be four. After a few glasses of champagne, seeing your neighborhood stockbrokers and bankers in blond Marilyn Monroe wigs and size-eleven stilettos, it all starts to run together.
Most of our guests are people Michael and I have known forever, and a few of my former clients who are friends. Everyone generously pretends to be oblivious to the televised sex scandal, and I’m unbelievably grateful for that. And booze. I’m grateful for booze.
Darcy and Samantha arrive, and the two of them drag me into the kitchen to refill my glass and get started on their own. Darcy’s fire-red hair and outrageous wardrobe match her personality to a tee. Tonight she’s wearing a strapless green sundress with coral jewelry and funky stilettos. Samantha’s outfit is as perkily intense as she is. She’s poured into a body-conscious, electric-blue dress, which shows off the hours and hours she spends at her yoga studio. Pert.
