Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Somehow I keep it together until I'm alone. But the moment the first tear slips free, the rest follow.
I grip the edge of the sink in the restroom at Manhattan Mocha, my hands shaking so badly my knuckles turn white. My legs give out and I slide down the back of the door until my bottom hits the tile floor.
The impact barely registers.
The sob that tears out of me is raw and ugly, nothing like the quiet crying I managed in front of Will, and my body folds in on itself as the sound echoes off the tiled walls. I can't stop it. Every breath comes in jagged pulls that burn my chest.
My husband just left me, and with him, took the life I thought I had.
I press my palms into my eyes, trying to push the tears back – to slow them down – but they keep coming. Hot, fast, violent tears, and my chest aches from the effort of breathing through it.
I don't want to feel this. I don't want to feel anything.
For a few seconds I just sit there on the cold bathroom floor, waiting for the storm to pass. Eventually it does, and the sobs slow enough for me to stand. My legs feel weak as I pull myself up and blot my face with a wad of paper towels. When I step out of the restroom, I keep my head down and move quickly through the café, hoping no one heard the breakdown happening a few feet from their lattes.
Outside, the city moves like nothing happened. People rush past me, phones pressed to their ears, taxis honking, conversations blending into one loud blur. I walk without thinking, letting the crowd carry me down the block.
And then it hits me. I have nowhere to go.
I don't want to go back to work, and even if I did, I'm in no shape to be there. Pretty sure mascara streaked down my face isn't the look Calvin expects from his interns. Nico's apartment is an option, but he and Sloane won't be home until tonight, and the idea of sitting alone in that quiet penthouse for hours feels dangerous.
I glance down at myself. Sloane's oversized blazer hangs loosely over a silk camisole that definitely didn't come from my closet. Her jeans are cuffed twice at the ankle because she's three inches taller than I am. When I left this morning, she waved me off when I apologized for borrowing half her wardrobe.
Please, she said. I own more clothes than most department stores.
Still, the outfit feels temporary. Like I'm borrowing someone else's life.
There's a Barnes & Noble a few blocks away, but the thought of staring at books for the next eight hours immediately bores me. I'm not my sister after all.
Which only leaves one place.
When I step through the front door of our house, everything looks the same. My heels still sit by the entryway where I stepped out of them that day. My umbrella rests neatly in its stand. The newest issue of Vogue and Sports Illustrated are tucked into the mail holder.
