Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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There are five stages of grief: Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
I've experienced them all, but I've decided to stick with anger. It's much easier than being sad.
Besides my parents, no one knows I'm in South Grove. I have no responsibilities while I'm here. I don't need to be anywhere or do anything for anyone. I don't need to show up and pretend to be happy at some joke of an internship, or run errands for a misogynistic, scumbag boss. I don't need to help Nico through the crisis of deciding between ruby red or raspberry red. I don't need to check in with anyone. I don't need to be home at a time Will approves of, or there to make him dinner, which as he so kindly pointed out, I rarely did anyway.
I still have access to our bank account, which means I have the money to do a little pampering, and after everything I've been through, I've earned it. So, I book an appointment at the nicest salon in town. I'm scheduled for a full highlight and a trim, and while I'm under the dryer, I get talked into a facial, manicure and pedicure. After I've been groomed from – literally – head to toe, I stop in Jocelyn's Boutique and in a fit of defiance, drop four-hundred-dollars.
After some revenge spending, I set a personal record and lay in bed for forty-eight straight hours – only getting up to use the bathroom and eat – and catch up on all the reality television shows Will never let me watch. He always said reality shows would make me dumber, and he'd be embarrassed if his friends ever found out his wife watches them. That if I ever wanted him to introduce me to his colleagues, I needed to watch something that would enrich my brain and give me intelligent topics to talk about.
Hey Will, I'm watching trashy reality TV and eating Hot Cheetos straight from the bag. You better come out and stop me!
Considering all that's happened, I feel good. I feel lighter and more relaxed than I have in a long time. Like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I don't need to put on the performance as the happy, doting wife. I'm not required to have my hair and make-up done twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, because God forbid someone I know might see me in a ponytail. I can run errands in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, and he can't stop me. I have a bed all to myself and I don't have to deal with him stealing the covers or keeping me awake with his snoring.
I can watch what I want to watch. Listen to the music I want to listen to. Dress how I want to dress and eat what I want to eat. I'm okay without Will. I am. I really am.
I'm free.
Sunshine seeps through the curtains and blinds me as my eyes flutter open. My lower back aches, but I won't complain because that means I had another night of undisturbed sleep and for that, I feel lucky.
I stretch my arms above my head, wiping the sleep from the corner of my eyes, and yawn so wide my jaw cracks. I disentangle myself from the fluffy, pink paisley comforter and throw it off me. If my plan was to stay in South Grove for good, I'd go out and get new bedding. Hell, I'd get my own place, but my goal is to write for a fashion magazine, like Vogue or Elle, one day, and I need to be in New York to do that.
