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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There are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
I've been through them all, but I'm choosing to stay in anger—it's easier than sadness.
No one knows I'm in South Grove except my family. I have no responsibilities here. Nowhere to be, nothing to do for anyone. No fake smiles for some joke of an internship, no errands for a misogynistic, scumbag boss, no mediating Nico's meltdown over ruby red versus raspberry red. No check-ins. No curfews set by Will. No obligation to be home to make him dinner—which, as he so graciously reminded me, I rarely did anyway.
I still have access to our bank account, which means I can finally spend his money on something that actually makes me happy. After everything he's put me through, I figure I've more than earned it. I book an appointment at the nicest salon in town for full highlights and a trim, and while I'm under the dryer, I let them talk me into a facial, manicure, and pedicure. By the time I'm polished from head to toe, I wander into Jocelyn's Boutique and, just to prove I can, drop four hundred dollars without a second thought.
Then I set a personal record—forty-eight hours in bed, only getting up to eat or use the bathroom, binging every trashy reality show Will practically banned from our house. He always said they'd make me dumb, that he'd be "embarrassed" if his friends found out his wife watched them. If I wanted him to introduce me to his colleagues, I was supposed to watch something "enriching," something that would give me "intelligent topics" to discuss. Now? My only goal is rotting my brain and loving every second of it.
Considering everything that's happened, I tell myself I feel good. Lighter. Relaxed, even—like some enormous weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I don't have to put on the performance anymore, smiling on cue as the happy, doting wife. I'm not required to keep my hair and makeup perfect every waking minute, just in case someone might see me in a ponytail. I can run errands in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, and there's no one to stop me. My bed is mine alone, with no covers stolen in the middle of the night, no snoring in my ear.
I watch what I want, listen to what I want, eat what I want. I can dress however I please. I tell myself I'm okay without Will. I am. I really am.
I'm free.
So why does it still feel like I can't quite breathe?
_____
Morning sunlight seeps through the curtains, spilling across my face until my eyes flutter open. I stretch lazily, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and yawn so wide my jaw pops. The fluffy pink paisley comforter wraps around my legs, stubborn and familiar, before I toss it aside. If I were staying in South Grove, I'd trade it for something new—maybe even find my own place. But my dream has always been New York, writing for Vogue or Elle. That's where I belong. At least... that's what I keep telling myself.
My bare feet slap against the hardwood stairs as I sleepily make my way down to the kitchen. I can hear the muffled sound of the AM station coming from our old kitchen radio and I know before I see her that I'll find my mother at the kitchen island doing a crossword puzzle.
