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 respect the process, but I've decided to stick with anger. It's easier than being sad, and a hell of a lot more fun.
Nothing is required of me right now, which might be the most beautiful sentence in the English language. I don't have to show up and pretend to be invested at that joke of an internship. I don't have to run errands for my misogynistic scumbag boss. I don't have to rush to the studio to help Nico debate ruby red versus raspberry red silk for a slip dress no one actually needs.
And I definitely don't have to be home in time to be the perfect little Stepford wife. Not that I ever did it well enough anyway, according to Will.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, no one is checking the clock on me. No one is asking where I am, what I'm doing, or why. So, I get in my mom's SUV and drive to the nicest salon in town. If I'm going to spiral, I might as well do it with good hair.
I'm booked for a full highlight and a trim. While I'm sitting under the dryer, someone convinces me to add a facial. Then a manicure. Then a pedicure. By the time they're done with me, I've been polished from head to toe and smell faintly like eucalyptus and poor financial decisions.
After that, I stop by Jocelyn's Boutique and drop and easy five hundred dollars. The last thing I need is more clothes, but I started working at Jocelyn's a few days after it opened fifteen years ago. If I have money to throw around to keep the place alive, then I'll happily throw it.
Revenge spending feels like a public service.
Once I've dropped enough money for Will to notice, I go home and set a personal record. Seventy-two straight hours in bed. I only get up to use the bathroom and grab snacks, because I'm busy catching up on all the reality shows Will used to make fun of me for watching. He'd change the channel every time one of them came on. 90 Day Fiancé. Real Housewives. Love is Blind. The Bachelor. The Bachelorette. He always said reality TV would make me dumb. Said he'd be embarrassed if his friends ever found out his wife watched it.
Which is funny, because right now I'm sprawled across the bed, eating Hot Cheetos straight from the bag and watching trash television like it's my full-time job.
Hey, Will. I'm frying my brain by watching reality TV and eating fattening Hot Cheetos in bed. You better come stop me.
After I've watched so much television my eyes are nearly crossed, I throw on the New York Knicks hoodie I stole from Nico and head out to the front porch with a glass of wine and a book I've been dying to read. It's a new adult sports romance – a genre I usually avoid since it reminds me a little too much of my first love and my fist heartbreak – but Sloane swore I'd like it.
