PROLOGUE
I’ve always wanted to get married. Not simply because I enjoyed fairy tales and layers of tulle at a young age - and I did - but because I’ve always truly wanted a husband and family of my own. My parents divorced when I was nine years old, leaving me devastated and desperate for my own chance at getting it right. A chance to meet my soul mate, fall in love, and stay committed. A chance to do things my way. A chance for a normal family with no screaming, no cowering children and no more loneliness.
And while I’ve held onto that dream like a child holds onto a ratty, drool stained blanket; I have never really obsessed about the particulars that are typically important to a bride. Things such as the gown, the flowers and the color scheme never entered into my imagination. So on my actual wedding day, I was a little surprised to realize how meticulously every detail had been attended to.
There I was, all dressed in white with a soft veil loosely brushing against the skin on my face, feeling blissful and resplendent. I wore a strapless satin sheath and in my hand was a bouquet of dark red roses. I started walking slowly towards my groom standing curiously far away from me at the end of the aisle. So far away, in fact, that I was having a difficult time focusing on his face. The more I walked the farther he seemed. I paused at one point to observe the people standing on either side of me on that gloriously sunny day and marveled at them smiling in my direction. It was finally my day. My chance.
Feeling much more secure, I closed my eyes for a second before continuing. When I opened them, I was lying on the lobby floor of my apartment building trying to remember what made me lose consciousness.
CHAPTER ONE:
Marc My Words
I burst off the elevator like a racehorse out of its gate, and run to my desk before Brooke realizes I’ve taken a two-hour lunch. I managed to get most of the groceries home before rushing back to the office, but I had to make one last stop on the way back to get Marc’s favorite salad dressing. Since the only things I have learned how to cook in my twenty-six years are baked potatoes, potato skins, spaghetti with jarred sauce and tuna salad - my kitchen is not equipped to make much else - so I knew when I planned this steak dinner for Marc that I would have a ton of shopping to do. I’m sweating as I dump the salad dressing in my desk drawer and then grab my phone and scramble to the conference room for a creative meeting. Adam stops me before I enter the empty room five minutes late.
“Where is everyone?” I ask him.
“Dave cancelled the meeting,” he says, delicately placing an Altoid on his tongue. “Which you would have known if you hadn’t fled the building earlier. You ran out of here like I did when I had that phantom farter in my Bikram yoga class.”
“I’m making dinner for Marc tonight, and work has been so crazy that I haven’t had any time to go to the grocery.”
He looks me up and down as if he doesn’t recognize me. “You’re making dinner for Marc?”
I nod.
“You’d have better success climbing Mount Everest in those dated wedges you’re wearing,” he says and points at my feet.
“Thank you,” I smirk. “But I’m honestly not in the mood for you at the moment. I love you, and I will see you later.”
“Tata,” Adam calls after me.
I finish my work by six-o’clock, and after one last stop to grab Marc’s favorite beer, I’m back at my apartment ready to make dinner. I live alone in Lincoln Park, a city neighborhood just a couple miles north of The Gold Coast area, where my job, and the offices of Lambert & Miller Advertising are located. A brief commute is a must for someone like me who has trouble being on time. My apartment is a microscopic habitat that isn’t referred to as a studio only because there is a cupboard-like kitchenette with doors that separate it from the main room. Besides that, it’s four hundred square feet of home-sweet-home. The unit is located in a century-old Chicago hi-rise that’s two blocks from Lake Michigan; however, my apartment is on the opposite side of the building and overlooks the much less serene Clark Street. This is nice because if I ever happen to sleep through my alarm, I can usually count on the #22 bus to grind its brakes outside my window and wake me up with that clatter instead. I try not to complain too much because at eight hundred bucks a month, the price is right, and I’ve suffered through enough roommates to appreciate any abode as long as I’m the only one in it. Simple pleasures like my own leftovers in the fridge, my own socks on the floor, and my own long, brown hairy mess in the shower drain.
