Good Gods

Chapter 3.1

Chapter 3 continued

I hate leaving Quin.

Remember, I mentioned the mommy guilt dilemma? It's like a massive purple pachyderm following me around whenever I even think about doing an un-mommy like thing.

For me, it feels especially crushing to be gone for an hour, forget the whole afternoon. Maybe it's that I hate leaving our home, the fact I spent weeks away from Quin, or that I feel I'm running from my marital issues. Roman's difficult, he's got strange ways, but I love him, have from our first kiss, or at least I'm trying to love him. All these reasons are why doing the makeover with Lance is so bloody painful.

I'll give him credit, the place Lance took me was prepared and very professional. We arrived, and after they measured me, because that wasn't humiliating, and no, I didn't know my sizes, I got the royal work-up. Turns out, I needed everything new, from my underwear, that I'd tried to hem so they didn't bunch, to my flip-flops that were a size too small. And, as I was informed by Mr. Fashion Lance, plastic flip-flops are not the footwear of the gods.

Oh, excuse me.

In the end, I decide Lance's little fashion intervention was needed. I knew I needed a new wardrobe and my makeshift alterations were inexcusable, to say the least. But the press kept me confined to the house, I tried to order on-line but clearly was off on my new sizing. Rip offered to help, that should've been a sign of how bad the clothing situation had gotten, but well, kind of had a lot going on since the old goddess change.

I exited the salon in a new floral dress with matching pumps and sent about a dozen other packages back to the house. Figured if I was there, might make the best of it. This way, I wouldn't have to go back anytime soon, if ever again. Lance, and the head stylist, both hinted that designers love to see their goods on gods. I don't doubt they do. For my part, I paid for the whole lot—or Roman's black credit card did.

That's another un-equitable thing in our house—money. Roman has it and earns it, I don't and feel guilty when I spend it. When we met, I was waitress-in-college-poor. Being too proud to ask my mom for help, I tried to make it on my own, in LA, in horticulture school. Yah, I had progressed beyond penniless and into selling my plasma-broke.

Roman's never seems to mind that he covers all my expenses. When we got married, he paid off my school loans and has never asked that I get another job. Oh, and we live in a large Hills mansion and he has a stable full of OMG nice cars, and then there's my wedding ring...

So see, I know we have money—maybe even an uncomfortable amount of it. Still, I've always been conservative when spending it.

Clearly, my reservations about blowing Roman's cash flew out the window. In the back of my head, I secretly hope it gets his attention. Juvenile, I know. Clearly, it's the level I've de-evolved to.

Post fashion intervention, Lance takes me to a secluded café to grab a bite to eat. The secluded part with Lance doesn't do it for me, our late lunch date however, brightens my day. Jolene.

We walk into the private room and there she is. Her gorgeous golden hair is pinned in a bun with a pencil and she's wearing a sharp tweed suit and leopard-printed oval glasses. She's simultaneously working on the three tablets, and one laptop, all while chatting on the phone. Ah, that's our girl.

With a click on the screen, she mutes her call. "This will be a sec," she chirps in her Southern drawl, then un-mutes her phone to keep chatting.

I see she's working on what appears to be code on one tablet, spreadsheets on another, some kind of blueprint for machinery on the third, and for all I can guess a design for a particle reactor on the laptop. Jolene's all kinds of smart that way.