I step out of the dressing room, careful to pick up the long skirt so I don’t trip on it. It’s about two inches too long but I figure with high heels, it will be the perfect length.
I think.
Not really sure.
Last time I wore a formal gown was for my senior prom. It wasn’t the magical, romantic evening most senior high school girls dream of spending with their honeys. I went with a good friend of mine, Johnny Davidson. Neither of us were dating anyone at the time so it seemed like a good idea. There was nothing memorable about that night to me and the memories are dull because of that. I do remember Johnny lighting a joint as we sat in the backseat of his best friend’s car, and he was driving, with his date riding shotgun. When he passed it to me, I shook my head to decline, and before he could pull it back across the seat, a single ember broke free and dropped down onto my gold lamé dress, which promptly melted a hole in it the size of a dime.
Good times.
I exit the dressing room, looking for Sutton. I had asked her to come shopping with me because I had no clue what one wore to a celebrity charity gala, for I had never been to a gala, much less a charity one, much much less one that would be swarming with celebrities.
I look down at the strapless silvery-blue dress. The top is done in satin with a shimmery tulle overlay, and the skirt is nothing but several layers of the same shimmery tulle extending full length to the ground so it puffs out just a bit. When I turn back and forth, it swishes prettily and I feel totally fucking awkward in it.
“Oh my God, Jules,” I hear Sutton say as she walks back into the dressing area, another gown draped over her arm, this one done in a cranberry red. She looks me up and down, her eyes wide with appreciation. “That’s the one.”
“Really?” I ask with a healthy dose of skepticism. I haven’t had a single “aha” moment with the dresses I’ve tried on so far, but the choices haven’t been that great. I’m working on a very limited budget so I only picked from the sales rack.
“Trust me,” she says with a firm nod. “That is totally the one. I’m not even going to let you try this one on.”
I look down at the dress and reluctantly admit it’s probably my favorite. The color looks really good on me, I suppose. And it’s definitely affordable.
Looking back up at Sutton, I say, “All right. This is the one.”
“Perfect.” She beams at me and then pushes past to the dressing stall I was in and grabs the five dresses I’d already tried on. “I’ll just hang these up and then I’ll start scoping the perfect pair of heels to go with that. Come meet me in the shoe section when you’re done.”
“Okay,” I say halfheartedly, because honestly, I hate shopping. It’s never been something I’d been keen on, probably because I’ve always kind of known what I wanted, so browsing racks of clothes never did anything for me but waste time. I was more of an online shopper for the convenience, but I couldn’t do that for a formal gown. It was important to nail the fit as time was ticking down. I was a week and a half away from the gala that Max had invited me to weeks ago.
Back then I’d promptly agreed because things were new and exciting.
Since then I’ve not been as eager, and I think I put off shopping for a dress because the excitement had all but dried up.
That, of course, had mostly to do with the article written about me, which I see still continues to circulate around social media, particularly after Max has a game. I know I shouldn’t torture myself by reading that stuff but I can’t help it. I’m like the proverbial kid who will put her hand to a hot stove even though her mom told her it would burn and hurt.
After I get the dress off and back on the hanger, and I’m dressed in my own clothes again, I step out of the dressing room. My head is down as I take one more look at the sales price tag to make sure it really is in my price range, and run into another person.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I stumble, correct myself and look up. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
A young woman stands there—maybe my age—her arms crossed over her chest and looking at me with absolute disgust on her face. Another woman—about the same age—stands just behind her, not quite as much disgust on her face but her nose is slightly wrinkled.
“Sorry,” I mumble again.
“You’re totally not good enough for Max,” the first woman says prissily.
I blink at her, stunned beyond words. All I can say is, “Excuse me?”
She repeats it slowly, her words sharper. “You’re. Not. Good. Enough. For. Max.”
My mind swims, trying to figure out who this woman is. A former girlfriend who wants him back?
“I’m sorry,” I say as I tilt my chin up at her. “But who are you and how do you know Max?”
She rolls her eyes at me and says, “I don’t know him personally. But I am a Cold Fury fan and he’s my favorite player. I read that article about you, and he doesn’t need someone in his life trying to take advantage of him. It will totally mess up his game and his fans don’t want his heart broken when your true nature comes out.”
I drop my face, looking down to the gown in my hand and mumble to myself under my breath, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze back up to her and paint on the brightest smile I can muster. It’s completely fake and my cheeks immediately strain trying to hold it. “Well, I respect your opinion on that but have to disagree. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be going.”
As I push past her and the other woman, she gets her last dig in by muttering “Gold digger” as I walk away.
I exit the dressing area and turn to the rack just outside that holds an array of shirts and blouses. Not caring that the dress doesn’t belong there, I shove it in until the hooked end of the hanger catches on the bar and then walk away.
A slight sting in my nose alerts me to impending tears, so I take in a few harsh breaths and try to conjure up images of puppies and babies, two things guaranteed to brighten any day. It doesn’t work on my current mood but it at least averts a full-fledged crying jag.
I quickly locate the shoe section and Sutton sees me coming. She holds up a pair of silver high-heeled sandals and beams at me. “These will be perfect with that dress.”
Conjuring back up that fake smile, I tell her, “I’m not sold on it. I want to think about it a bit more and maybe try some other stores.”
“Okay, let’s go,” she says as she puts the shoes back down. “Let’s do this.”
“Maybe some other time,” I tell her softly as we walk through the department store. “I’m really tired and want to call it a night.”
Tina’s watching the kids for me as Max is at an away game. There’s nothing I want more right now than to go home and cuddle with them for a bit. Levy and Rocco probably won’t be hip to that but Annabelle is always good for some snuggles.
Sutton looks at me doubtfully but she doesn’t say anything.
Which is good.
I don’t feel like talking about all of the crappy feelings overwhelming me right now.
I sit before my easel, staring at the blank canvas. The apartment is silent, the kids having gone to bed a few hours ago. I do my painting in the kitchen, as it affords the most room to lay out my materials, and my easel is a tabletop model so it’s really the only place to paint.
I’ve been sitting here for as long as the kids have been down, trying to get some inspiration, but nothing’s coming.
My gaze drags over to the envelope sitting beside my easel.
Blocky, messy handwriting with my name and address.
Postmarked from Atlanta.
The return address is one I don’t recognize, but the name above it I do.
Dwayne Collins, my brother-in-law.
I’ve been trying to ignore it, knowing that the minute I open it and read what’s inside, my world is going to be turned upside down. I know this because it’s a statistical impossibility that the contents of that envelope contain an apology or back-due child support. This is Dwayne we’re talking about. He’s an opportunist, and so that means whatever is in the envelope is geared toward benefiting him and hurting his kids.
No doubt whatsoever.
I turn back to the canvas and stare at it. I haven’t even bothered picking up my brush. Haven’t bothered to mix colors or fill my palette with my choices. I just stare at the blank canvas because right now my brain doesn’t seem to be able to handle anything more than the soothing white of it staring back at me. It’s simple and uncomplicated.
Something I desperately need right now.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Easy.
My eyes go back to the envelope, and with a sigh I pick it up because I can’t ignore it forever. I break the seal, run my finger along the inside to rip an opening down the length, and pull out a pack of papers that once I unfold them look to be no more than four to five pages.
The top is a handwritten note from Dwayne, which I don’t read right away but pull off to see what’s underneath. My blood goes icy within my veins when I take in the fact that it’s clearly a legal document and it’s entitled “Petition to Terminate Guardianship.”
I try to suck in air but precious little gets in, and when it comes back out, it’s in a painful wheeze. I drop the document and look back to the handwritten note by Dwayne, feeling that same sting in my nose that I felt earlier today at the department store when I was reminded that I’m considered by most to be a gold digger.
My eyes fly over the page.
Julianne,
I’ve been to see an attorney to discuss my rights as a father to Rocco, Levy, and Annabelle. I’m told that I have a good shot at getting them back from you. The attorney drafted this up and all I have to do is file it with the court.
I’m still considering what’s best for all involved. Call me and maybe we can work things out.
Dwayne
He’s bluffing.
He has to be. Dwayne doesn’t want those kids. He’s never wanted those kids. He’s only wanted freedom to do what makes Dwayne feel best, and he wants the money to do it.
I look back at the petition and it appears legit. I’m thinking maybe he invested a little bit of cash into an attorney to draft this, hoping the payout would be bigger.
At least that’s what I hope is going on. To consider that he’s actually serious about this is something my already overtaxed and emotional head can’t handle right now. Let’s not even discuss what this is doing to my heart.
I consider calling Dwayne right now but I know deep down it’s not a good idea. I take stock of my emotions, and in addition to helplessness and frustration, I’m feeling a great deal of anger toward him.
Toward that woman in the dressing room.
Toward Luc.
Toward Camille.
Toward everything and everyone that has caused me so much anxiety and self-doubt lately.
I turn to my box of paints and pick a few colors. Blue, black, purple.
Dark colors.
They match my mood.
Because inspiration has hit me like a freight train, I decide to go with it and leave Dwayne until tomorrow, when I’ll have a clearer head. I decide to focus these feelings onto the canvas and perhaps create something that will not only help to purge me of this nastiness, but will be evocative enough to entice someone to buy it.
I paint, getting lost in the feeling and letting my talent transform my emotion into a story on canvas. I paint solidly for over an hour, never once taking a break or second-guessing where I’m going with this piece of art.
I paint, and I paint, and I paint, sinking deeper and deeper into it.
My phone rings, and at first it barely penetrates. My psyche seems to want to shut everything out.
But it continues to ring and I finally drag my gaze away from the canvas and look down at it.
Max is calling.
I note the time and realize he’s been playing an away game the last few hours against the Chicago Bobcats. I’ve gotten used to watching all of his games on the big flat-screen TV he’d bought for me and I reluctantly accepted.
Not a gold digger. Not a gold digger.
But tonight I completely forgot about it, so completely immersed in my problems. A flash of guilt sweeps through me and I feel terrible because in addition to all of my other perceived failings, tonight I’ve forgotten to be a good girlfriend.
I set my paintbrush down, the loaded bristles resting on the edge of my palette, and reach slowly for the phone.
But then I stop.
Today has gone down as one of the shittiest I’ve had in my life since Melody died, and I know if I pick up that phone, I’m going to have to tell Max all about it. I have no idea if my man won or lost his game, only that I have nothing good to offer him tonight. I absolutely do not want to burden him with my oversensitivity to what others think of me or the messy problems that Dwayne has created.
I don’t want to tell him any of these things because I’m scared that one day soon he’s going to really wake up and notice what he’s getting with me, and I’m terrified that it will become clear to him that I’m not the catch he thinks I am.
So I pick my brush back up and I keep painting.