Chapter One
The Rut
My name is Poppy Kramer and I am in a rut of epic proportions. I’m currently lying on my worn out sofa, staring up at the bohemian chic, ivory lace wedding dress that hangs gracefully from the curtain rod in front of my large living room window. The detailed beading across the bodice of the dress blinks at me through the filtering sunlight. Lighting up the God-forsaken garment as if to say, hey there, Poppy, remember me? Your fancy fucking wedding dress that no one will ever see you in? The trendy, overpriced dress that you simply had to have for your picture perfect outdoor ceremony? Remember me?!
Stupid dress. Every inch of hand-stitched lace mocks me. Every bead glares at me with an air of superiority. I glance at the empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s on the coffee table and stoop even further into my current state of self-loathing.
Fourteen months ago I was so happy. I was one of those annoying fuckwads who pranced around and behaved as though everything around them was coated in magical fairy dust. No one could shit on my parade, no sir. I was engaged to a handsome architect, my business was booming and I was planning the wedding of the year. Well, not technically because I’m a complete nobody. But I was planning the wedding of my year. The wedding of my life. The one wedding I was going to have in the entirety of my existence. And now? Now I smell like failure and Funyuns.
In public, I’m fine. In public, I manage to keep the lid twisted firmly on my current state of crazy. But the minute I get home. The minute I see that fucking dress staring back at me, I take my pants off and grab whatever carton of fattening nirvana I find in my refrigerator and I camp out on my sofa, mumbling to myself. Because somewhere along the way, I’ve decided that’s an appropriate thing for a thirty-one year old woman to do.
My cell phone vibrates from the floor beside me where I chucked it after spending thirty minutes stalking that fucker Todd on Facebook. I reach down blindly until my fingertips find it and I tap the answer option. I don’t bother to check and see who it is.
“Hello?”
“Poppy?”
“You’ve got the wrong number.”
“Shut up, Poppy, I need you to come pick me up.”
“Ugh, where?”
“Ummm, I’m kind of in jail.”
“Christ, Bell, how is anyone kind of in jail?” I ask.
“Okay, I’m fully in jail. Just please come and get me. There are hookers here and I think the old one is trying to recruit me,” my baby sister whispers harshly.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” I sigh. “This better be good.”
I end the call before she can offer any kind of explanation. It’s better if I give her time to come up with something worth listening to. She also needs time to spin this situation so that it isn’t her fault. Because that’s what she does. My beautiful, talented, flakey little sister can do no wrong. Ever.
I toss my phone onto the table and roll my half-clothed body from the cushions that have so lovingly formed to my ass. I pull on a pair of jeans and scowl at my reflection in the hallway mirror before I snatch my keys from the dish on the small table and head out. I run my fingers through my brown hair as I walk and pull it into a ponytail. I know I look washed out without any makeup on, my pale complexion prominent against the colour of my hair, but there’s not much to be done about that now. When you clean houses for rich people all day, primping is not often on the agenda. I take the stairs down to the parking garage, deciding on a whim that maybe the impromptu exercise will help the state of my fattening ass.
I slide into my forest green Cherokee and glance briefly in the rear view mirror, my greyish blue eyes looking wary and annoyed. I flip the radio station to nineties-on-nine and sing along with Four Non Blondes, pulling out of the garage and into the busy city traffic.
When I arrive at the police station, I approach the front desk where a young man in uniform sits, looking bored out of his mind.
“Hi, I’m here to pick up my sister,” I say, as he rolls his chair closer to the desk and lazily checks the log book in front of him.
“Name?”
“Bluebell Monday Kramer,” I reply, waiting for the inevitable smirk that often follows when my sisters or I reveal our full legal names.
“Oh, the shoplifter,” he grins.
It doesn’t surprise me that Bell has already made an impression; she’s always been that girl. Naturally charismatic, funny and, of course, adorable no matter what she’s doing. Like sitting in jail for example. If she weren’t my sister I’d probably hate her.
“Shoplifting? Are you serious?”
“Afraid so. Have a seat and I’ll let them know you’re here.”
Fantastic.
I sit down in one of the cold plastic chairs along the wall and instantly cringe as my ass cheeks clench involuntarily against the discomfort of feeling anything beneath them that isn’t my sofa. Christ, I need to get my shit together. I wait for what feels like an hour before I finally hear my sister’s laughter and she emerges from the back of the precinct, where I assume they keep their hooker-filled jail cells. She’s holding onto the officer’s arm who escorts her and leaning in close, laughing and playfully smacking him. Of course she finds this to be the perfect opportunity to flirt.
She pulls herself away from her new friend when she sees me impatiently tapping my foot on the scuffed up linoleum, watching her expectantly. I rise as she approaches and pulls me in for a hug. Because we are a family of huggers.
“Thanks for coming, Pop,” she says.
“Yeah, are you going to explain to me why I just bailed my twenty-five year old sister out of jail for shoplifting?” I respond, pulling away. She tucks her wavy, chin length blonde hair behind her ears and smiles innocently. Her blue eyes wide.
“Oh please, I was not shoplifting. I was shop-ping. I forgot that I had tried on a sweater while I was browsing and then the beeper went off on the door and that manager, I swear she had it out for me,” she insists.
“Bell, why would she have it out for you? And who forgets that they’re wearing something that doesn’t belong to them?”
“She was eyeing me up the minute I walked in the door,” she alleges, with a bit of a whine. “And excuse me, but I am a creative soul, and when you’re a creative soul, your mind wanders.”
“I’m sure it does. Let’s go, I have things to do.” She links her arm with mine and we exit the station.
“What? Like stare at your wedding dress and eat raw cookie dough?” She smirks.
“Hey. I do not eat raw cookie dough,” I say.
“Poppy, you have got to get over that bastard,” she whines as we climb into my vehicle. “Todd wasn’t even that great. He was too feminine. And he was bossy; he talked to you like you were two. Even Tully thought he was a jerk and she likes everybody.”
“Yes, I know. Todd was awful, move on Poppy, blah blah blah,” I mock, pulling away from the curb. “It isn’t even about Todd at this point. I’m stuck, Bell, and it’s gross. I’m gross.”
She grabs my free hand and brings it to her mouth, kissing it loudly.
“Were you eating Funyuns?” She asks.
“Shut up,” I laugh, ripping my hand away.
“Aw, Poppy, I love you,” she says.
“I love you too, Bluebell.”
“So, I got a new job,” she says, switching the radio station.
I smack her hand away and mentally determine that this is job number five for her this year so far. When Bell says she is a creative mind, she’s not exaggerating. She plays almost every damn instrument you could think of. She can sing too and spends several evenings a week taking gigs at any bar that will have her. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always pay the bills. Bell can be picky when it comes to honest, hard work, which is why she simply quits and finds something new when she gets bored or her boss actually expects her to work.
“I think this one will work out, the boss is awesome. She’s kind and compassionate. She’s really pretty too,” she says.
No. Not happening.
“Bell, you are not working for me again,” I say. “Remember what happened last time?”
“Pfft, that was an accident. How was I supposed to know that dog wasn’t allowed in the house?”
“Because I specifically said, Bell don’t let that dog into this house, it doesn’t live here,” I remind her.
“Oh come on. Poppy, I need to make money and no one is hirinnnngggg,” she pleads. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll listen and I won’t go near any dogs. Ever.”
Goddammit.
“Ugh, fine. One chance, Bell. One chance and if you fuck it up, you’re fired and you can never work for me again,” I say firmly. “I mean it.”
“Eeeeeek, you’re the best,” she says. “I’ll start on Wednesday.”
“It’s Thursday,” I say. “I can use you tomorrow.”
“Well, I have a couple gigs this weekend and I need a bit of a breather from the last job. Ya know, like a palette cleanser,” she explains. “Decompressing is important. You should try it.”
I am going to regret this.
I drop my sister off at a small pub where she’s meeting some friends for pre-sushi cocktails. I remember when I used to be social. I remember getting dressed up and going out for casual drinks and an overpriced meal. I remember the glory of happy hour. Fuck. How did I let this happen? How did I let the last three hundred and some odd days pass by in a blur of self-pity?
I’m struggling to remember the last time I tried to put myself out there. It was about six months after Todd and I broke up. I was desperate to prove to myself that I could move on. That I was strong, and capable of jumping back on the horse, so to speak. After an entire bottle of Merlot and half a bag of Doritos, I convinced myself that a dating website designed for the over thirties was a great way to shove myself forward. I set up a profile and found myself a suitable date four days later. It did not go well.
This is a mistake. I can tell already. If I were Spiderman, my spidey senses would be hitting me over the head with a foam bat right now. Not a metal bat, because unlike Spider-man, I have a low tolerance for pain. I’m currently sitting across a fancy table in one of Chicago’s poshest restaurants from Jeremy, a thirty-three year old finance advisor with thick, medium blond hair and the loveliest chocolaty brown eyes I’ve ever seen. The lighting in here alone should give me the confidence of a runway model, but Jeremy has just asked me if I’ve ever been married and I can feel my guts beginning to curdle.
I finish chewing the shrimp in my mouth before I respond. “No, I haven’t,” I say. There, that wasn’t so bad. I said the words without vomiting. I got this.
“Really? That surprises me,” he says. “Ever been close?”
Jesus Christ, Jeremy, are you writing a fucking book?
“Um, well, I was engaged once,” I mumble, taking a sip from my wine glass.
Where is the waiter?
“Ah, I knew it,” he says with a smile. “What happened?”
“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he genuinely looks like he feels bad. So now I feel bad. “I didn’t mean to pry, sometimes I speak without thinking,” he says.
“It’s okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so defensive,” I tell him. “He, well, he cheated on me.”
“Shit, that’s rough,” he says.
“I mean, it’s fine. I’m fine. This was like, years ago,” I say. “Well, one year ago. Six months ago, to be exact. But I’m fine.”
I shove my fork down into my shrimp cocktail and take a massive bite, “I mean, it’s not like we lived together or anything. Which is really fucked up when you think about it. What kind of engaged couple doesn’t live together?” I can feel my already thinly sliced control beginning to slip. “What kind of fucking asshole doesn’t want to live with his fiancée?”
“I’m not sure,” Jeremy says, looking around the room.
“Todd the fucker, that’s who,” I say, chewing obnoxiously. I pluck another piece of shrimp from the plate and shove it into my mouth. “Cheating bastard. Cheating, good for nothing, bastard. Seriously, I hope you never have to meet Todd the fucker, Jeremy, because he is an asshole. A complete and total asshole.”
“Um, are you okay?”
“I’m FINE, Jeremy,” I seethe. “I am so fucking fine that if Morgan Freeman were narrating my life right now, he’d say ‘Poppy is super fine, the finest ever.’”
“It’s just that, you’re kind of shouting,” he says, leaning forward.
“Well Jeremy, sometimes a girl just needs to shout, that’s okay isn’t it?”
“Well I- “
“No, don’t answer that,” I say, pointing my fork at him. “I like you, Jeremy, you are a sensitive man. You know who isn’t sensitive?”
“Todd?”
“Todd who?”
“Todd the fucker?”
“Bingo, Jeremy, bingo!” I say.
“I think I’m just gonna get the bill,” he offers.
“It’s just, it’s so unfair,” I say, tears in my eyes. “I’ve never been like this before,” I lament, blowing my nose into the navy blue cloth napkin that was resting on my lap. “I’m just having a rough patch, right?”
“I, I don’t know. Quite frankly, I’m scared,” Jeremy says.
“Don’t be scared, Jeremy,” I say, reaching for the garlic bread on his plate. “I’m fine,” I mumble around a chunk of bread.
And that’s when I realized that no, Poppy, you are not fine. You were just blubbering into your shrimp cocktail in front of Jeremy the sensitive and patient financial advisor.
Jeremy is nice enough to shake my hand and tell me we should do this again sometime. He tucks me into a cab like a gentleman and then quickly flees.
That. That right there was the last time I tried to convince myself that I was going to be okay. That the sudden derailing of my life wouldn’t keep me down. And now look at me. I’ve stooped so low into the pit of self-despair and I’m scared that if something doesn’t change, I’ll be a permanent resident.
I climb the stairs to my apartment and try to remember at least one good memory from my relationship with Todd. We met outside a movie theatre three years ago. We were both third wheels. Me, on a date with Bell and her latest friend with benefits. Him, with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend. We spotted each other and shared a sympathetic grin before heading into the theatre. We later stood side by side in the snack line and it was as if the entire universe lined up and planted us both there at the same time. For two years we were happy. Weren’t we?
I unlock my door and set my purse on the table. I flip the kitchen light on and make a decision. I walk up to the dress that’s been taunting me for the last year. The dress that I went five thousand dollars into debt over because I wanted to look amazing for Todd and the independent woman in me wouldn’t let anyone pay for it but me.
I reach for the wooden hanger and pull the dress down. I hold it to my chest and take a deep breath before walking back into the kitchen and pulling a garbage bag from under the sink. I force the lace concoction into the plastic and tie it up tight before opening my hallway closet door. I shove it as far back as I can, behind several boxes of Christmas ornaments. Someday, when I’m feeling strong and maybe a bit liquored up, I’ll try and sell the fucking thing and make some money back. But for now, it can exist in the confines of my storage closet.
Out of sight and hopefully out of mind.