ODESSA

Bad idea. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

I shake my head at myself because someone needs to. I’m hunched over my bathroom counter, wiping away what remains of last night’s face with a Pond’s makeup wipe.

Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, going home with a handsome stranger from some uptown Manhattan cocktail lounge takes the cake. I knew there had to be something wrong with him. Men that attractive are always too good to be true.

Hunched over his drink last night and wearing a black suit jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, I had to step closer to get a better look. And when I stood next to him to order my drink, that’s when I saw his profile: perfectly straight nose, the promise of a dimple in his right cheek, strong jaw, thick hair the color of my impure thoughts.

The striking stranger possessed a raw, unapologetic virility, radiating sex appeal like a nuclear bomb that dispatched a quiver down my spine and stopped at my weakened knees.

And then he turned my way. Noticed me. It was all over from there. My night’s destiny was sealed with one wicked smile and the mischievous glint in his eye.

Sigh.

There was also the fact that he was everything Jeremiah wasn’t, and God knows I needed a palette cleanser.

My debaucherous evening went so well, too, until he had to go all psycho-jealous-boyfriend on me. I’m not sure why he felt the need to kiss me in the elevator or chase me down twenty-sixth street, but I’ll let that serve as a reminder that people are never what they seem.

Nothing about Beckham is sad or lonely. Aloof perhaps. Arrogant for sure. Too good looking and well dressed? Yeah. Sad and lonely? Not at all.

I am lonely, and that’s the sad truth.

My gaze falls on my deserted engagement ring, which rests in a ceramic ring tray on my bathroom vanity. I’m not sure how many carats it is or if it’s platinum or palladium. I was too excited to care when Jeremiah popped the question after six years of dating.

Six months ago, I said yes.

Two weeks ago, he asked to take a break.

I told him I understood, and I removed the ring without making a big fuss like some other women might do. My southern Jeremiah wouldn’t know what to do if I unraveled anyway. Women where he’s from are strong as hell. They care more about leaving impressions than making them. They’re grace and strength even in their ugliest moments.

My insides are currently glued together with two parts hope and one part dandelion wishes. I’m not sure if Jeremiah and I will get back together, but nothing’s off the table for now. We’re stuck in this gray area until he decides what he wants to do.

A buzz from my phone on the counter notifies me it’s now fully charged. Not only was I an idiot for going home with a stranger, I foolishly did so without a full charge on my phone.

Looks like haste and excitement got the best of my common sense last night.

I leave it plugged in a little while longer and peel last night’s shameless, fuck-me-now dress from my sticky curves before stepping into a steamy shower. Two hours from now, I’m to report to Townsend Energy Holdings on Park Avenue for some PR consulting. Apparently the Chief Branding Officer is in dire need of a right hand and since the last firm I worked for closed up shop two months ago, I’m officially freelancing.

The water rinses remaining remnants of the night before clean off, swirling down the drain along with any shame that may have consumed me on my walk home this morning.

Last night loneliness struck me across the side of the head as I hummed along with the microwave that heated my Lean Cuisine. After polishing off two Lifetime movies and a pint of tiramisu gelato, my wallowing morphed into determination.

If Jeremiah wasn’t tossing and turning all night, staying in eating frozen dinners, then I shouldn’t either.

Jeremiah was living it up, surfing the wave of his newfound celebrity status. It was as if someone had given him some special key and he had to go around and stick it in every lock he could find to see how many doors would open for him.

Once upon a time Jeremiah used to be a self-proclaimed foodie. At first it was a cute little hobby of his. We’d try new restaurants and food stands. He’d blog about it for his twenty-eight followers. That was that. After two years of late nights and long hours, helping him learn his DSLR camera, and utilizing every PR strategy known to man, Jeremiah’s food blog took off and his ad revenue hit somewhere in the tens of thousands per month.

That’s when the book deals came and the TV network executives approached him. It took a year, but a cable TV deal was hatched out, making Jeremiah the star of his own show, EAT ME, JEREMIAH!

Then everything changed.

My college sweetheart fiancé morphed into an overnight celebrity complete with a dentist-bleached smile, sprayed-on tan, and highlighted tips of thick, sandy blond hair. I stifled giggles from behind the director the first time he filmed. He looked like a glammed up country music star, and the deep-woods, Georgian accent didn’t help. Jeremiah went from downhome boy next door to gracing the pages of Us Weekly in the blink of an eye.

Sometimes I wish he’d never started that damn blog. One taste of celebrity was all it took for him to become addicted.

I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a fluffy white robe and checking the time. I’m good. And lucky. Going out on a Thursday night when I should’ve been hitting the sack early and mentally preparing myself for my new job was grossly and uncharacteristically irresponsible of me.

Without looking, I reach for my toothbrush, dropping it the second I realize I grabbed Jeremiah’s royal blue Oral-B. He left without taking a thing. I’m not sure if he thought he’d be back soon enough or if he figured he had enough money to replace it all, but everything about him still lives in my apartment.

Everything but him.

My stomach sickened in that moment, and any excitement I held for his future – for our future – vaporized. I wanted it all back, but it was too late. All that was left was my hope that underneath his exciting, new façade, the old Jeremiah still remained.

I want to believe we can get us back.

I pick up my sparkly ring. “He’s never coming back, is he?”

A groan passes through my lips. If I’m talking to inanimate objects now, next thing I know I’ll be a bag lady feeding Central Park pigeons.

I’m not that person.

It ends today.

If Jeremiah comes back? Great. Fine. We’ll figure everything out and go from there. If he doesn’t come back? He doesn’t deserve me.

I comb my hair into a neat bun, slip on some black-framed glasses, a lacy cream blouse and chic, gray pencil pants that stop just above my ankle.

Today I’m refined.

Professional.

Today I’m not the girl who screwed an obnoxiously attractive man from sundown to sun up last night.

Four different times.

Today I’m not the girl teetering between missing her ex and resenting him for abandoning the good thing they had.

Today I’m a ball-busting public relations consultant. I’ll take no shit, and I’ll make no apologies.

I transfer my fully charged phone into a new bag and check my wallet before dashing out the door. The sky holds a brighter shade of blue in it, depositing the sun on a downy soft pillow. An April morning chill bites into my bones though I hardly feel it with all the anticipation coursing through my veins.

Here’s to the future, whatever it holds.