The Ground Rules Part 42

"Uh..." I hesitate, thinking about the night I told him I loved him, the night we fought. But the last time we met seemed so perfect. "I think we're okay," I finally manage to say.

"That's probably not it. Maybe it's something good."

"Can you take some time off tomorrow afternoon?" I ask. I want to arrange this meeting as soon as possible, or the suspense might very well do me in.

"Uh...sure," he says. "Just let me know when."

Gabe has never been to Weston's office, and he seems both impressed and unimpressed-the sleek gla.s.s and chrome finishes probably don't appeal to him-he's more of a traditionalist-solid hard wood is more his style.

The receptionist tells us Weston will come and meet us in a minute. We sit impatiently on the ultramodern white chairs-Gabe's large frame seems out of place, tucked in the compact curved seat. He seems as eager as I am.

Finally, Weston appears and greets us, dressed in a fitted gray suit. He extends a hand to Gabe with a forced smile. He does the same to me, not quite making eye-contact. And suddenly, I feel strange-the moment is reminiscent of the early days of our relationship. We wait awkwardly at the elevators, my attention drawn to Weston's tapping foot.

He stares at the wall, clears his throat. "How was your drive here?"

"It wasn't too bad," Gabe tells him as we enter the mirror encased elevator. "But my truck is brutal on gas-it costs me quite a penny to make it to the city."

"You should consider a hybrid," Weston suggests as he presses a b.u.t.ton. As we make the quick trek up to his offices, it occurs to me that he hasn't looked at me once.

Bridget greets us when we enter Weston's office, dressed in a tailored black suit.

We exchange one of those slightly uncomfortable, pretentious hugs.

"It's so wonderful to see you again."

"Likewise," I reply, forcing a smile. I'm not sure if I'm happy to see her yet. I just want someone to tell me what the h.e.l.l is going on.

Weston paces across the room. "Take a seat," he urges us, pointing toward the contemporary, tufted, white leather seats. As I sit down, I'm brought back to that conversation Weston and I had long ago-when he told me he wanted to be with me-it was so erotic. I close my eyes for a second, remembering the delicious sensation I experienced when he touched me for the first time, putting his hand softly on my knee. That day, I made a decision that changed my life.

Bridget takes a seat across us. "Can we offer you a drink? Weston has quite the coffee selection."

"No, thank you," I say politely, my palms sweaty.

Let's just get this over with already.

"I'm good too," Gabe says.

I shoot him a quick sideways glance, curious to see how he's holding up-I think he's as edgy as I am.

Weston takes a seat across from us as well. Both he and Bridget sit upright, stiff, like they're accountants about to go over our income taxes. Bridget has one leg crossed delicately over the other, her heeled foot bouncing ever so slightly.

Weston sucks in a breath. "Well..." he starts, his expression heart-attack serious. "We might as well get straight to the point." His words are heavy, dragging like lead weights. "Bridget and I wanted to meet with you today to discuss our arrangement."

My heart sinks at the sound of his words.

I know what's coming-and I know it's not good-body language is an amazing thing-it speaks louder than words.

I look down at my black heels, not wanting to face them when they tell us they don't want to see us anymore.

"Weston and I have had a wonderful time with both of you," Bridget tells us, her voice sympathetic. I venture a look up at her, and she's as stunning ever and seems genuinely sorry. "But we think this might be the time to..." she hesitates, looking out the window at the Chicago skyline, "cool things off."

My heart fills with heaviness...a heaviness I've never felt before. My eyes tear up...I really don't want them to see me like this, but I can't help myself. I'm translucent-my heartbreak completely obvious.

Weston sees me. He sees the heartbreak. This is hard for him too-I can see it.

He rakes a hand through his hair. "Bridget and I have discussed this thoroughly," he explains, not quite looking at me. "And we both feel we have all gotten a little too close."

I have no words. I'm completely shattered. Oddly, I don't feel shocked-I just feel numb.

"This is...exactly when things...could start to get complicated," Weston says, his words caught between heavy breaths. "And I think we are both very dedicated to our respective marriages and families," he adds, his gaze catching mine. He seems truly heartbroken. Maybe he doesn't want to do this-perhaps this is all Bridget's doing-maybe she's jealous.

"Well, you guys are the experts, aren't you," Gabe scoffs, his tone drenched in sarcasm. "I guess you've had your fill of us."

Weston fidgets in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "Please don't take offense," he says, his words measured. "We are simply trying to avoid both our families a lot of heartbreak."

"Believe us," Bridget chimes in, "this is for the best."

Oh...shut up, you stupid cow.

"How...can we not take offense," I finally manage to speak, my words shaky. "You're dumping us."

Weston sighs. "We are not dumping you, Mirella," he stresses, his gaze boring into mine. "We are merely making a well-advised decision for all of us."

I roll my eyes. This situation is getting to me-I can feel the anger building up. I don't think I've ever been so upset.

"And although we don't believe we should remain friends," Weston goes on, picking up his water gla.s.s from the coffee table. His words are business-like, without emotion. "We would be more than willing to help you out financially if you were ever in need."

This is it...

The exact moment.

The moment I absolutely lose it. It is one thing to dump us like we're nothing, like what we've shared was completely insignificant. But it is quite another to treat us like cheap wh.o.r.es.

"You little f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.t," I scoff, flinging my briefcase at him-the sleek red one with the bra.s.s corner reinforcements and bra.s.s buckle.

And d.a.m.n, if I don't get him right in the face.

He winces and throws his hand over his face. I think I may have taken out an eye. I hope I have. He's drenched too-empty gla.s.s on his lap.

"Mirella," he hisses.

Bridget looks absolutely sh.e.l.l-shocked, mouth gaping. Gabe loves it-a wide grin practically splits his face in two.

I tear my briefcase from Weston's grasp.

"Let's go," I tell Gabe, and he follows like an eager puppy.

That's how we leave off.

A horrible ending to a really f.u.c.ked-up story.

It's Wednesday evening, and I'm still so angry.

I can hardly stand it.

Well, that's the first stage of grief, I think. No...actually that's the second. I realize I've completely skipped "Denial." I'm not in denial. I know I've been dumped. I suppose I still have Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance to look forward to. I'm definitely skipping Bargaining-I'm way too proud to beg.

But, at this moment, it seems the "Anger" stage will never go away.

Gabe has taken this a lot better than I would have imagined. I think he's secretly happy-he wants me all to himself again.

But I do think his ego was slightly bruised. "f.u.c.k 'em," he scoffed as we neared his truck. "They think they're too good for us. f.u.c.k 'em." And that was it. That was all he said. And then, he went to the gym, back to his life, seemingly unaffected.

This makes me happy in a way. I know he didn't love her.

And that's my problem-unlike Gabe, I couldn't remain emotionally distant.

I fell in love.

The anger propels wild, outlandish behavior in me. I flock to my closet and haul the twenty thousand dollar dress off its hanger. Claire is trailing me with wild eyes-I think she can tell I've gone completely mad.

I bound down the stairs, sprint across the kitchen, drag the dress outside, and throw it in the steel fire pit sitting in the middle of our backyard.

Claire watches me, her mouth buried in pudgy hands, big brown eyes as large as saucers.

I want to burn it.

I am going to burn it.

"Claire," I hiss. "Go inside. Go to your room."

She stands frozen.

"Go now," I yell at her, and she scurries away, little legs bouncing frantically.

I feel awful. I didn't mean to yell at her. I never yell at her. This isn't like me. She's probably wondering why I'm so upset. Poor little thing has no clue what is going on. I want to go to her and explain.

But I'm still mad as h.e.l.l...and I desperately need a release.

I run to the shed and shuffle through the mess, throwing everything in my wake. Finally, I stumble on lighter fluid and a lighter.

I grab the dress and pour lighter fluid on the charred bits of wood in the pit-just a small amount-I don't want to burn the neighborhood down.

I walk away from the pit, and hold the dress in my arms, stroking the delicate sheer fabric between my fingers-it is so beautiful-it is truly the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. Memories of the day he gave it to me flood my mind-our reflection in the mirror, his arms wrapped around my waist, the symphony, the soft stroke of his mouth on my thigh as he took it off.

I hold the flame of the lighter up to the bodice and my eyes linger on the dress as it lights up. The flame grows.

I throw it in quickly.

At first, the flames are small. And as I watch, the flames grow tall, gaining momentum, and I see the dress slowly disappear under my stare.

Tears run down my cheeks.

I finally cry.

It's what I've been wanting to do all along.

It's what I've needed to do.

I tuck Claire in, wrapping her tightly into her purple b.u.t.terfly-covered comforter. She smiles at me-that sweet smile that always me so happy. I stroke the golden ringlets off her face.

I kiss her forehead gently. "Snug as a bug."

She looks at me, sadness washing over her sweet features. "Did you burn it, Mommy?" she asks. "The dress?"

"I'm sorry about that, Claire," I apologize, my heart heavy. "You shouldn't have seen that. It wasn't about you sweetie. I wasn't mad at you. I'm sorry I screamed."

"It's okay. But did you?" she asks, eager. "Burn it?"

I sigh, not wanting to tell her the truth. "I did," I finally confess. "I was mad, and I did it, and I shouldn't have done that. A person should never ever burn anything."

"A person should not even play with fire," she adds knowingly.

I smile down at her. "You're right Claire. That's absolutely right. You're a smart girl."

Smarter than your mother.

"It was pretty," she says, her eyes serious. "The dress."

"I know." My heart fills with sadness.

I shouldn't have burned it. Unimaginable regret washes over me. It felt good at the time, but now I just feel empty.

"Why did you do it, Mommy?" Claire clearly wants to understand. I realize this must be so confusing to her, and I struggle to find a way to explain it.

"It made me feel really sad," I start. "The dress reminded me of someone who's gone-someone I miss very much."

"Did they die?" she asks, eyes wide.

"No..." I hesitate, searching for words. "They moved away. And they gave me the dress. And if I looked at the dress, I would think of them."

"But you didn't want to think of them?" she asks, confused.

"Exactly, sweetie."

She looks at me for the longest time, seemingly in deep thought. And unexpectedly, her face lights up. "Maybe, you could get a new pretty dress."

I smile down at her. "Yes, that's a great idea, Claire. Maybe you and Chloe could help me pick it out. We'll go shopping. I'll talk to Chloe about it when she gets back from dance cla.s.s."