Page 99 of The Cruiser
IH: Have you lost your mind? This is your idea of “handling your life?”
IH: (a forwarded article from Perez Hilton) Frenchman eats Miss America.
IH: I can’t even, Vandana. How am I supposed to show my face at Nordstrom?
Jesus. My ladies know how to rein it in, at least. June and Flynn understand the scope.
FD: We’re here for U! Anything, call. Xoxo
JA: I love you, you naughty bitch. #poundtown
Thankfully, nothing from Vaughn. It’s wrong to hope he meets an untimely demise so I don’t have to face him, but that would almost be better. Hunkered in my seat, I make one call to TQ.
“It’s not earth-shatteringly bad,” he lies. Not even a hello.
“I’ve had texts from Missy, Rupert, and Elijah,” I say. Powerful clients we know by their first names who might not be clients much longer. “They want to talk.”
“Oh, shit. They spoke to me too. I didn’t want to tell you right away.”
I chew what’s left of my manicure off. Bits of Essie Ballet Slippers pink litter the floor under my feet. “The whole office knows, right?”
He sighs. “Honey, the whole world knows.”
The plane takes forever to taxi and when we finally lurch to a stop at the gate, a bustle of activity breaks out. Overhead bins click open, coats get pulled on. The flight attendant’s voice crackles once more over the speakers. It’s time to collect our bags and get on with our lives.
What’s left of them.
I think of how perfect it all felt on Wednesday when Morgan and I kissed in the waves, together in his world, limbs liquid as the sea.
Very quietly, I start to cry.
