You Deserve Each Other(14)

I’m thinking of ways I can get him to break first, like withholding sex, but truly I don’t think that would faze him. It’s been nine weeks since the last time he unenthusiastically gave me the business. If it weren’t for the perks of shorter, infrequent periods, my strict adherence to a birth control regimen would be for no purpose whatsoever.

Maybe I can set up a fake online profile to catfish him. When he falls for it I can point at my handiwork and get righteously angry. I’ll storm off. His mother will burst into tears. I’ll take a picture of the moment and have it framed.

I’m going to blame the Skittles for what happens next.

I troop into the bathroom with a pair of scissors, pull down a hank of hair over my forehead, and snip it off before I can lose my nerve. The eyes in my reflection are wide and maniacal and I love it. I love the Naomi who can do things like this and not give a shit. Nicholas doesn’t like bangs? Fantastic. I don’t like Nicholas.

I notice my new bangs are slightly crooked, so I snip them to even them out. I end up overcorrecting so I have to snip again, and what I’m left with is not at all like Brandy’s cute hairstyle.

I’m left with a sight that makes me mutter, “Ah, fudge.”

It’s even worse than being a kid and your frugal mom, who only goes to the salon to get her own hair done, puts a bowl over your head and cuts beneath the rim. I look like I got my hair cut by bending too close to a shredder. And there are two layers to the bangs, somehow. If I try to even them out any more it’ll be chewed off almost to the scalp.

I stand in my empty house for a minute and listen to the whoosh of car tires spraying through leftover rain, estimating how far ahead of me Nicholas is, how many moves I need to make in order to catch up. I peer outside and observe a suspicious development: my flat tire has pumped up back to life. Either someone changed it for me or I imagined the whole ordeal. Right now, the latter seems more likely.

I see that he didn’t wash the dishes like he promised, and I almost admire the evil touch. Neglecting to wash dishes is one thing. Voluntarily saying you’re going to do it and then not doing it is an act of hostility.

He has, however, rinsed out his coffeepot, because he’s the only one who uses it. More proof that he’s being an ass on purpose. I place it back in the sink and decorate it with maple syrup. Then I write a message to him on the whiteboard, telling him I can’t wait to marry him. I call him Nicky, which I’ve never done before, and after I get over the dry heaves that this gives me, I draw two interlocking hearts.

Let’s see what you think of that.

Smirking, I tunnel into my closet and emerge from it in the most glorious anti-Nicholas costume I can find: a Steelers hoodie that belonged to my ex-boyfriend. I found it in my drawer two months ago, and I think it was Nicholas’s remark that I don’t know anything about sports and therefore had no reason to hold on to the hoodie that prompted me to tuck it away for a rainy afternoon.

The hoodie is a middle finger by itself, but to add insult to injury I shimmy into leggings he finds embarrassing because they’re so old and worn that they’re see-through in places and there’s a quarter-sized hole on one butt cheek. These leggings and I have been through a lot together. Breakups. Bad dates. That time Tyra Banks yelled at Tiffany on America’s Next Top Model. My parents/ siblings canceling plans to come visit me, always and without fail, even though they’ll gladly spare the time to drive to Florida to watch NASCAR races. These leggings are like comfort food and I’m never giving them up.

I top it off with the sort of makeup that his mother would call “unseemly” or “unbecoming.” My lips are the color of fresh blood, making my mouth more eye-catching than the Babadook’s. My eyeliner is a thick swoop of black that extends way past its cue, and my eyelids glitter all the way up to my eyebrows like a pageant contestant. It’s not enough. I add pounds of blush and bronzer until my face is indistinguishable from a Mardi Gras float. I have bypassed “unseemly” and cannonballed head-first into Deborah’s nightmare. I look exactly like her husband’s first wife, the notorious Magnolia Rose.

I give myself a round of applause and send up a kiss of thanks to Magnolia Rose, my greatest hero for refusing to stop going by Mrs. Rose after the divorce even though her marriage to Harold only lasted a year and didn’t bear any fruit. She’s currently living in Key Largo with husband number five, who’s twenty years her junior and nephew of the guy who invented Marshmallow Peeps. She has fifteen parrots living in an aviary that’s the size of my bedroom and they’re all named after murderers on Law & Order. I know this because she added me as a Facebook friend, probably to needle Deborah, who has twice tried to sue Magnolia for emotional distress caused by “ruining Harold.” I want to be Magnolia Rose when I grow up.

Nicholas will obsess over who I’m wearing this kind of makeup for until it gives him an ulcer. My reflection in the mirror tips her head back and laughs like her skin is about to burst open with a hundred flying demons.

Yesterday I was listless and my favorite thing to do was wallow, but today I crackle with wicked energy. Everything has changed now that I have a plan.

Our wedding is set for January twenty-sixth, so I have three months to wear Nicholas down to a lifeless nub. I’m going to adopt ten dogs and turn Nicholas’s study into my Dog Room. It’ll be nice to avoid the hassle of getting my address changed at the post office or setting up Internet and cable somewhere new like Nicholas is going to have to do. Sucks to be him! The landlord gave us a great deal and rent is cheap enough that I’ll be able to afford it on my own even though the Junk Yard pays peanuts. The economy’s in the toilet and I need all the help I can get.