Take Two (The Jilted Bride #1)(5)

I couldn’t remember the last time I came home and relaxed on the lake. CUNY’s writing program and my job at The New York Appeal kept me away for years and I never needed to come home, never wanted to.

In fact, my parents insisted on flying to New York for the holidays and cooking Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners in my tiny apartment. Sean had promised me that we would visit them in Memphis after our honeymoon.

Oh well.

As the drizzle turned to rain, I stood up and headed back inside. I caught my reflection in the screen door and gasped.

My skin was the color of porcelain. No matter how many times I pinched my cheeks, no color returned. My eyelids were inflamed. My eyes were bloodshot. My lips were gray and cracked, licking them just made them look worse.

Despite looking horrible all over, the one thing that struck me hardest was my hair, my Sean-influenced-this—ugly-shit-brown-colored-hair.

I rushed to my room and dumped the clothes out of my carryon. I put on white jeans, a T-shirt, and my mismatched tennis shoes. I ran to the garage and found the spare keys to my mom’s Jeep.

Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman red. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I told the beauty clerk at CVS.

I carefully eyed the box as I stood naked in the bathroom. I dragged the elastic band away from my matted ponytail and shook my head back and forth.

My hair didn’t move.

I stepped into the shower and applied the dye generously. I let it sit for twenty minutes longer than necessary and stayed in the shower for another hour.

I wanted to go back to sleep, but I forced myself to take out my laptop. I’d missed two weeks of film and book reviews, and my work inbox was surprisingly empty.

I decided to log in to watch the latest Matt Sterling film, Summer Nights, knowing that I would never get that hour and thirty minutes of my life back.

In between watching that dreck and taking notes, I painted my nails black—a color Sean loathed.

I should’ve tackled him at the wedding. Why didn’t I tackle him?

As the movie came to an end, I typed a review and emailed it to my office.

I walked into the living room and eyed the mountain of unopened wedding presents. I didn’t think I was ready to face that part of my pain, but I plopped down in front of the pile anyway.

I picked up a small red box and gently tugged its silky white ribbon. Exhaling, I removed the top.

There was a card: “Dear Mrs. Scofield, I know you’re probably going to open this one first. You’ve always loved red and I’ve always loved you. Your husband and love for all eternity, Mr. Scofield.”

Ugh. What the f**k!

I crumpled the paper and tossed it across the room. I rummaged through the tissue paper and took out the gift: A multi-strand pearl necklace by Kenneth Lane. It was an exact replica of the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I clasped it around my neck and ran my fingers along the pearls.

I picked out another box, a blue one, and like a two year old at Christmas, ripped the packaging apart: Cookware.

Boo!

I went about this for another hour, making two separate piles. The first pile was for cookware, anything that said “His & Hers,” and well-wish cards. The second pile, the “keep” pile, was for jewelry, money, and mementos.

After opening every gift, my “keep” pile had amassed $4,600, three diamond necklaces, a Rebecca Moses dress, five bracelets, and a collection of framed Hollywood movie posters.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. Watching TV was out of the question and I was sure that my parents hadn’t updated their DVD collection in years.

I wandered from room to room, failing to feel any nostalgia, any ties. They’d remodeled the house beyond recognition.

The staircase that once served as the backdrop for family photos was stripped of its soft beige carpet and fitted with hardwood and white paint. The family den, the former home of celebrations —graduations, milestones, birthdays—was now a great room with a dining table and two sets of oversized furniture. My childhood room was no longer a pink Barbie-haven. It was a yellow guestroom that reflected my parents’ love for the beach.

I ran my fingers across our old family portrait and smiled. My younger sister Jennifer and I looked like twins back then. Our red hair hung loose and wild, our green eyes glimmered underneath the hot Memphis sun. My mom’s squinty eyes were nearly covered by her blunt bangs, but her toothy smile made up for it. My dad stood to her side, bald and stone-faced, wearing his trademark black suit.

I stood by my former window and tilted the blinds. The rain was still falling heavily and the lake was long abandoned.

Something in me snapped and I headed outside again. I was soaked within seconds, but for some reason I began to laugh. I stepped down from the deck and waded into the lake.

I waded further and further, farther and farther, until my feet no longer touched the bottom. I flipped over on my back and brought my arms over my head, paddling with no destination in mind.

If Sean had been there, he would be yelling at me, telling me to get out of the water immediately.

That was the one thing he and I didn’t share: a love for the open water. He preferred pools with designated depth markers while I preferred unrestricted oceans and large lakes.

I shook the thought of him out of my mind and kept swimming in the rain, relishing in the freedom.

“Melody!” my mom shouted as she and my dad came through the front door. “You’re a redhead again!”