or head-board in sight.”
Scott laughs at my joke as my phone continues to ring. I look at the caller ID. It’s Mel. Damn it. She knows I’m seeing Scott tonight.
I pick up. “Hello.”
“I don’t think I’m getting the ring or the chili pepper fortune.” Mel says, and she sounds like she’s been crying. “Do you think there’s a toilet charm? Because that is where my life seems to be headed at the moment.”
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“No,” she says quietly. “If I were all right, I’d be in a romantic restaurant right now planning a trip to Bora Bora with Fred, dreaming of his proposal to me while we’re there, and being completely oblivious to where my life was headed. Instead, I am stunned, ready to throw up, and parked in front of your house.”
I’m confused. “Wait,” I say, walking to my front window, and pushing back my curtains to see her bright blue Prius parked out front. “You’re outside? Why aren’t you coming in?”
“Because Scott’s car is parked in your driveway, and I don’t want to bother you,” Mel reasons. “But I don’t know where else to go. Fred’s cheating on me.”
Chapter Six
Melissa
Seema and Scott run out to get me and bring me inside.
I quickly catch them up on the last hour of my life and have just finished the part about some strange Swedish woman throwing a drink in Fred’s face.
I then fill them in on what happened next: Fred wasn’t stupid. I saw a woman throw a drink in his face— he wasn’t going to get off without a full-blown explanation.
Svetlana, that’s her name— as if I could ever compete with a Svetlana— had been a client of Fred’s for three months. She was the trophy wife of a seventy-eight-year-old studio head who she caught getting head one night from an even younger woman than herself. Fred was her divorce attorney.
I had actually heard about her. Her husband had forced the final arbitration to be in Manhattan— so Fred was stuck there for a week and a half while both sides hammered out whether a five-year marriage to a decrepit guy was worth one hundred million dollars or one hundred and fifty million.
I remember Fred asked me to go with him to New York, but my high school was in the middle of state testing, and I didn’t want to leave my students.
I guess I should have.
I sit on Seema’s couch, numb, as I continue my story. “Fred told me, in a moment of tearful confession, that the night the case was settled, he took her out for drinks at the Oak Room. They had too much wine, he walked her back to her suite, she kissed him, and they made out for a few minutes.”
“Oh, good Lord . . .” Scott mutters under his breath.
“She’s not done with her story yet,” Seema tells him.
“Yeah, but obviously . . .”
“Scott . . .” Seema says warningly.
“Fine,” Scott says to Seema, crossing his arms. Then he turns to me. “But you do know he’s lying about that, right?”
I take a deep breath before I answer, “Honestly, I have no idea.”
“Finish your story,” Seema tells me sympathetically.
“Yes, you do!” Scott insists to me. “They did NOT just make out for a few minutes. You do know that, right?”
I look over at Scott, surprised at his vehemence. I shrug. “He says that’s all that happened.”
“Oh please. What’s he going to say? ‘I fucked someone in a hotel room three thousand miles away. I never thought I’d get caught. Oops.’ ”
His statement makes me burst into tears. Now I’m sad and embarrassed. Seema gives me a hug. I can’t breathe. I’m feeling sick, my nose is clogged, and my life is over.
I take a Kleenex from a box Scott brought into the living room, wipe my eyes, and gauge Seema’s and Scott’s reactions.
Seema’s eyes are wet as well, she is so shocked and saddened to hear my news. She looks almost as heartbroken as I feel.
Scott, on the other hand, looks angry. And the longer he listens, the angrier he gets.
I take a deep breath, and end my story. “Honestly, I don’t know what the truth is,” I tell them. “Fred’s called me at least seven times on my cell, and left texts. I haven’t picked up, because I don’t know what to say to him. I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not even sure if I have a home to go to anymore.” I tear up again, but don’t cry. “I just have no idea what to think or what to do.”
“He’s a chode,” Scott states matter-of-factly. “You’re better off without him.”
I stare at him blankly. Seema glares at him. “Don’t say things like that!” she chastises Scott.
“Why?” Scott rebuts. “The guy’s not only cheating on her, but he’s lying about it with some insipid, ‘Strange girl only stuck her tongue in my mouth for a couple of minutes’ lie! He’s a total chode!”
“Because you don’t say things like that to someone who doesn’t even know they’re broken up yet,” Seema admonishes.
“What? You’re going to tell her to forgive the chode and marry him?” Scott argues.
“Of course I’m not going to tell her to marry the chode,” Seema counters. “But there’s a time for venting and a time for constructive advice. Check your watch.”
“Excuse me,” I say quietly. “What’s a chode?”
“Chode,” Scott repeats. “He’s a dick, a knob, a prick—”
“Thank you for the anatomy lesson,” Seema interrupts, cutting him off.
“He’s also an asshole,” Scott can’t help but add.
Seema throws down her hand on her coffee table as she asks firmly. “Will you stop that?”
Scott ignores her. Asks me with complete sincerity, “Do you want me to go beat the crap out of him? Because I am so there.”
Seema tries a different approach. “Scott, can you go get us some drinks please?”
“She hasn’t answered my question.”
“She doesn’t want you to beat him up,” Seema insists. “How is landing yourself in jail going to help her?”
“Actually, I would kind of like him to beat Fred up,” I admit to Seema.
She looks mildly horrified.
“I didn’t say I was actually going to have Scott do it,” I tell Seema. “I know that would be wrong.” Then I turn to Scott. “That is so sweet of you to offer, though.”
Scott looks a bit disappointed.
Seema takes my hand gently. “What do you want?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” I tell her. “I want to find a way to get past this. I want it to have never happened.”
Seema doesn’t say anything— just nods her head knowingly. She gets what I’m saying. She pulls me into a hug, and we just sit there in silence.
Which is broken by the unlikeliest of heroes. “Nooooo!” Scott booms in his masculine voice. He gets up and begins pacing around. “I don’t get women sometimes.” He flips around to me. “Aren’t you pissed?!”
Scott’s clear green eyes stare right at me. I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “I . . . well, of course I am. I mean—”
“No,