Secrets

“Oh Anthony. I love you.” “I love you too, Ramona. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one.” “Oh, come on! Ramona, don’t buy his crap!” I frowned at the gorgeous brunette gracing my TV. Like she'd even listen to me. Sticking my chopsticks into the box of Lo Mein I held, I shoveled the noodles into mouth with little grace, momentarily grateful no one else was around to see me and worry about my state of mind. “And you know why you're not going to listen to me?" I asked with my mouth full. "Because you're fake and your life is a script.” As the music swelled and the peak of the romance flick played out in predictable, cliché fashion, I threw a pillow at the TV and sighed “And now you’ll go on to get married and live happily ever after and never have to worry about him leaving you for someone blonde...” Of course she would. Because her life was perfect, and she was in love. Unlike me. Here I was, sitting alone on my couch on a Friday night in my favorite pajamas, talking to her like she actually existed. I sighed and dropped the box of noodles back onto the coffee table, snatching up my glass of wine in the process and gazing out the window. The night was vapid and depressing and with the way things had been going for me lately, why should I have expected anything else? Pursing my lips, I blew out a long breath, causing my lips to vibrate together as I studied the glittering view of Portland. I was sure there were parties happening right outside my window— Okay, maybe not right outside, but parties were happening! I mean, it was Friday night. I really shouldn’t have been so bitter toward the couple. One, because they were fictional, and two, it wasn’t their fault my life had been going downhill lately. If I really stopped to think about it, I did have a lot of things to be grateful for. I had an apartment, a job, and, for the moment, a car. Heartbreak, however, made me forget those things. And my heart was broken. Shattered. The pieces scattered to the wind like discarded bits of paper. Heaving another sigh, I reached for my phone and stopped as I stared at the image on the screen I couldn’t bring myself to change. Tommy, my ex-fiancé, and I smiled brightly at the camera, the shimmering blue water and iconic red rust Golden Gate Bridge serving as our background. Bittersweet memories of that day flooded my mind without permission. The photo had been taken just after he proposed. It had taken me completely by surprise—so much so that I had literally jumped up and down and screamed in excitement. If I closed my eyes, I could still remember the way he laughed … The phone trilled in my palm, scaring the crap out of me. With a cry, I jumped and sloshed wine all over my lap. “Oh, really?” I grumbled, grimacing as I surveyed the damage and felt the crimson drink permeate the fibers of my pajama pants. Much to my annoyance, the ringer continued to pierce the air despite my unfortunate condition, and I thumbed the slider to answer the call. “Hello?” My sister’s concerned voice reverberated in my ear, “Juliet? Are you okay?” It seemed that since my sister had become a mother, she was incapable of beginning a conversation without tacking on, “Are you okay?” “Well hello, Beatrice,” I replied, sighing at my wine stained pants. “I’m fine, how are you?” I looked around for something to mop up the wine now seeping into my couch, but found nothing, so I rose from the sofa and walked toward my room, the phone pressed to my ear. “Are you sure? You don’t sound fine.” “Bea, I’m fine.” As fine as someone whose heart has been smashed by a sledgehammer can be anyway, I thought. “I just had a lap full of wine when you called.” Shifting the phone so I could hold it between my cheek and shoulder, I shimmied out of my PJ bottoms, riffling through my drawers for replacements. “Oh, well, what are you doing tonight?” Her tone was optimistically hopeful, a tone I knew all too well. It was the tone she used when she wanted to persuade me to do something I wouldn’t want to do. I could almost see the million-dollar smile stretching her lips, white teeth flashing. “I have plans, Bea.” “Oh, really? And do these plans involve something more than takeout, wine, and staring at old photos?” I stuck my tongue out at the sarcasm in her tone, and tugged on a pair of yoga pants I had acquired during my health nut period. “Yes?” I replied, my voice upturned. Beatrice snorted and mumbled, “Liar.” “Yeah, okay. So what if they don’t? Who am I hurting?” “You mean besides yourself? No one. But I don’t see why you’re wasting another moment on that sleezeball.” “Bea,” I whined, closing my eyes and lying back on the soft handmade quilt that covered the bed. I had fallen in love with the sky blue ring pattern on the cream backdrop and bought it on impulse. My bank account hadn’t liked the cost, but I loved it. “He’s not…” “Don’t defend him, Jules. He is a sleezeball! What else do you call someone who cheats, and breaks off an engagement?” I pressed my fingers to my eyes, feeling my throat tighten at her question. I didn’t like talking about it. It was so much easier to box up all the hurt and pain and shove it aside. “He just ... had some things to work through,” I forced out, feeling like a vice was clamped around my vocal cords. Like his need to be with another woman while I ignorantly planned our wedding. Beatrice scoffed, then inhaled deeply before speaking in a softer tone. “Come out with me and Bill tonight, Jules. We’ve got a sitter and everything.” She sounded so hopeful that I almost agreed on the spot, but at this point, even getting up off my bed seemed like more effort than it was worth. “Maybe next time, Bea. I’m really tired. You and Bill have a great time, though.” Beatrice sighed. I could hear her muffle the phone as she spoke to someone else, presumably Bill. I waited, staring at the ceiling until she came back on the line. “Okay, well … if you’re sure. We miss you.” “Miss you too, Bea. ‘Night.” I pushed the end button and dropped the phone onto the bed. Twisting around, I peered at the clock on the nightstand. Was eight o’clock too early to go to bed? Maybe not if you were eighty, but I since I was only twenty-seven, I figured it was. But I was so tired—of hurting, of thinking, of remembering. Of wishing for a life I would never have. Wishing for a love that wasn’t to be. Rolling onto my side, I pushed the home button on my phone, calling up the image of Tommy and myself once more. I trailed my finger along his digitized face, squeezing my eyes closed against the press of tears. Beatrice was right, though I was reluctant to admit it. I needed to stop torturing myself. Tomorrow. I would remove the image tomorrow. “I miss you,” I whispered, curling myself around the phone, letting oblivion claim me. The days continued to pass as they had before, but not nearly swiftly enough for my liking. It was as if time had purposely slowed down, begging me to wallow in self-pity. The same questions ran repeatedly through my mind: Why did he leave me? What did I do wrong? How could I have made it better? And why had he suddenly decided he liked blondes over redheads? He had always told me my hair was one of the things he loved most. I was his red-haired, green-eyed beauty. Apparently not beautiful enough … Some part of me knew how foolish those questions were, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. I did the best I could to push through the day, throwing my focus onto work. Luckily for me, that was easy to do, as I loved my job. I’d been working at Rose Village Assisted Living for the past three years and couldn’t imagine working anywhere else. After tugging my scrub top down over my head before work one morning a week later, my eyes once more found the image on my phone that I had yet to change. “Enough’s enough, Juliet,” I chided myself. “He’s not coming back.” I leaned down and scooped up the device. My finger hovered over the settings icon, but I couldn’t bring myself to push it. Coward. Closing my eyes in defeat, I shoved the phone into my purse and strode to the door. I’ll do it at lunch, I promised myself as I locked it behind myself. The morning was crisp and cool, not unusual for May in Portland. It made me wish I hadn’t forgotten my jacket. I scurried to my car as the air nipped at my body heat, stopping dead in my tracks when I saw the bright yellow envelope on the windshield. “Oh, come on!” I growled, snatching the envelope off the glass and shoving it in my purse. I didn’t need to read it. I’d gotten one just like it last week. ‘Dear Miss Adams,’ I thought with a scowl, ‘please make your payment or we will be forced into legal action.’ “Forced into legal action” was a nice way of saying, “We’ll repossess your car.” The problem was, I didn’t have the $6,700 I needed to make the payment, and I wouldn’t for some time the way my hours were going. Six-thousand seemed like a lot. I mean, the car wasn’t that new. But it was low on miles, and got me where I needed to go. Besides, I liked the little Volkswagen. Heaving a frustrated sigh, I slid into the driver’s seat, slipping the key into the ignition and starting the engine. I cranked up the fans, relishing the heat they expelled, grumbling as I caught a glimpse of the yellow envelope in my purse beside me on the passenger’s seat. It should have been a red envelope. After all, it was the cherry on my crappy life sundae. Traffic was mercifully light and I made it to work with fifteen minutes to spare. Though a rare feat, I didn’t dare dream that the tides were turning in my favor. I pulled into the staff lot and into my parking spot. The smiling daisy bobble head on the dashboard had my lips curving lightly. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad. “Morning, Stacey,” I called to the receptionist as I approached the front desk. The young blonde was dressed in her usual style of clothing that was just a bit too risqué to be considered office attire. She offered me a fake, cheery smile before going back to typing. Probably on f*******:, I thought, rolling my eyes. I nodded to a few of the other staff members on my way into the locker room. After storing my things, I clipped on my I.D. badge and headed back to the front desk to grab my charts for the day. One of them immediately caught my eye. “Hey, Mrs. Darrow is back?” I asked Stacey as I looked over her chart. “Yeah, she came in last night. Poor thing.” Stacey clicked her tongue, tilting her head toward me, her eyes over wide and brimming with sadness as she shook her head. “What was her daughter’s excuse this time?” I sighed, flipping the chart closed. Stacey shrugged, her sadness quickly forgotten as she began rapidly typing again. I drummed up a smile. “Thanks.” “No probs.” As I started off down the hall, I decided that I would go see Mrs. Darrow first. While I was sad things hadn’t worked out with her daughter, I was happy that she was back. Mrs. Adaline Darrow was seventy-six years old and a firecracker of a woman if I had ever known one. She got away with quite a lot due to her frail appearance—she only weighed ninety-six pounds. But after having gotten to know her over the last year, I was wise to her tricks. “Mrs. Darrow?” I called as I knocked lightly on her door, cautious in case she was sleeping. When I received no answer, I poked my head inside the room and felt the first real smile of the day pull at my lips. There, on the floor, was Mrs. Adaline Darrow in a perfect Downward Facing Dog position. She was dressed in a canary yellow shirt and black yoga pants. Her snow-white hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and large sea shell earrings dangled from her lobes.