Page 1 of Unconventionally, Elle
Prologue
Six years ago
I knew death.
My silent companion in the darkest of moments. I, Elizabeth Watson, knew this mysterious presence that lingered in the shadows of my existence. She stole my family, she robbed me of my identity, and she devilishly whispered a sweet song of surrender while I sipped my glass of rosé. I didn't want to feel this sharp pain through my chest or the agonizing way my throat closed every time I remembered that I wasn't there for her, that I didn't know.
When my grandmother, the woman who raised me, died of cancer, cancer I wasn't aware of, I fell to my knees and screamed until my throat burned raw. Why didn't she tell me? I wouldn't have canceled my trip to visit her because of work. I would have been there. I would have taken care of her. I think.
Instead, I was here. Long hours and never-ending emails. I should have known. Even Jude said I was overworked, but I didn't care. I needed to work harder, to become better, to climb higher on the slippery corporate ladder.
Seated on my French Quarter balcony, three stories high, I scanned Bourbon Street, where crowds of tourists flowed in sync, and the smell of alcohol and cigars drifted through my fern-covered rails and around my heavy head. The music from a bar at the corner of Bourbon and Conti rumbled through the street and rattled the glass panes of my floor-to-ceiling windows. The humid October air was thick and uncomfortable; condensation slowly rolled down my chilled glass of rosé while I twirled it on the table.
What would happen if I did it? What would happen if I listened to this sweet song of surrender? I stopped twirling my glass, the stain of my bloodred lipstick still fresh on the side. Why did I feel so alone? My heart constantly ached, and all my emotions were void and empty. I was numb.
I slowly stood up and slipped my shoes off my swollen feet. I lined them up neatly next to my chair and lifted my chin as a slight breeze caressed my skin and brushed my hair away from my sweaty brow. I was aware of my body moving toward the edge of my balcony, and I felt my hips brush up against the iron railing. I leaned over, just to look, and my breath went shallow.
Memories rushed through my cloudy mind, glimpses of the life I'd thought was right. Now everything was wrong. Six years old and my grandparents officially adopting me. Fifteen years old and telling everyone I was going to be famous. Twenty years old and falling in love.
With blurry eyes, I pressed up on my tiptoes. My calves ached, my arches sore from my heels--stupid heels. Everyone was gone. I was alone.
My heart was beating through my lightweight linen dress. The orange one Grandma and I had picked together in Italy the last summer we had Grandpa.
My head spun and my vision tunneled as I gripped the cast-iron column with shaky, sweaty hands. My biceps began to quiver as I hoisted myself up, taller, higher.
I took a jagged breath and looked down one last time. A mother and her young daughter walked together hand in hand, the little girl taking two steps to her mother's one. The little girl looked up, and our eyes met. The mother stopped short and looked up to my balcony. Her face paled and her eyes went wide. I saw her pull out her phone, but I didn't care. My heart ached. I had to fix this feeling.
Would it hurt? How much longer could I keep pretending I was okay? No one would believe this. No one would think I was hurting. I never showed them.
A tear trickled down my cheek. No one would care. I closed my eyes and waited as a breeze, warm and muggy, tickled my face. I gave a small, delicate grin and leaned into the breeze. It would be okay. I leaned a little farther, and I heard a woman scream at the same time a man's voice boomed from behind me. All I could feel was darkness.
1
Now
My phone buzzed; the girls were going crazy on our group text. Sarah and Rachel had been texting nonstop about the idea of a girls' trip. I was pretty sure Rachel was eighty-five percent done planning one by the number of vibrations I was hearing.
The thread had started off with them wishing me luck on my presentation this morning on a major account, then about Rachel's pending promotion to PR director, and Sarah's oldest starting kindergarten. These days we kept in touch only with texting and the occasional phone call. It was minimal, but it worked.After college, Rach had moved to Saint Louis, and Sarah had settled down in Virginia. Our lives and schedules hardly lined up, so a group chat helped us still feel connected. Isn't that how it goes, though? Best friends who live in different states.
As I walked into my presentation, I thought about the ideas they were throwing around for a girls' trip. Did I have the time? What about the Calloway account, my big client? God, we hadn't been together in years, just the three of us. I closed my eyes and thought about what a trip with just the three of us would be like. Carefree? Relaxing? Refreshing?
A tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality: a cold corporate office and two men sitting around a conference room table waiting for me.
"Are you ready, Elle?" Anna was standing beside me looking into the conference room too. "I didn't know Chris Johnson was on this account with you," she said as her eyebrows arched up in surprise.
I rolled my eyes at the sight of Chris sitting arrogantly in the chair by the head of the table. His raven-colored hair was slicked back, and his long, narrow nose made him look like a weasel.
"That's because he's not." I sighed heavily as I rolled my shoulders back and prepared myself to walk into this presentation I knew like the back of my hand.
Neither man acknowledged my entrance until I took my seat on the other side of Mr. Landry, my boss, who was a short man with a constant scowl. He wore a pressed navy-blue suit, and his crimson tie was in bright contrast against his starched white shirt. As usual, his Rolex sparkled on his wrist, and he greeted me with a curt nod.
I readjusted my skirt and crossed my ankles in my chair. My formfitting Prada skirt suit was just as nice if not better than Chris's slim-fit Armani black suit. He wasn't wearing a tie, and his jacket was casually unbuttoned. My hands were clammy, which was never a good sign for me when Chris was around. When he first started, he tried to ask me out on a date, but Jude and I had just broken up and I was in no mood to date, let alone date anyone from work. Since then, he's called me "buddy" and likes to pat me on the shoulder as if to say,Good girl.
"Good morning, Mr. Landry." I ignored Chris. "Paul said that he and his boss, Mr. Guidry, are on their way."
Chris rolled his eyes, so I lifted my chin a little higher.
I hadn't met Mr. Guidry yet. He was the president of the Creekside Agency, and Paul, my contact, had told me he onlyattended the big presentations. No pressure, of course. No pressure at all.
