Page 59 of What Happens This Christmas
For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn’t think before acting. I acted on instinct, so utterly fed up with it all. I let out a scream that rivaled those that could only be heard by dogs, and the best part about it was that I didn’t care. At all. This was my home, the staff had the evening off, and everyone was out except Nick, who I expected was waiting for me downstairs as he usually did.
Nick.I needed to see Nick.
I ran down the stairs, my toes clad in pantyhose hitting the steps one at a time. My feet would no doubt have bruises on the bottom of them from the way they were hitting the hard flooring, but it was worth it because I needed Nick.
He’d know what to do. He always was the more rational one between us.
“Candy,” Nick shouted, rushing toward me and nearly colliding with me as we met at the bottom of the staircase. He swiveled his gaze over me, his blue eyes wide and fiercely devoted to checking out every inch of me. His rough hands came down on my shoulders, heavy, needy, like he was prepared to be my anchor. “Are you okay?” he asked, seemingly already knowing that physically I was fine, not so much as a hair out of place.
“No,” I cried, scrambling for the words to explain my predicament. “I’m sick to my stomach.” Actually, the room might have been spinning a little, which was causing my stomach to churn even more. Doing cartwheels would have been a fairer description.
I was very cognizant that if we didn’t leave soon, we’d be late, but I had nothing to wear. Nothing that those vile women wouldn’t find something to say about. To each other. In huddles. In the corner of a room. In a bathroom. Somewhere people would least expect it, even though everyone, probably even their partners, knew they went off to cause their damage, talking about someone else.
I didn’t want to be that someone. Not again.
I’d had it all figured out, as I always did, to ensure that I wouldn’t be the person they could gossip about.
I was supposed to wearthisgown.
I was supposed to look divine.
I was supposed to not only fit in but stand out in the most elegant way possible.
I was supposed to make sure no one ever so much as thought the horrid thought that Nick was slumming it with me. A poor excuse for a Crane wife.
I was—
I couldn’t think for another second. My brain defied me and shut down, as did my body as I collapsed against Nick’s chest in a heap, the gown slipping from my fingers. The tears started just then, and I was broken, unable to hold them at bay like I’d become so accustomed to doing.
I felt like a frayed edge that was fully torn, never to be put together again.
This was a long time coming, though, wasn’t it? Oh, what had I gotten myself into? Who had I become? This woman I hardly recognized, that was who.
Nick repeatedly kissed the top of my head, each kiss calming the storm I felt within, but only a little before another round of tears descended. Bringing a hand up to my back, he rubbed concentric circles over my exposed skin. “What the hell is going on?”
I couldn’t bring myself to answer him, not yet anyway. It seemed as though I wasn’t done crying against his custom silk shawl collar tuxedo with a single button and breast pocket trimmed in silk to match. What I loved most about it was the slim-fit pants we’d paired it with. It made Nick look positively dashing, not that he needed any help in that department.
I’d married a man who knew how to dress and buy a woman jewelry, two very important traits for a man to possess. And I’d found them both in him. The man who wanted to divorce me. I wasn’t even mad about it because I would divorce me.
Look at me.
Just look at me!
He probably thought I was having a mental breakdown, and I supposed, in a way, I was. I couldn’t even form words to respond to him. I just cried and sobbed and cried some more.
Not only for my gown that broke my heart in ways unimaginable because my love of fashion was simply unmatched, but for so much more. What had been unleashed in me was far greater than just my ruined gown.
I cried for the girl I’d once been.
I cried for the girl who was made to feel like dirt.
I cried for the woman I’d become.
I cried for my husband who didn’t understand me. Who didn’t love me like he once had and was leaving me.
Nick tried again. “This isn’t you, Candy. Talk to me.” He never once removed his hands from me, though. It was as if he feared if he did, I’d go down and wouldn’t be able to get back up.
In some ways, that might’ve been accurate, but I couldn’t even begin to process that myself.
