Page 2 of That Weekend in Paris
Diillllly?
Yes.Yes.
I also taught you not to ignore things that need your attention.
That was the problem though. He hadn’t wanted my attention. Not for a long time. I’d tested my theory with enough bait from the Neiman Marcus lingerie department to be sure of my conclusion. Hard to deny stone-cold not interested.
A collage of shots flip through my mind, each one set against the backdrop of the bedroom I’d shared with my husband. I watch myself in one scanty getup after another try to reignite my husband’s attraction to me.
Staring out the window of the plane, I see the indulgent patience on his face, as if he is trying very hard not to glance at his watch or pick up the phone on the nightstand by the bed. I realize now there was probably a text message from her hiding behind the screensaver photo that still featured a picture of Josh and me accepting my songwriter of the year award.
I linger on that for a moment. Remember that night and how incredible it had been to reach a milestone I never imagined I’d reach.
To his credit, Josh had always believed I would.
From the moment I’d brazenly walked through the front door of Top Dog Publishing in Nashville and asked if I could personally hand my CD of original songs to Josh Cummings, he’d said I had what it took. Guts and talent. Not sure I ever agreed with him. But then desperation can look like guts when it comes to taking a risk.
As for the talent, I’d been writing songs since I was seven, picking out tunes on the pink guitar Mama gave me for Christmas. She had also believed in me, and it was her love for country music that fostered my own. Her voice behind many of the lyrics that flowed through my pen to the yellow notepad I still write on.
My phone dings with a text message that comes through the plane’s Wi-Fi.
I glance at the screen. My stomach drops at the all-caps message blaring back at me. I tap in, read it fully.
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, DILLON? THE TRIP TO PARIS WAS IMPORTANT BUSINESS FOR THE COMPANY. I COULD BRING CHARGES AGAINST YOU FOR FALSIFYING THE CANCELLATION OF MY TICKET.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. As far as I know, there’s no law against canceling an airline ticket.
I’VE JUST SEEN THE CHARGE ON THE AMEX FOR A TICKET TO PARIS. I REPEAT. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?
I consider this question. I suppose Josh deserves an honest answer, even though he did precipitate my actions with his decision to put aside our marriage vows. I’m pretty sure this isn’t the time to point that out though. We can save that for the attorneys.
I tap into the reply box, hit the all-caps key, and start texting.
CONSIDER IT A SMALL PRICE TO PAY FOR MY WILLINGNESS TO GO ALONG WITH A NO-FAULT DIVORCE. ALL THAT MONEY I WASTED ON A PRIVATE DETECTIVE, AND I DIDN’T EVEN USE THE PICTURES.
I can see that his response will be nearly instant because the little thingamajig indicating that he is typing rotates furiously as if it can’t spit the message out fast enough. I can practically hear him fuming from across the ocean.
YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WANTED THE DIVORCE. WE COULD HAVE WORKED IT OUT.
I type an emphatic:
WHAT? A THREESOME?
YOU KNOW THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT.
IT WAS OVER THE DAY I STOPPED BEING ENOUGH FOR YOU. I GUESS, IN FACT, WHEN YOU DECIDED YOU NEEDED PERFECT.
AND NOW YOU’RE GOING TO TRY TO WRECK MY BUSINESS?
WHY WOULD I DO THAT?
WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU CALL CANCELING MY MEETING WITH KLEIN?
WHO SAID I WAS CANCELING IT? I HAVE EVERY INTENTION OF MEETING WITH HIM.
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT, DILLON?
IF YOU RECALL, HE WAS MY DISCOVERY.
