“Since you’re giving me a free ride here at the hotel, let’s call it even,” I said, finally feeling comfortable that I could somehow repay my debt. I definitely didn’t like feeling indebted to anyone. I never had.
“Agreed,” Trina said with a small laugh, hanging up as I did the same.
I sat up with a start, my breath caught in my throat as my heartbeat echoed in my ears. I blinked a few times; the darkness in the room cast everything in navy blue. Glancing around, I vaguely recognized my surroundings—a massive television ahead of me and a four-person dining table to my right. I was still in the hotel suite, and more specifically, the living room of the hotel suite.
I rubbed my eyes and tried to remember what caused me to wake up in a cold sweat. There was an overall feeling of dread settling in my stomach, as if I’d just witnessed something far beyond frightening, something horrible. The strange thing, though, was that I couldn’t put my finger on just what “it” was. Normally, I could easily recall my dreams, or nightmares, as soon as I woke up; but in this case, there was just a blank void in my head, an empty slate.
I took a deep breath and tried to allay my fears, to calm the feeling of unease that was still upsetting my stomach.
It was just a nightmare, Peyton! I reprimanded myself. Stop acting like a child!
My gaze fell on the two empty beer bottles still sitting on the coffee table, and I wondered if they were the source of my less than refreshing catnap on the sofa. Checking the clock on the wall, I realized it was midnight. Way past my bedtime. I stood up and, using the light of the moon as it streamed in through the French doors, I wandered over to the bedroom, where I tore off my clothes and unceremoniously tossed them on the floor. Heading into the bathroom, I nearly blinded myself when I flipped on the switch. After blinking a few times against the garish light, the first object to catch my attention was a scale lazily leaning against the wall.
Overwhelming feelings of revulsion and anger welled up inside me and I immediately grabbed the offensive thing, shoving it under the sink cabinet. It certainly didn’t belong to me, which meant it must have been supplied by the hotel. Not that I blamed them. I mean, how could anyone here know how much I detested scales? They couldn’t.
I shook my head as memories started to plague me, pouring through my head even though I tried my best to ignore them. I sat down on the toilet and cradled my head in my hands, forcing my eyes shut so I could erase the stream of images already unleashing themselves before my eyelids…
Every week Jonathon subjected me to the same thing…every week he insisted I step on the scale in front of him to ensure I wasn’t even a half pound over one hundred and thirty. And if I was heavier, the ensuing conversation was arduous—was I comfort-eating? And if so, what was wrong with me? Wasn’t I aware of how fortunate I was? Was I pushing myself hard enough at the gym? Didn’t I care about my marriage enough to maintain my figure? Didn’t I understand that there were countless women who would jump at the opportunity to be in my place? Didn’t I realize how lucky I was to be Mrs. Jonathon Graves?
As soon as we separated and I moved out, I left the scale with Jonathon, telling him all those women who were dying to be weighed in my place could have it! I hadn’t weighed myself in over a month and I never planned to weigh myself again. I could tell I’d put on weight, but I didn’t care. If anything, the five or ten pounds suited me—I had curves again—a butt and boobs that actually made my waist look smaller. And my face was softer, not so angular. I looked younger, or so I thought.… I definitely looked happier.
I felt tears start in my eyes and blinked them back. I wouldn’t cry. The past was the past and I was firmly rooted in the future, in my own present. That didn’t include Jonathon or any of his head trips. I was my own person now, free to live my life the way I chose to.
4
I arrived at my house at eight a.m. sharp on Monday morning. The rain had finally let up, so today would mark the first day of my remodel. To say I was excited was an understatement. In fact, I’d endured a restless night of sleep in my suite at the Omni, my brain too busy with thoughts of crown molding, colors of paint, stains of hardwood floors, and light fixtures.
When I pulled up, I noticed there were already two enormous white trucks parked just outside my sprawling home. One of the Ford F350s was actually parked on the roots of an ancient oak tree that spread into the street, causing the concrete sidewalk and the asphalt to crumble away. With the two trucks hogging the street in front of my house, I was forced to park at the top of Prytania Street, where it intersected Eighth Street. Unluckily for me, my house didn’t come with a garage.
Men strolled in and out of my double front doors, carrying all sorts of tools while they attempted to balance their coffee cups in their free hands. From the looks of it, Ryan was able to find six or so men to make up his crew. Not bad for someone who complained about the task being a difficult one…
Once I killed the Scout’s engine, I hopped down from the driver’s seat and jogged around to the other side of the truck, opening the passenger door and reaching for my safety helmet and tool belt (already supplied with an impressive array of tools) and then buried my purse behind the passenger seat, underneath my rain jacket.
Plopping the safety helmet on, I hurriedly fastened the work belt around my waist and smiled at my reflection in the window. The plastic helmet and the leather tool belt were exactly the same shade of bubblegum pink as my lip gloss. The hammer, pliers, utility knife, chalk line, and even the carpenter’s pencil were all a corresponding pink. To break the cloying sweetness of the ensemble, though, was a repeating pattern of black skulls and crossbones on the handles of each tool, and the belt had a checkerboard pattern. The safety helmet also echoed the skull-and-crossbones theme but had a large bow on top of the skull, imbuing it with a girly sort of macabre touch.
Gripping my cup of coffee, I started up the front walkway, making sure I smiled and said “good morning” to each of the guys who passed me. Granted, most of them looked confused—I wasn’t sure if it was due to my outfit or my being there.
“I like it!” one of them called out as he eyed me up and down while nodding appreciatively on his way out the front door.
“Thanks!” I called back as I made my way into the foyer and immediately recognized Ryan standing at the end of it, in conversation with a shorter, older, and chubbier man. Ryan’s back was to me, but the breadth of his shoulders and his golden hair gave him away. At the sound of my voice, he turned around but didn’t say or do anything for the space of three or four seconds as he apparently took stock of me. Feeling slightly squeamish beneath his scrutiny, I smiled sheepishly.
That was when a scowl took hold of his lips. “Oh, hell no!” he exclaimed, shaking his head as he took a few steps toward me, his eyebrows still arched in surprise.
“Well, good morning to you too, neighbor!” I answered with a mirror of the puzzled frown he continued to give me.
“Please tell me it’s Halloween an’ you decided to go as some sort of”—he seemed at a loss for words as he first studied my helmet and then my tool belt—“pirate-themed construction worker?”
I laughed, taking a swig of my coffee before swallowing and clearing my throat. No, we hadn’t talked about whether or not I could be one of his crew members; and yes, I’d already figured he wouldn’t be exactly pleased when I revealed my intentions. “No, Ryan, it’s not Halloween.”
“Then why are you wearin’ that ridiculous getup?”