Beep.

“It’s Randall again. Your machine cut me off. Anyway, Paris, I truly apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused you, and I will make it up to you. I promise to finish your yard in the next two months, and I’m willing to do the koi pond at cost. So, if you haven’t fired me already, I’ll actually be refunding some of your money, and real soon. I have a daughter. She’s ten, and I hope I end up being her new mother and father, if the courts recognize the situation she’s in. Anyway, I’ve rattled on and on, and it’s only because I don’t want you to kick me to the curb on a professional level. I can’t wait for you to see how beautiful your yard’s going to be. I won’t disappoint you, I promise. So—I hope to hear from you real soon. But, please, don’t be another person calling to cuss me out. Could you just pretend to be my friend and leave me a nice message? Take care, Paris. Bye.”

Holy shit. I press the three button and listen to the entire message again. Wow. A divorce? Whew. And his wife’s a substance abuser? Damn. I sit down on the couch and then jump up and open the drapes and look out at Hyde Park. It’s raining again. But I don’t care. We must’ve spent at least ten or twelve hours going to different nurseries looking for plants and trees, and I admit that I looked forward to each time. We talked about everything from why we do what we do to what we love about living in the Bay Area. We even debated about why it’s not too late for either of us to have another child. He was rather convincing. In a warm, sincere way. I wonder what kind of substance she’s been abusing? Or was it more than one? Oh, what difference does it make? And just how long have I been taking Vicodin? Shit. Almost a year.

Something told me Randall wasn’t a flake. Maybe I could stand to trust my instincts more. Even still, I decide to call him when I get back to California, which is only two days from now. It’s going to take all the strength I have to wait. I get under the covers, afraid to close my eyes because, if I do, Randall’s going to be under this floral comforter waiting for me, and right now I’m not in the mood for pretending. Not when there may be a possibility that I—the Petrified Woman—might actually have a real opportunity to perhaps do more than smell a man up close.

I wake up starving. I look over at the clock and can’t believe it’s quarter to ten. For some stupid reason, before brushing my teeth and washing my face like a normal person, I find myself opening the Harrods hatbox. Mama’s going to die when she sees this one! I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. This is a tough hat, anyway you look at it: it’s black velvet and looks like a tamer version of a Dr. Seuss hat. It’s not working for me. Not with this tired hairstyle. This wet and wavy look has played out, and I’m due for a new one so bad I can smell it.