“Am I embarrassing you, Gerard? Is that why you brought me to this nice restaurant to talk, so we’d be in a public space?”

“Blair, we can discuss our problems like the two civil adults we are. There’s no need to make a scene.”

No. Need. To. Make. A. Scene.

My head begins spinning, filled with a whirlwind of memories. My mother admonishing me whenever I threw a tantrum: “Blair, a well-educated young woman should always behave properly. We don’t make public scenes. That’s not what we do.”

I remember the speech my ballet instructor gave me when I didn’t get the lead role in The Swan Lake: “Blair, real ballerinas take setbacks with their heads held high. They don’t make scenes.”

Emilia this morning. Gerard now.

The vortex stops on a clear image of the list’s number one item: never make a scene.

It’s all been for nothing. All the sacrifices I made. All the times I said, “No,” to anything even remotely fun. All the lost opportunities… to live rather than just behave. The list, my secret recipe for success, is worthless. At twenty-nine, what do I have to show for it? Nothing. No job. No boyfriend. Everyone thinks they can walk all over good old Blair because she’s too polite to say anything. No more.

Rage takes over. My fury bubbles up and I vomit years of repressed feelings and self-imposed restraints on Gerard. “A scene? You don’t want me to make a scene?” I get up and throw my napkin on the table. “Well, guess what! You’re out of luck.”

“Blair, don’t—”

“Why?” I scream. “So you can run to your office’s side dish with a clean conscience?”

“Don’t talk about Laura that way. I won’t allow it!”

“Do you prefer boyfriend-stealing bitch?”

Everyone in the room is staring at us now.

Gerard’s ears turn a deeper shade of red. “Blair, please sit down, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” I yell. “I’m not a cheating, lying bastard! Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Gerard Wakefield and his mistress, the secretary, Laura.”

A server arrives at our table and stares at us, perplexed. “Spaghetti marinara?”

In a crazy impulse, I say, “Mine.” I grab the plate and before I know what I’m doing, I tip it over Gerard’s head. “How’s this for a scene, Gerry dear?”

Gerard shoots to his feet, his head, face, and suit dripping marinara. “You crazy bitch!” he shouts, dabbing the sauce off his face with his napkin. “It’s hot sauce! You could’ve blinded me. I’ll sue you for this.”