Chapter 11

Monday is not only the start of a new week, it’s the start of a new me. I have a newfound confidence, and a well-thought-out plan of attack. Normally, on any other Monday morning, I’d drag my sorry ass out of bed, shower, tie my damp hair into a knot on top of my head, brush my teeth, and throw on any old thing to wear to work to prepare for the week. Not today. Today I take my time in the shower, using my very best body scrub. I shave my legs. I moisturize every inch of my body. I brush my teeth while wearing an eight-minute eye mask that promises to help reduce dark circles and puffiness. I give myself a blowout. I apply primer, foundation, and I even contour, for Christ’s sake. This morning I am somebody else.

Today isn’t a day for jeans and an old T-shirt. Today I choose my prettiest floral skirt that twirls with every movement I make. I team it with a jean shirt tucked into the high waist, and a statement belt to help accentuate that I do, in fact, have a figure. With a pair of cute sandals, and my leopard print glasses, I’m ready to face the day and, more importantly, Anna and Nash.

***

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that inside every woman is an inner-psycho, just waiting to be unleashed. Now, while I might never admit it out loud, I’m quite certain my inner-psycho reared her disheveled head the moment Nash Harris arrived in town to give me that damn invitation to his wedding. Ever since Friday, I’ve been doing things I can’t even begin to explain, like lacing half the wedding cake testers with laxative …

I’m not even sure what I was hoping to get out of it. Maybe I was hoping Anna would get so sick, she wouldn’t be able to make our dinner reservation. Then I could somehow convince Harley to stay away and I’d have Nash all to myself. But then what? Was I expecting Nash to come to his senses and realize I’m the one for him? I don’t even know what it is, but it’s as if I was an outsider looking in, unable to control my own actions. I’m on the verge of utterly certifiable, and I can’t even stop myself at this point.

With a smile on my face, dressed in my pretty skirt, my hair bounces against my shoulders with every one of my steps as I walk into Reynolds’ drug store. I have a casual conversation with Aubrey Reynolds over the great weather we’ve been spoiled with lately as she scans my box of overnight constipation relief. I then proceed back to my store with said laxatives in a brown paper bag, waving to Mr. Hanson as he walks by with his Labrador Retriever, before continuing to open up the shop as if I’m not about to do something completely unfathomable. I’m sure one day there will be a Netflix special written about me.