Nancy Thompson - What Happens in Paris

I wanted to scream at Blake for being so callous, for making a mockery out of our marriage, for making me feel so utterly, disgustingly unlovable. For making me feel as if this were somehow my fault.

“Yeah, I’m here. But you know what? I have to get ready for work. No Realtors, Blake. Just—just go away.”

I never got my coffee.

I didn’t have time to tame my hair into my old reliable chignon and stop at Starbucks and get to work in time for the big unveiling of our new marketing campaign to the Heartfield brass. It was the trial presentation before we took our “new image” to the board of directors. I couldn’t don my game face with wild hair.

So with or without coffee, life marched on.

For that matter, with or without Blake, with or without boyfriends and antiques businesses and whatever else Blake planned to spring on me around the next bend, I had to put it all aside and go to work.

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