Josie Silver

Don’t ask. One of those gift experience things someone gave his brother, I think. I could call around to see Jack while he’s off doing that

Oh, so high and mighty, Laurie

“Oh, so high and mighty, Laurie,” I mock, getting to my feet and pacing because the room suddenly feels claustrophobic. I’ve been cooped up in here for months, and now all I want is to open the door and get out. I’d walk to the edges of our island, and then I’d walk into the sea, and not stop until it’s over. “It hasn’t always been like that, though, has it? Everything was different when it was you who needed comforting, wasn’t it? When you were sad, bone-tired, and wallowing in your own misery?”
She’s shaking her head slowly and

“Yeah,” I spit. “It was different because it was you who needed me back then, and I wasn’t so fucking high and mighty as to turn you down.” I jab my finger toward her in the space between us. “I took pity on you, and now the tables have turned and you can’t lower yourself to return the fucking favor.” It’s not true. Not a word of it. I don’t recognize the vicious loser I’ve become. I take a step toward her, to do I don’t know what, and she backs away from me, horrified. I see the person I’ve become in her eyes and it makes me sick. But then, as she moves, that bloody starfish pendant catches my eye and I reach out to grab it. I don’t know why, it’s irrational, I just want to do something to make her stop, but she jerks away from me and it snaps from around her neck. I stare at it for a moment, then throw it to the floor, and we stand stock-still and glare at each other. Her chest is heaving and I can hear my blood rushing in my veins like water crashing against rocks

I tie my hair up in the bathroom and twist to look at the back of my neck. As I thought, there’s a mark, a small red graze where the catch on my necklace dug into my skin before it snapped. I place a cold washcloth on it and then I sink down and sit on the edge of the bath. I don’t care about my neck; I know Jack well enough to know he would never hurt me intentionally; the chain was delicate enough to snap easily. But it was what it meant. And his words. Don’t come back

She hands me a shoebox that’s been divided by hand-written labels. One of the biggest sections, tellingly, is “I’m sorry”; clearly I’m not the first and won’t be the last guy in here who’s been a schmuck. I flick through the designs for the simplest, make a snap decision and pull out two.
“I need to order two of those please,” I say, nodding toward the peonies she’s placed down on the floor behind the counter.
“Two?” She raises her eyebrows.
I nod, and this time her look suggests that she’s distinctly unimpressed. “You don’t want me to vary them even slightly?”
“No, exactly like that, please.” She can think what she wants to think, I don’t care. If I order the same, then I can’t get it wrong when Sarah mentions them

He follows me into the kitchen and sits on one of the breakfast stools as I pour us both a glass of red. It’s a pattern we’ve fallen into on the evenings when he’s not dining out with clients; it’s a little clichéd, I know, but he works late so often that I normally have dinner ready and a bottle open by the time he gets home. It feels like the least I can do when I’m staying here for free. Still. Anyway, I don’t really mind; as long as he doesn’t ask me to warm his slippers or stuff his pipe, I’m good. There’s something soothing about coming in and chopping vegetables, especially after long days like today. Being a teen agony aunt isn’t all prom dress stress and period advice. My inbox has been particularly heavy-going this afternoon; I’ve been researching bulimia to try to help a fifteen-year-old boy who wrote to me about the struggle he’s hiding from his family. I just wish I could do more; sometimes I feel hopelessly underqualified for this job

I realize I’ve lumped the blame squarely on Jack’s shoulders myself since he called; he said nothing to suggest the break-up was in any way Sarah’s choice. I mean, I know these things are never black and white, but he left me with the impression that he’d called time because she didn’t quite measure up to his mythical one hundred percent. I’m both relieved and disquieted to know it wasn’t exactly like that

My smile is thin; if there’s one thing I’ve come to realize about weddings, it’s that pretty much everyone who works in the industry has perfected a false air of perpetual excitement, like nothing delights them more than making your every wedding wish come true. I get it. More gushing equals more money spent. The mere fact that something is wedding related seems to make it instantly three times more expensive than it might otherwise be. You want a couple of bay trees to put on either side of your front door? Sure. These beauties are fifty pound a pair

I’m wondering how to get my mum away from the five-foot-wide frocks when Gwenda comes unexpectedly to my rescue.
“Mum,” she calls loudly, peering over her specs. “I find that the fuller skirt can swamp my more petite brides.”
It’s my turn to put my face into the nearest wall of dresses to hide my smile. Gwenda calling her “mum” is another symptom of the wedding industry. Everyone is referred to by their role in the proceedings. Bride, groom, mother of the bride.