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[Sydney–Earlier that Evening] “What about this one?” I twirl in front of a mirror. Atlas is standing to the side, speaking with the shop attendant. He looks up from his phone briefly, giving a weak thumbs up. Sighing, I go back into the dressing room, shaking my head at his inattentiveness. To be fair he didn’t ask to be here, but after his last-minute invitation, I guilted him into giving me a ride. Making a decision, I picked the dress that got the most reaction from Atlas, a gold lame ensemble dripping with crystals and gold sequins. As I go up to the counter to pay, I realize I must have forgotten my credit card at home. “Oh shoot,” I swear, turning to the shopkeeper. “Can you just put this on hold for me? Last name, Bryant.” “What’s wrong,” hearing my distress Atlas puts down his phone. “Don’t you need that dress for tonight?” “I forgot my card at the office,” I sigh, showing him the inside of my empty wallet. “Not a problem,” he pulls a platinum card from his inside co
[Cordelia] When choosing what to wear this morning, I wanted something that could make me feel confident and strong. I ended up wearing large sunglasses and a designer dress–my armor to hide the fact that I had spent the night crying and I still feel sick to my stomach with anger and sadness. Atlas is ready and waiting at the office when I arrive, looking as freshly pressed as always. Sydney is standing just behind him, her head down, holding a briefcase and her coat. She is also immaculately dressed, her pink Chanel suit a perfect complement to his darker attire. Both sets of lawyers stand framing a large oval table. On that table are several stacks of paper arranged in order of what needs to be signed and by whom. Divorce is never simple, but a divorce with billions of dollars on the line is always a mess requiring many hands. Our marriage was more than just a marriage, it was a contract that combined our family fortunes and businesses. Now all of that hard work of combin
[Cordelia]My body is shaking as I drive across town and I am still in shock over my mother’s words when I pull into the parking lot of the hospital. A kind nurse shows me the way to my father’s room. After thanking her, I stand outside his door, my hand above the handle as I try to calm my nerves. My father might be dying. Hearing that from my mother hurt in ways I wasn’t expecting. It is one thing to know it might happen someday and another to see it happen before your eyes. We’ve tried over the years to build a stronger relationship, but there is something about the two of us that just doesn’t mix. Even when I try to do my best to please him, it always comes across as a lack of effort on my part or some type of disobedience if I choose to do it my own special way. It has never been my intention to hurt him, but every time I try to be my own person, it seems to harm our relationship. As I take my last deep breath, the boisterous sound of my father’s laughter rings out into the
[Cordelia] Curiosity drives me to accept the doctor’s offer of coffee. We take our conversation to the small cafe located near the hospital lobby. Taking a seat in the back corner where we can have a bit more privacy, he tells me everything he has observed about my father. “Heart attacks have very specific symptoms, none of which your father has. At your family’s insistence, three doctors and four nurses, including myself, have all checked his vitals and he seems perfectly healthy. His blood pressure is slightly elevated and he has high cholesterol, but that isn’t unusual for his age.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, wincing. “At best I say he had a panic attack,” I take my own hesitant sip. The look on his face makes more sense now as this is probably the worst cup of coffee I have ever tasted. “Panic attacks can sometimes feel like heart attacks,” he explains in more detail. “Your heart seizes for a microsecond and your body feels a considerable amount of pressure. It’
[Cordelia] “I thought he would be here by now,” my mother’s heels make a gentle clicking noise as she walks back and forth, “Maybe he doesn’t care for her as much as we had hoped.” “No, he’ll be here,” my father chimes in. “Atlas is loyal. It won’t matter that they are divorced. He’ll be eager to reconcile…” “If he doesn’t get here soon, she’s going to figure out something is going on,” My mother hisses. “What if she finds out that you’re pretending…” “Meghan, you’re worrying for nothing,” my father’s gravely voice assures her. “The department head owes me. None of his staff will say anything against us. Anyone who speaks out of turn will lose their position.” My father is lying to me. Not only that, but Dr. Davis, a man who didn’t even know me, put his career on the line to tell me the truth. I don’t know what I did to deserve his kindness, but I am grateful he was here for me today. Without him, I don’t think I would have the courage to do what I’m about to do. I push open th
[Atlas] “Atlas?” Sydney is staring at me, her fork halfway between her plate and her mouth. “Did you hear what I just said?” I take a moment to readjust my thoughts. I had been thinking about this morning again, and the look on Cordelia’s face right before she signed those papers. “I’m sorry, I have a lot on my mind.” She smiles brightly, instantly forgiving me. “Of course. I was just trying to invite you over to my family’s LA home this weekend. My parents will be flying back home soon, and they wanted to have an “American-style barbeque” before heading back to Toronto.” She then pauses, taking a moment to survey my outfit before saying. “Do you have cowboy boots and a hat?” “Why?” I wonder where this is going. Surely her parents don’t think that all Americans eat barbeque while wearing cowboy attire. “Oh, it’s just that it’s a costume party. The theme is Wild Wild West. I thought I’d go as a…Saloon Girl,” she blushes. “I was hoping you’d come with me and be the sheriff or may
[Cordelia] “You still have two weeks until the show, Cordy! Make sure you get some fresh air today!” “No promises!” I call after Tilly as she leaves for the office. I am so grateful to have a friend like Mathilda. Not only is she giving me a place to work and live, but she cares enough about me to make sure that I do basic things to take care of myself–like exercise and eat. But I cannot stop working, not until I finish these patterns. I have two weeks to make this line perfect before presenting it at the LA Market and Fashion Expo. There will be vendors from all over the world present and a show like this can launch a career. Entering my collection into this show was expensive, eating up most of what remained of my limited savings. Pulling a pencil from behind my ear, I lean forward and begin sketching out a shape when I hear my phone ring with a tone I haven’t heard in several weeks. It’s my mysterious anonymous unlisted friend. The message contains a series of imag
Tomorrow is still a day away, however, and I doubt I’ll see Jude before then. We both have busy days ahead of us. Looking over at the pile of work waiting for me, I sigh, wishing I had taken him up on his invitation for coffee. My stomach starts to grumble at the thought of coffee and a large pastry. I’ve been so busy that I forgot to eat. Again. So I make a small brunch of eggs and toast. I don’t reel like making a whole pot of coffee, so I pour myself a glass of orange juice before I sit down to start working again. I’m about two bites in before I need to rush to the toilet. Everything I just ate, along with everything still in my stomach from the night before comes out in a rush. I’ve never felt so sick before in my life. Even after throwing up, there is a pervasive feeling of nausea that lasts the rest of the morning. Just the smell of coffee is enough to make me swallow down bile. Later in the day, I try again to eat a banana. I don’t even finish the first bite before I