were calling to offer condolences. Soon, the constantly ringing phone had my head pounding. I took the receiver off the hook and went to the bathroom to down another Advil.
Then I got my cell phone from my bedroom, turned it on and dialed Carla’s number.
“Carla,” I said, relieved when she answered.
“Sweetie,” she said warmly. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better,” I replied. Then added, “Understatement of the century.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I told her. “Please don’t apologize.” I finally understood why some people hated pity after they’d suffered a tragedy. It left you feeling even more helpless in the wake of their sadness.
“Will you be home today?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why? You want to do something? Maybe take the girls to the park?”
“Actually, I was hoping that you could watch Rayna, same as always.”
“Watch Rayna?” she repeated, sounding surprised.
“Yeah. I’m gonna head to the office.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Your boss expects you to go to the office today?” Carla asked, and I’d never heard her sound more mortified. “You know what, that woman is a total—”
“It’s not her,” I interjected. “It’s me. I want to go to work.”
There was a pregnant pause, and I could easily picture Carla’s face—her mouth slightly ajar, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
“This was your idea?”
“I can’t stay here,” I said. “Stay here all day and think about what happened. Plus, have you looked outside your window? With the Jerry Springer media circus downstairs, how long before our building becomes a new South Beach attraction? And how long will it be before the reporters get brave and come knocking on my door? No, I’ll be far better off at work, away from all this.”
“If you’re sure,” Carla said, but she didn’t sound convinced that I was making the right decision.
I groaned softly. “I have no clue what’s right. I’ve never been in this situation before. I don’t know what the protocol is.”
“I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
“I know. And you’re probably wondering how I can even consider going to the office. But if I stay home and see Eli everywhere, what good am I going to be to Rayna? Not to mention the endless phone calls from the reporters, which is only making all of this worse.”
“I’m not judging you,” Carla said. “Obviously, you have to do what you feel is best. And you know I’ll be here as I am every day, more than happy to babysit Rayna.”
“Thank you, Carla. You’re the best.”
“Anytime.”
Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Rayna off at Carla’s place on the second floor and returned to my apartment to get dressed. My head still throbbed, and when I walked into my bedroom, all I wanted to do was collapse onto the king-size bed and let sleep take me away from my problems. It was tempting, but I feared that if I lay down, I’d spend the day in a catatonic state of depression, and that would get me absolutely nowhere.
So I drank a second cup of coffee, dressed in a smart blazer and skirt, and headed out of my apartment.
I was halfway down the elevator when the realization struck me that I had to drive out of the parking lot, and that the media likely had every conceivable exit or entry point of the building covered. And by now, I was certain they knew what I looked like.
Sunglasses wouldn’t cut it.
I made my way back to up to my apartment, where I found a colorful scarf in my closet that I’d purchased at a boutique on Ocean Drive, but had never worn. One of those impulse buys that had made perfect sense at the time, but not the morning after.
Well, it would be put to good use today. The media might snap off shots of me and get video footage as I drove away, but at least they wouldn’t be able to see my face.
“Why does it matter?” I asked myself as I opened the door to my car minutes later. It wasn’t like I had anything to hide. These reporters weren’t hounding me because they secretly thought I’d murdered Eli. So what if they caught me looking grief-stricken, or less than perfect? Wasn’t that par for the course when a person suffered a devastating and public loss such as I had?
As I planted myself behind the wheel of my car and started the engine, it instantly dawned on me the reason I was so mortified at being seen on TV.
Shame.
Sure, Eli’s cheating wasn’t my fault, but people could be tremendously cruel. They could—and would—form judgments of me without even knowing a single thing about me. They’d say, for example, that I was a pathetically hopeless romantic who should have known better. Or worse, that I was a gold digger for being involved with a man who’d been a well-paid athlete.
I didn’t even want to imagine what Eli’s ex-wife would say about him if she decided to talk, considering I knew their split had been nasty. If she was still bitter, she’d likely paint an ugly picture of him that would only make me look more desperate for having been with him.
Was it really the public’s opinion I was worried about, or my own sister’s? Nikki had told me that I was blind where Eli was concerned—in fact, blind where most men were concerned—and that she knew my relationship with Eli would fail.
Now it had.
And the last thing I wanted to do was publicize my shame and humiliation to the entire world.
Yes, I sucked at being able to choose the right man. But it wasn’t like I was the only woman in the world with that problem.
Slowly, I started to drive out of the indoor parking lot. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my chest began to hurt. I let the air out of my lungs in a rush, then gulped in more as my car rolled outside.
Every member of the media surrounding the garage entrance came alive. It didn’t take more than a second for all of them to rush the car. Clearly, they’d done their homework. Probably had gotten my records from the DMV so they knew what I was driving. They swarmed my car like ants, and my heart lurched with fear. Then adrenaline took over, and I pushed my foot down on the gas. The car surged ahead, and I screamed when a Fox News cameraman had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” My car hit the asphalt of the street, and still people converged on me. My hands shook, but I tried to control the steering wheel as best I could. I didn’t let up on the gas, though, determined to get away as fast as possible.
I drove right through the stop sign, nearly colliding with a Mercedes. Screaming, I jammed both feet on the brake. The driver swerved
