confident all by your lonesome. Sometimes, Max swears in that portion. I love to hear her say the word ‘fuck’—it cracks me up,” Frankie snickered, running soothing hands over Nikos Junior’s back.
Mel’s head had been sinking into her chest with disinterest until she caught sight of Frankie’s face in full view. “You’ re—”
“Mitch in the Kitchen’s ex-wife. That’s me.” She grinned like she wasn’t at all displeased by Mel’s recognition.
“I loved his show …” Mel mumbled, then caught herself.
Frankie’s freak-out on Mitch’s show was infamous. There were YouTube spoofs on it, Saturday Night Live had had a field day with it, and the late-night talk show hosts had used her for fodder for months afterward. Instantly, she regretted her words. “Damn, that’s probably not appropriate. I’m sorry. How rude of me.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mel. Just be glad to know you can find your way out of tabloid hell with me as your guide.” Frankie rose, slender in her skinny jeans and layered tank tops, to pass the baby to Jasmine, who cooed her appreciation and ran her nose along the baby’s cheek, inhaling his scent.
Frankie sat back down and faced Mel, her warm eyes and smile reassuring. “Here’s the score. Your husband had the upper hand when you were married. You did whatever he wanted, gave him every last fiber of your being, accepted whatever explanation he offered, and then he took a dump on you by taking the one thing you really love, your dance studio. In one way or another, we’ve all been through it and come out the other end realizing it was never about the cars and the jewelry or the limitless credit cards we had. It was about not being able to breathe on our own when we lost it all. It’s sad and maddening all at once.”
Mel looked down at her feet covered in her old black ballet slip-pers with shame in her eyes, her heart tightening in her chest. “That’s it,” she choked, refusing to cry in front of strangers. “I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I can’t get comfortable in my own skin. Everything feels unfamiliar.” Everything, everything.
“That’s because Stan owned your skin, darling. But he doesn’t anymore. He chose to find new skin,” Jasmine pointed out, cradling Frankie’s little boy against her perfect breasts. “Look, we all know what it is to suffer through a high-profile divorce, Frankie being the expert here. We all also know what it’s like to be tossed to the curb and lose everything. Your friends, your house, your clothes, your world. We know what it’s like to have to start over with nothing while trying to understand some of the most basic of life’s lessons like balancing a checkbook and interest rates on a credit card. It’s like wandering around in a foreign country where the countrymen don’t speak Gucci.”
Mel felt her lip tremble. She hated that words of fear were tumbling from her lips, but there they were— tumbling in an outpouring of pathetic. “I went straight from my parents to marriage with Stan. I don’t know the first thing about surviving on my own. Everything was handled either by Stan or his accountants, business managers, maids, and drivers. I feel like an idiot.” Nay. You define “idiot.” She fought a groan.
Max snorted from behind her desk. “I get it. Are you ready for this? When I was in the middle of my divorce and living with my mother, I’d finally made enough money to contribute to the groceries. She took me to Walmart. I actually hadn’t been in a place where you could buy things at discount in almost as many years as I was married. How’s that for pathetically sheltered? I was pitiful. Look, I know you think all the gurulike stuff I spout is silly. You’re not some trendsetter there. I have all sorts of analogies and euphemisms for being an ex-pampered princess that are laughable. I had oodles of time to think while I job-hunted and took the place of one senior or another at the Village,
Mel’s head had been sinking into her chest with disinterest until she caught sight of Frankie’s face in full view. “You’ re—”
“Mitch in the Kitchen’s ex-wife. That’s me.” She grinned like she wasn’t at all displeased by Mel’s recognition.
“I loved his show …” Mel mumbled, then caught herself.
Frankie’s freak-out on Mitch’s show was infamous. There were YouTube spoofs on it, Saturday Night Live had had a field day with it, and the late-night talk show hosts had used her for fodder for months afterward. Instantly, she regretted her words. “Damn, that’s probably not appropriate. I’m sorry. How rude of me.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mel. Just be glad to know you can find your way out of tabloid hell with me as your guide.” Frankie rose, slender in her skinny jeans and layered tank tops, to pass the baby to Jasmine, who cooed her appreciation and ran her nose along the baby’s cheek, inhaling his scent.
Frankie sat back down and faced Mel, her warm eyes and smile reassuring. “Here’s the score. Your husband had the upper hand when you were married. You did whatever he wanted, gave him every last fiber of your being, accepted whatever explanation he offered, and then he took a dump on you by taking the one thing you really love, your dance studio. In one way or another, we’ve all been through it and come out the other end realizing it was never about the cars and the jewelry or the limitless credit cards we had. It was about not being able to breathe on our own when we lost it all. It’s sad and maddening all at once.”
Mel looked down at her feet covered in her old black ballet slip-pers with shame in her eyes, her heart tightening in her chest. “That’s it,” she choked, refusing to cry in front of strangers. “I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I can’t get comfortable in my own skin. Everything feels unfamiliar.” Everything, everything.
“That’s because Stan owned your skin, darling. But he doesn’t anymore. He chose to find new skin,” Jasmine pointed out, cradling Frankie’s little boy against her perfect breasts. “Look, we all know what it is to suffer through a high-profile divorce, Frankie being the expert here. We all also know what it’s like to be tossed to the curb and lose everything. Your friends, your house, your clothes, your world. We know what it’s like to have to start over with nothing while trying to understand some of the most basic of life’s lessons like balancing a checkbook and interest rates on a credit card. It’s like wandering around in a foreign country where the countrymen don’t speak Gucci.”
Mel felt her lip tremble. She hated that words of fear were tumbling from her lips, but there they were— tumbling in an outpouring of pathetic. “I went straight from my parents to marriage with Stan. I don’t know the first thing about surviving on my own. Everything was handled either by Stan or his accountants, business managers, maids, and drivers. I feel like an idiot.” Nay. You define “idiot.” She fought a groan.
Max snorted from behind her desk. “I get it. Are you ready for this? When I was in the middle of my divorce and living with my mother, I’d finally made enough money to contribute to the groceries. She took me to Walmart. I actually hadn’t been in a place where you could buy things at discount in almost as many years as I was married. How’s that for pathetically sheltered? I was pitiful. Look, I know you think all the gurulike stuff I spout is silly. You’re not some trendsetter there. I have all sorts of analogies and euphemisms for being an ex-pampered princess that are laughable. I had oodles of time to think while I job-hunted and took the place of one senior or another at the Village,
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