Mending Maggie [COMING SOON]

1.| almost perfect

Per usual, Mom does what she does and tries to make things better, even when there's no way that she can.

"God, no." I groan, sinking my head into my hands. "How embarrassing is that? Sorry, I've got to return all one hundred and fifty wedding invites because we... what? Broke up? That doesn't even begin to cover it."

My fingers drag through my dark hair, nearly pulling at the roots as another wave of shame rushes through me.

Mom shrugs, her own blonde hair falling around my shoulders as she hugs me from behind. "Or we can just tell them that you hate them, Maggie. You don't have to tell anyone anything that you don't want to."

"Wrong," I sigh deeply. "I have to tell at least one hundred and fifty people the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me."

Another self-pitying sigh.

The sighing, which I've been doing so much of lately, does nothing to relieve the pressure I feel at having to admit to everyone what went wrong.

Neither does the self-pity, but it's only been the weekend and I deserve at least a few days of wallowing. Just a few days, I've already promised myself to snap out of it after that.

Up until Friday Afternoon, I'd been thrilled for my wedding invitations to finally arrive.

Thrilled to get married. Thrilled to be Jake's wife. To have all our friends and family gathered around in my parents backyard, celebrating us. Our new life together.

I was so content, so excited. So blissfully, stupidly in love.

Mom and I spent hours working on the invitations before I spent even longer fine-tuning them with Luna. I'd been standing by the door, staring out the window, awaiting my package, since the exact second I submitted the design to be ordered.

And then Friday Afternoon happened.

The day was incredibly regular, a long day of music lessons with my college age students, until I returned home, home being a small, two bedroom apartment I share with my boyfriend, nay, shared with my fiancé, my arms heavy with bags of Chinese food and mail from our rarely checked mailbox.

Just like I did every Friday afternoon before that for the past five years that we've been together.

Or, were together.

Which still makes me wonder... Did Jake get himself caught on purpose?

Our relationship was never unpredictable. Our routines were solid. Since we started dating my senior year of high school, we got take out on Fridays. We did that all throughout college, me at Juilliard and him at the small private school just outside of the city that accepted him. He'd gone there so we could stay together, so our Friday's never had to change. And over the years, through every weekend, things never did.

So what was he expecting?

I think I knew before I even put the key in the lock, deep down in my gut, that something was different. Wrong.

It was like watching my horror movies and seeing the villain somewhere in the background, the poor heroine the only one who doesn't recognize the danger lurking in the shadows. My heart clenching in wait until the final ball drops and popcorn flies everywhere as I startle, the villain finally victorious over the sad, ignorant hero.

But it wasn't popcorn - it was mail that I dropped to the floor as I caught sight of a lacy, red bra, discarded hastily in the hallway.

I knew it wasn't mine, but it was like my mind couldn't accept it. Had I forgotten about a skimpy, scarlet bra that I owned? Had Jake found it tucked at the bottom of a laundry basket? And what... thrown it on the floor?