Giselle
things, but date night stood at the top of her list.
Not even the accidental spritzes of fifteen-dollar peach-scented perfume directly into her mouth and nose dampened her good mood. Coughing, she waved at the air, bombarded by the lingering aftertaste.
"The bottle says, 'Perfectly Peachy,' but it should be called headache fuel instead," mumbled Giselle, interrupted by another hacking cough. Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped away from the suffocating cloud of fragrance. A harmless toss sent the bottle landing on the nearby sofa, buried in the plush mounds of throw pillows. Their embroidered designs—done by her hand—brightened the otherwise muted brown of the worn couch.
Her parents should consider investing in a new loveseat before the old one falls apart. Their attachment to household furniture wasn't healthy.
Giselle fanned at her eyes, all too aware of the flush pressing down on her. She tilted her head back and blinked slowly until the pressure eased up. Smudged mascara would set her back five minutes, and she was already at least fifteen behind.
That tended to happen when last-minute plans sprang up and surprised her. But she couldn't complain about James' spontaneity for a change. Usually, he let her choose their date nights.
Her body whirled around to the audible flutter of her skirt, spotting herself in the mirror on the wall. She studied herself in its clear, unbiased reflection. A few strands of coppery curls coiled around her cheeks while the rest cascaded down her back, brushed through by a gentle hand. The blue of her eyes popped from the generous lift of mascara.
But her eyes wandered down her dress's blue, polka dot patterned straps until her smile ached. When she spotted the polka dots and flattering silhouette in the vintage thrift shop, Giselle knew she needed it. She considered the price a steal for an authentic vintage swing dress.
She had never felt more beautiful in her entire life. Not even at prom, her Sweet Sixteen, or her graduation a few years back.
Lost in the whimsy of her new dress, a sharp rapping against the door spurred Giselle free of her thoughts. She wobbled in her kitten heels, moving too fast for her balance, but caught herself along the wall.
Giselle scampered toward the door but smoothed down any rogue hair and her fluttering skirt before she opened it. James entered her line of vision, dressed in his favorite dark polo.
"Hi," Giselle's voice squeaked out a greeting, but she focused more on tossing her arms around James' shoulders. She leaned into him, eager for his mouth to bridge the gap in a kiss. "Let me grab my purse, and I'll be ready to head out."
However, instead of her boyfriend's hands settling on her waist and dipping her into a romantic kiss as she had hoped, James loosened her arms around his neck. He offered a tight, close-lipped smile, and Giselle smiled back, but hers stung hollowly.
Had she done something to deserve the cold shoulder? She could fix it, whatever it was.
"Thanks, baby. How about we go inside first?"
"Sure. Please, come in. Would you like anything to drink?"
"I'm fine. Thanks."
Giselle stepped out of the doorway and ushered James inside, her hand lingering on his shoulder until he wandered into the living room. She stared at the silence in his wake, burdened with the sudden but nauseating buzz in her ears. Her head spun out with a million different thoughts, all crashing and burning at the inevitable conclusion that something was wrong.
Despite the chaos filling her head like anxious butterflies, Giselle closed the door and scuttled into the living room after James. She spotted him perching on the arm of the worn loveseat with his head tipped down enough for his chestnut-colored curls to cast a shadow over his eyes.
Giselle fluttered toward him, hovering with her hands tucked behind her back, fingers interlocking into tight knots until a weak cramp croaked about the circulation being cut off.
She racked her brain for something to say. Their texts lately had been strained by dreaded small talk, flitting between absentminded responses to “How was your day?” that she chalked up to James’ busy school schedule. If James spoke and took her up on that offer for a drink, she'd hustle into the kitchen and brew him the best mug of tea known to mankind—anything to stop the silent treatment leaving her suspended at the edge of uncertainty. The air never felt heavier than it did then, and Giselle hated how every passing second dug her deeper into the pit.
Staring at him, Giselle's eyes pricked with the tell-tale heat of tears. However, she forced herself to hold her composure together like she wasn't ready to crumble faster than soil from her garden out back. James, however, said nothing to spare her from the ravages of her feelings.
He glanced up with his lips drawn into a tight line, "Giselle, don't hover. You should sit down. . . this is important."
"Important? Is everything alright?"
"Yes. Now, please sit down. You're making me anxious."
Ironic, wasn’t it?
Giselle chewed on her cheek but complied with James' request, sitting on the loveseat. The cushions sank underneath her weight, concaving toward the middle, but Giselle held onto the edge to stay up. "Alright, I'm sitting."
Her breath hitched as James leaned in, gently lifting her hand. He ran his thumb over the back of her palm, and electricity buzzed along her skin, simmering under it like a pent-up shiver. The soft melting of her shoulders pushed the tension away, and Giselle peered at James.
Her James, the man with all her firsts.
He gazed back at her, eyes calm enough to temper whatever anxiety remained. His aimless path with his thumb worked better than any kiss to soothe her, and the quiet, contemplative stare grounded Giselle’s flighty nerves. Everything would be alright.
We've been together since we were sixteen, and now we’re almost twenty-one. Four years is a long time," James remarked, still stroking her face. The calmness of his voice coiled around her anxiety, making it dull around the edges.
Giselle nodded, losing herself in his gaze. She blinked as a smile eventually won the battle, "And I’ve loved every moment together. Four magical years together and many more, I’m sure."
Memories flashed before her eyes–her in a sparkling formal dress, their graduation, and the private moments they shared when their friends weren’t looking– spanning those wonderful years.
"I've been thinking about what we accomplished together in the last four years. I'm almost through my pre-law degree at West Bridge."
"Which is amazing, and I'm so proud of you. You know I'm your number one fan, no matter what you do."
"I can always count on you, baby. You've been patient with the process and the long, hard hours. Our plans of moving you into my apartment downtown fell apart, but you took it in stride. You've made it easy for me, and I've figured out our next step."
Giselle's eyes widened and wandered toward his pressed slacks, searching for a bulge around his pockets. Her breath hitched, and she swore the world blurred at the edges, overwhelmed by a sweet revelation. Was he proposing?
She gripped James' hand harder, swiping a nervous tongue over her lips. Despite the lipstick she applied earlier, she didn't have chapstick nearby to fix herself in case of cracked lips.
She stammered, "You have? Oh, James. . . I think we're ready for something new."
"I'm glad you think so," James' voice echoed in Giselle's ear, so soft, almost dream-like, with how far away her thoughts ran. She'd tell their mutual friends first and then her parents. Getting engaged at twenty might be a tad unconventional for their friends and family, but she and James were meant to be. "Giselle, look at me really quick?"
"Yes?"
"We should break up."
Visions of a white dress and the promise of forever shattered into fragments when those four words slammed into Giselle. At first, she blinked, and the silence from him felt like she imagined the last few seconds.
But when his eyes continued to stare blankly while waiting for an answer, that stable ground was ripped from underneath her feet. Her heart ripped from her chest and tumbled to the floor, leaving her numb.
"What?" She whispered.
"Oh, c'mon, Giselle," James groaned, retracting his hand from hers and snapping her back to the present. The warmth that stretched between their fingertips died and left nothing but cold in its place. "Don't start crying. I phrased it as nicely as possible, but real life isn’t always fair.”
Giselle hadn't registered the stinging behind her eyes yet, still too numb to feel much of anything. She said, "I thought you were proposing."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Are you not happy with me anymore? Did I do something wrong? Is there something I can fix?"
Giselle’s voice barely lifted above a whisper, not after her throat swelled closed. James’ coldness stung like a slap to the face, so she struggled to process anything beyond his words at surface value. Her composure would shatter, and numbness would lose if she went any deeper.
"It's not–” A humorous laugh escaped him mid-sentence, cutting James off. His eyes flitted to the side, disinterested in holding her gaze with his. “I was about to say it's not you, it's me, but that wouldn't be true. See, four years is a lot of time to be with someone. I figured I needed to give you a ring before you got too whiny like some other girls. But then, I evaluated my life plans." James clicked his tongue with that cavalier tone like he said the weather predicted rain tomorrow, not that he wanted to dump her.
"I don't understand," Giselle croaked, feeling stuck on stupid. With the hot flush of tears burning into her eyes, smudged mascara and a few sniffles became the least concerning of her problems.
A subtle tension hung in the air before James spoke again, "So, you know my parents were talking about wanting me to finance my way through law school, right? Something about earning my way in the world like my old man and brothers had. But that's what caused me to think about the image I want to present to the world,” James spoke slowly like she was a toddler. “You don't fit into that image. . . you're not sophisticated or serious enough."
Giselle's face flushed with the same heat behind her eyes, and it tasted bitter of anger. "So, you're dumping me?" she gasped, unable to stop how angry she sounded.
“I am,” James remarked, not missing a beat for shame or sorry. The sadness and numbness turned over, and anger bared its teeth.
"That doesn't make sense! I've supported you since day one!” She forced herself to suck in a deep breath. Her head couldn’t wrap around his logic, so maybe she should think like James. Maybe, in their moment of crisis, he’d see her rationality as a saving grace. “Don’t you think people will see you in a better light if you have a long-term relationship with your high school sweetheart? People love stories like ours. It’ll make you seem loyal and dedicated to someone besides yourself.”
"Maybe in your fantasy land, but I've outgrown you, Giselle. I'm the future of politics with a law degree before I turn twenty-five. You, on the other hand, live with your parents, work a minimum-wage job, and only have your high school diploma. The last thing my image needs is a mousy, unremarkable housewife I pulled into a different tax bracket while I pursue more ambitious goals."
Giselle's throat constricted, tightening as James uttered words that cut her to the bone. He labeled her as ‘deadweight’ and a ‘gold digger’ without ever stooping low enough to be honest. Their unspoken accusations hung heavy above her head, whispering how she overstayed her welcome.
The anger washed back over her. She should have slapped him or chewed him out for wasting her time, but neither of those things were like her.
Instead, she went cold and stopped breathing, "And what if you’re wrong? You’re walking away from us for something so ridiculous as what people might think about you."
"I’m not wrong about this, so it doesn’t matter." James got up from her couch, brushing off his polo as if lingering in her home sullied him. Giselle used to wonder if their differences in upbringing—him coming from a family of considerable status and her being pointedly middle class—placed a wedge between them, but James promised her otherwise.
He lied.
James' face didn't show a single sign of regret while he loomed over her, blank and impassive. He cleared his throat and glanced toward the door, "I'll see myself out. Maybe you'll consider our last talk about college a little more."
Giselle said nothing while James walked toward the door, heading from her house and out of her life. But when the door shut behind him, all the emotions hit her at once.
She tried to stumble off the couch to the safety of her bedroom, but her knees gave out before she stood. Giselle’s body withered, not unlike a dying flower, as she buried her face into the couch cushion where she sat moments before. Tremors rocked through her body, and her breathing quickened.
Her fingers dug into the couch cushion like an anchor to hold the pieces of her broken heart together, but she muffled her sobbing into the couch. She probably looked so stupid crying into the furniture, especially over a boy who tore her heart out without so much as an apology.
Four years. All those memories burned into ashes, consumed by the dying embers in her chest. Her anger was subdued as the floodgates tore open, wretched apart by pitiful sobbing.
James took everything, including the love she gave so freely, as he walked out the door. He planned to move on to the next big thing but left her behind in the dust where her roots held her firm.
Being dumped hurt like hell.
The red light mocked Giselle as she rolled to a stop at the four-way intersection, making it her seventh red light since she left the house. The universe had a grudge against her or something because an otherwise ten-minute drive, after an hour of bawling her eyes out, turned into nearly thirty minutes of emotional torture.
A week hadn't passed since James unceremoniously dumped her, but she swore the days moved too slowly to process. On her days off, she laid in bed and cried until either dehydration set in or she passed out. When she worked, she floated through the motions like a shell of herself, and no one stopped to check-in.
Her room became a sanctuary of poignant solitude, and she chose to reflect there. She asked herself the hardest questions she’d ever faced: where had they gone wrong?
Between the urge to cry until her throat screamed for mercy and a headache that pulled her into an exhausted sleep where she wouldn’t dream, memories of her and James’ ‘happiest’ moments joined her as she mourned them. The first date and the first “I love you” she whispered in the dark one night hurt the worst.
And Giselle began to wonder whether those moments meant half as much to James. He wouldn’t have left if that were true.
Her eyes glanced up, checking that the light was still red, and she picked her phone off the passenger seat. She clicked on her call log, confronted by a stack of one-way calls never answered.
In the days after James' bombshell, Giselle called everyone. She dialed her parents around ten times each, but none of her calls were answered or returned. Giselle also tried her best friend, Dakota, at least five times. She understood if Dakota couldn't answer her calls; her best friend had moved across the country, from coastal California to South Carolina, for college and Division I soccer.
Her parents, however, stung worse.
The flash of green from the intersection pulled Giselle from her funk by her hair, and she barely dropped her phone onto the passenger seat before she drove ahead. On the winding, newly paved road, she breezed past the gorgeous stretch of coastline of her hometown, Del Mesa.
Occasionally, she'd share the narrow stretch of road with a luxury sports car and watch it leave her in the dust with a roar of its engine. The growling, aggressive sound rang in her ears long after the car vanished from view, steadily replaced by the next.
Cruising down the roads in a beat-up silver hatchback was the perfect metaphor for growing up in Del Mesa. Mansions littered the hills with iron-wrought gates and perfectly trimmed hedges, inhabited by families who flocked to the green links and bottomless brunch mimosas with their fellow PTA parents. The kids went to private schools with fancy uniforms, got brand new luxury cars off the lot at sixteen, and never worried about bills causing their world to collapse.
Giselle went to school with them but subsisted on paper bag lunches and tuition paid by scholarships. She wasn't like the kids she attended high school with;, her lack of disposable trust fund income left her unable to go jet-setting for weekend trips abroad or afford more than second-hand clothes and a used car.
James and their shared friend group had been her sole connection to the illustrious lifestyles of the rich kids of Del Mesa.
Had been.
Giselle rolled her windows down, immediately embraced by the warm breeze and the heavy notes of brine. No more than twenty feet from her car, the waves crashing along the cliffs pushed the sunshine and salt air over the coastline. September meant nothing to Southern California, ditching proper seasons for year-round heat.
The cardboard box in the passenger seat rattled whenever the hatchback bounced on the road, drawing Giselle's eyes away from the stretch along the sea. She had stuffed James' clothes and other items he left behind at her house into the cramped, musty box.
She planned to trash the sentimental stuff once the aching hole in her chest closed up.
She had reached out to him for the first time since their split, asking what he wanted her to do with his things. To her credit, she avoided any pleading and teary texts while arranging one final favor.
Yet, James seemingly couldn't be bothered to stop by her place and pick his items off her porch. He sent a non-committal text with the request that she leave his things at The Ridge and he would retrieve them from the front desk. Since she wanted his things out of her sight sooner rather than never, Giselle caved for one last request.
"The Ridge" stood for The Royal Ridge Resort, Del Mesa's premiere getaway for the ultra-wealthy. Locals and outsiders frequented the prime vacation destination year-round, sandwiching a resort, spa, and country club into one scenic campus near the ocean.
Giselle had been once or twice, always as a guest. Membership existed out of her price range and would cost an arm, a leg, and her firstborn child for access. Even with the discount promised to locals, she couldn't dream of affording a temporary stay on the Ridge.
Giselle registered the slight dip in the road before she rounded the bend, spotting the shimmering buildings upon the bluff overlooking frothing blue waters. The Royal Ridge Resort shone like a beacon in the light with its gorgeous Spanish Revival architecture and favor of sun-lit, glowing exteriors.
The iron gates loomed as Giselle's little hatchback shuddered up to the guard booth, finding a stern-looking stranger in uniform peering down at her. He leaned through the window of the tile-roofed guard house and grumbled, "Name?"
"Giselle Courtland. I should be on the guest list for Jameson Calloway."
"Yeah, I see you. He left instructions for you."
"I remember them, sir. Thank you."
"Fair enough. You know the way to the guest parking lot?"
"Yes, sir." Giselle's eyes followed the small parade of beautiful girls in their bathing suits strutting past the gate. Beyond those gates, The Ridge promised a haven for the wealthy and famous, isolated from the hustle of the city and in touch with summery paradise. "Have a good day."
The guard leaned back into his booth and waved her through, prompting the gates to open. Giselle rolled up her windows and sighed, driving through the sliver in the gate toward the roundabout by the fountain.
She passed the buildings where guests stayed, the four pools, the roads to the golf course, and the hiking trails along the beach. Every building loomed several stories tall, with steady streams of visitors shuffling through their doors, elegantly dressed for the warm weather. Even through her windows, she heard the sounds of people enjoying themselves in their laughter and the continuous echo of footsteps on the paved roads. After she dropped off James' things, she'd never step foot into the Ridge again.
Soft cream walls and rusty tile roofs popped off the startling blue backdrop of the sunny, cloudless skies and the unobstructed view of the ocean touching the horizon. Everything about the Ridge screamed luxury, and she didn’t belong there.
Years growing up on the same roads passing the Ridge, frequented by the same people who attended the same schools as her, and still, she knew her place wasn’t among the tall palms swaying on the ocean breeze or the paved roads winding around paradise on the Del Mesa coast.
Giselle kept her eyes on the road, careful around the careless wandering of the Ridge's guests. Her car crawled down the road to the roundabout, catching a smooth turn into the guest parking lot.
She pulled into the nearest spot and rested her head against the wheel, aware of the curved indent pressing into her forehead. She looked like a mess, so there was no shame in trudging into the resort, handing off the box, and returning home to cry in the shower for another hour.
She hoped James appreciated the key to his downtown LA apartment or the last of his clothes she packed for him. He couldn't be bothered to meet her, but she needed to finish their chapter.
Giselle climbed out of her car and brushed off her denim cutoffs, plucking the box off her passenger seat. She beelined for the main building, home to the front desk and concierge lounge, per James' instructions.
People passed her, and their stares lingered on her back, but Giselle marched onward. Her hands slipped down the cardboard sides, slickened despite her clenched grip. Stilted, awkward movements brought her through the palms and terracotta accents at the front of the main building.
Unlike the faint pressure of the Californian heat, a vigorous blast of air conditioning greeted Giselle at the automatic doors, and she paused in the doorway. She closed her eyes and wandered deeper into the lobby of the main building. Hints of jasmine and mango carried in the cool air, making Giselle's head spin.
Every detail urged her to stay, but Giselle couldn't. . . even if she wanted.
She approached the front desk and settled the box on the counter, spooking the young woman behind it. Her dark ponytail bobbed when she straightened and fixed her nametag. Maisie.
"Hello, may I help you today?" asked Maisie.
"Hi. I'm supposed to drop this box off for Jameson Calloway. He should've called about this delivery?"
"Oh, yes. Mr. Calloway mentioned that earlier. I'll take the box, thank you."
Giselle handed the box to Maisie and nodded, "Thank you. Have a good one." She gazed around the room one last time before she stepped through the front doors, lingering in the air conditioning for a split second.
She peered at the cars in the parking lot and all the people milling around in the shade of nearby buildings. Yet, the sight of deep green and white nets like those of tennis courts caught her eye to the right of the main building.
Giselle hesitated briefly but quietly tucked her hands into the back pockets of her pants. She walked toward the tennis courts with her face tilted toward the sidewalk. She moved briskly, drawn to the familiar space where she spent many hours in the stands.
She approached the tennis courts, sticking out among the avid players in their proper attire with their equipment and bags, but no one stopped her from standing on the curb outside the fence. Giselle's eyes bounced between the courts, not sure what she expected.
However, she didn't plan to see James. And he wasn't alone.
Attached to his side, in a sensible black skirt and top, a gorgeous, leggy brunette adjusted the visor on her head with a laugh. Beside her, James flashed the same charming grin he promised Giselle he 'reserved' for her and grasped the stranger's hand. His lips caressed the back of her palm and continued to her elbow before Giselle turned her head.
Oh. . . she was going to be sick.
She had watched, transfixed, as James wooed a girl who looked like she belonged in his lifestyle. Shocking to anyone with a brain, Giselle didn't think she was that replaceable. She should've known better than to dream.
Of course, James found someone new, and she observed from the outside looking in, just as she had before.