I lock the bathroom door, hike up my gunmetal-gray skirt, and peel my Spanx down to my knees. I have exactly six minutes to pee before I’m due onstage. My bladder has always been nervous, and the two glasses of champagne I’ve downed in quick succession may have been a mistake. But the bubbles have softened my jangly nerves, made everything feel warm and smudgy and effervescent. This is a celebration, after all. I mustn’t forget that.
I’ve never been comfortable being the center of attention. There were fourteen people at my wedding, including Adrian and me. My master’s degree in counseling was marked by take-out Thai food and a six-pack of beer. And when I had Liza, I politely refused a baby shower, so my colleagues delivered onesies, teddy bears, and swaddling blankets to my windowless office, one by one. Twelve years later, my best friend, Martha, threw me a divorce party. She knew I’d never allow it, knew I thought it was gross to fete the demise of an eighteen-year union, no matter how unhappy we both were. I’d walked into the restaurant expecting a quiet dinner with my oldest friend, only to be surprised by thirty drunk women wearing pink feather boas and tiaras that spelled out divorced af. I’d had no choice but to go along with it: to drink the sugar-rimmed Pink Señoritas, to nibble on the penis-shaped cookies (why?), to dance the night away to the female empowerment playlist Martha had curated. The failure of my marriage was the biggest celebration of my life. Until now.
Wriggling my Spanx back into position, I hurry to the sink to wash my hands. My reflection stares back at me, smoldering and dramatic. Liza did my makeup, my glam, as she called it. At seventeen, my daughter has turned her obsession with YouTube tutorials into a career as a makeup artist, but I don’t feel like myself with these smoky eyes, the contoured hollows in my cheeks, the nude glossy lips.
“You’re famous now,” Liza had teased when I’d expressed my discomfort. “Time to step up your game.”
“I’m hardly famous,” I’d said, but I couldn’t help but smile. I felt proud and emotional. My first novel, Burnt Orchid, has been out in the world for two days. The manuscript I poured my soul into for almost three years now sits on bookstore shelves, and it’s the achievement of my life. When I’d first gotten the publishing offer, it had felt like success, like winning the lottery or, more aptly, the Olympics. After years of dedication, toil, and perfecting my craft, it was the ultimate accomplishment. But now the book is real, available for readers to buy. Or not. This is the culmination of a journey, and the very beginning…
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