Girl’s week on the cape.
I’d spent months looking forward to this rarefied time when I could see my best girlfriends and spill my guts about an entire year of guy adventures, work disasters, and family drama. I couldn’t wait to cross the bridge over the canal, claim my bunk in our cozy rental overlooking the bay, take in a lungful of fresh salt air, stick my toes in the sand and uncork the chardonnay.
As usual I’d packed an insane number of outfits and arrived hours later than I said I would.
What wasn’t usual was that I had met a man just weeks before and fallen trulymadlydeeply in love with him. So on the Tuesday night of that week on the cape, he and I met at a nearby hotel to spend the night together.
The next morning he dropped me off back at the rental. He stopped in briefly to meet my friends, said his goodbyes, and left. I turned around smiling, looking forward to spending the day with my girlfriends, but was met with sullen, furious stares.
It slowly dawned on me that I had done a very, very bad thing.
I had broken one of the (unwritten but understood by all but me) rules of our yearly getaway: no men.
For over an hour they excoriated me, told me I had no respect for this sacred week, that I should have known this rule about no male visitors, and why couldn’t I have waited till after our week together to see this man again?
By the time they were done with me I was sitting on the floor of my room leaning against my bunk in a complete wasted mess of tears as they sat chatting quietly off in the living room, getting ready for their day without me, or so I imagined. I never felt so devastated in my life.