Pocket Pickers #projectwomanup

Two Slaps, Shame on you

Teresa eyed me, looking slightly approving.

"I gotta say, you've made a bigger commotion than I've ever made," she exclaimed.

"I'm impressed!"

I would have excepted her praises but I was still going through my existential crisis, and I had to excrete feces.

Really bad.

"Um, thanks," I forced out, looking around the extravagant household. God, money and Turners. It was kind of funny that I was used to the raw expensiveness everywhere even though I've been staying in Pierre's house for roughly two weeks.

Two weeks. And then this.

I picked up a croissant from the pastries which decorated the dining table, and shoved it whole into my mouth.

Teresa smiled, almost sympathetically. "Babe, I know what you're going through. I've gone through it myself. I mean, during my first marriage, there was Emilio..."

First marriage?

"And then during my fourth, there was Geraldo. So I've been there, done that. Marriage just isn't for me, you know?"

Me too, I internally agreed, slouching onto a chair. I don't know how she went through four marriages without falling apart, but everyone's different.

"Oh, and I didn't want to tell you this while we were getting close and shit, but you probably shouldn't leave yet."

I squinted. "Why?"

Teresa raised an eyebrow at me, almost as if the answer was too obvious. "The press, duh," she looked at my stricken face and gawked, "Girl, there's no way in hell that you thought you could just straight up run out of a Turner's wedding and expect no one to care!"

I didn't have a chance to reply before I fainted.

. . . . .

"Is she okay?"

I was starting to pick up fragments of conversation between the people in front of me, but the fuzziness in my brain was stopping the fragments from becoming coherent sentences.

"-she kind of freaked when I told her about the press-"

The press? What happened with the press?

"I know, they're waiting outside my house." This voice was more deeper, masculine, and overall, chillier.

"Hey, I didn't expect her to react any other way."

A long, frustrated sigh. "I guess... As long as she's okay. But the wedding..."

The wedding?

The memories came flooding back and with it, a tsunami of bone-crushing panic. I gasped and threw myself up, sputtering.

"And the princess bride awakens."

I looked up to see a placid Teresa and a very, very angry Pierre staring at me.

"T-The wedding, and the press-" I stopped and inhaled. Breathe Remi, breathe.

"Is it true?"

"About as true as how much trouble you're in," Pierre seethed, folding his arms. When I was listening to him while I was semiconscious, he seemed slightly more accepting. But right then, he looked livid.

This Remi was soon going to be a dead Remi.

"Look, about what happened-" I tried to find the right words, but even I couldn't explain what had come over me during the wedding. It was a mixture of fear, relief, and confusion combined in a big pot of trouble. Man, Pierre's glare meant death.

"I have no excuse."

Pierre flailed. "Of course you don't!" His eyes widened and seemed to get bright with fueled rage. "And who was that guy anyways?"

My cheeks started to heat up. I was feeling like a dormant volcano which was about to erupt.

The only person who is allowed to speak about Henry in a bad way, is me.

"Who does he think he is? Getting drunk, acting like a complete ass, ruining the weddi-"

Before he could say another word, I pulled out my trusty hand and slapped him across the face. Again.

Did I tell you that I slapped him already?

Twice?

Pierre looked shocked. "Don't talk about Henry that way!" I yelled, ignoring the stinging sensation in my palms and the angry mark on Pierre's cheeks.

After all this time, he should have known better than to anger me.

"I don't care what happened! Even if the press is at your house and your life might be ruined, I will not let to speak about Henry, like that!" I huffed. "He was drunk. And hurt. And did I say he was drunk? Because, drunk people do stupid things."

Pierre opened his mouth, looking conflicted between livid and scared. I held up my hands, glaring at him.

"Don't you dare say another word," I seethed, "I'm not finished. Henry was right, you know. This was all a mistake! I mean what was I thinking, agreeing to marry you the moment you gave me a reason to! I'm not like that, ever." Pierre looked very pissed. "And I'm pretty sure you're not that kind of person too."

He opened his mouth again. I shushed him.

"No," I quipped, "Henry was right, and we have to do something about it. Those people saw me run. The press need answers." Pierre opened his mouth. "No, we won't pretend to have a divorce, if that's what you're thinking, because did you hear me? The fucking press is outside your house." Pierre scrunched his eyebrows when I turned down his silent suggestion.

I inhaled, slowly. "We have to fix this. Yes, I did make a mistake. But you did too, rushing into this with me. We have to stop for a second and regroup.

So first, I need to know your favorite color."