Regrets Only by M. J. Pullen

Marci’s home in Alpharetta,
examining with detached criticism the blankness of the nearly empty yard,
unremarkable wooden fence, and the pale-neutral backs of the houses behind
theirs. Jake and Marci lived in a four-bedroom home, with a basement, in a
recently constructed neighborhood in the far-flung suburbs—the last place
Suzanne had expected them to settle.
    Under
the circumstances, they really ought to try to make the rear of the houses look
as nice as the front ,
she thought uncharitably. That would at least improve the aesthetics a
little until the trees grow in .
    “Suze?”
Marci prompted.
    “Yes,
I’m ready. Sorry,” Suzanne colored, embarrassed by her thoughts. Who was she to
judge anyone?
    Three
days had passed since the debacle at the High, and—except her second emergency
room visit in a twenty-four-hour period—she had been hiding out like a fugitive
at Jake and Marci’s ever since. They had put her up in the spare bedroom; Marci
had confiscated her phone and kept her away from the TV and newspapers. She’d
even written an email to Chad on Suzanne’s behalf, giving him a script to
follow for incoming calls from clients and the press. Both Stillwells had been
kind enough to ignore the occasional sobbing that emerged from the guest room.
    Suzanne
had no siblings, but if she had, she could not imagine they would do better for
her than Jake and Marci. Yet, to her shame, instead of appreciating their
generosity, she was scrutinizing their neighborhood. What’s more, if she were
very honest, Suzanne would have to say that she resented just about everything
about Marci and Jake’s happy damn life, and couldn’t wait to leave later that
day. What a horrible, ungrateful friend I am.
     As
usual, her best friend seemed to read her mind. “You’re being hard on
yourself,” Marci said gently. “Come sit down.”
    On
Jake and Marci’s kitchen table were piled several local and regional
newspapers. In the wee hours after the event, a friend in the Style department
at the Atlanta Journal & Constitution had tipped Suzanne off via
text message that her “episode” had been recorded in both picture and video
format by all the press on hand. The association with Dylan Burke had launched
the event onto gossip pages nationwide.
    Now
that it was Tuesday and she’d had time to stabilize, Marci was going to allow
her to look at the papers. With one quick glance at the Sunday edition of the AJC ,
Suzanne had to agree Marci had made the right call to hide them from her. The
sight was horrifying.
    Above
the masthead on the front page of the paper—the same paper that had landed in
her parents’ driveway for forty years—was a tiny picture of Suzanne from the
torso up, bare breasts pixilated for decency, being restrained from behind by
someone in a tuxedo jacket whose face was out of frame. Her hair was wet on one
side, falling out of her elegant up-do in stringy chunks. She seemed to be
yelling at someone far away, trying to break free from whoever was holding her.
The teaser headline next to it read “Chaos at Dylan Burke Gala, Page 6A.”
    She
flipped to 6A, where her name had long been associated with glamour,
celebrities, and charity, to find a photo essay of humiliation. Thirty-two
pictures filled the page: blurry images of Suzanne looking crazed, stripping
out of her dress and shoes, running across the front lawn of the High. In one
shot, her six-hundred-dollar dress hung off her arm cast like a garbage bag,
and in the next it was gone. The pictures showed her in the black bustier and
Spanx, hiding gleefully behind Roy Lichtenstein’s famous House III sculpture
while Marci and Chad approached from either side, trying to hem her in.
    Clearly
Suzanne had escaped, however, because the next series of shots showed her on
the run again, still trailed by Chad and Jake, the latter of whom had evidently
replaced Marci in the worst game of tag ever. It was difficult to make out
much, but Suzanne distinctly saw the