Read My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) for Free Online Page B

dressed, I cautiously approached. I hardly ever had visitors during the day, or anytime for that matter. The security door downstairs had been broken for three weeks now, so people, like Elisabeth, could just come on up, unannounced. I peeked through the hole and saw a bouquet of flowers.
    â€œFlowers?” I swung the door open with no regard for personal safety.
    The man behind the flowers said, “For Leah Townsend?” He pronounced my first name wrong, like I had two buns on either side of my head and was fond of Jedi masters and men with furry sidekicks. “Lee-ah,” I corrected.
    He handed me the clipboard, and I signed. I took the bouquet inside, more than a little curious about its sender. I couldn’t remember the last time I was sent flowers. Maybe two years ago on my birthday when my parents were out of town and not here to celebrate.
    The carnations were bright pink and in full bloom, nearly dripping with moisture. And they smelled wonderful. I set them on the table, forgetting to close the front door, and snatched the card. Who were they from? Elisabeth, congratulating me on my fun night out? (I’d led her to believe the night went well, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.) Peter, wanting to let me know in a more personal way that he wanted my next play? I lifted the flap. Maybe Robby, the understated son of the Glyndells? I pulled out the card.
    Edward?
    I want you to know that all is well on my end. But I think the situation regarding the contention on Saturday needs to be addressed to maintain a healthy and organic relationship. We can’t do that if you’re angry. With love, Edward.
    I didn’t exactly understand what he meant, and if there was a more sterile way to send a love note, I couldn’t think of it. Then I noticed there was something else sticking out of the envelope. I reached in and pulled it out. It was a flimsy square piece of paper, a little slick and colorful, with a sticky note in Edward’s handwriting attached.
    It is the person with the most character who admits when she needs help. I want to make “us” work. Everything is paid in full. I know you want to make it work too. XO
    What was he talking about? I flipped over the small square I was holding, and to my surprise it looked like a coupon with dashed lines framing the black and blue lettering. I wasn’t sure I was reading it right, and in fact was pretty sure there was some sort of mistake.
    20% off
Conflict Resolution Class
This month only!
    It gave a phone number and address and instructions to call before it filled up.
    Learn to deal with difficulties
in a proactive, life-enhancing way!
    â€œHow ridiculous!” What was Edward thinking? A con flict resolution class? He was the one who had a problem with the dress. “How stupid!” He wanted us to attend a conflict resolution class together? Like therapy?
    Therapy?
    Even Jodie was nearly speechless. I’d never once known her to repeat what I said. I stared at the fine print, underlined by Edward’s pen: Starts this Tuesday at 7 p.m. I crushed the small piece of paper between my fingers and threw it in the garbage. Plopping myself into my desk chair, I glanced at the bright pink carnations sitting on the table, ironically—or maybe not—the same color as the dress I’d worn Saturday night.
    I glimpsed the phone from the corner of my eye. No. Block it out, I instructed myself. You’ve got a play to write. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Jodie to finish her sentence. After ten more minutes of padlocking my mind to my computer screen, I finally had to stand up and remove the flowers from my line of sight. Jodie Bellarusa hated flowers.
    And with that out of the way, I skipped over the sentence I couldn’t finish, telling myself I could fill in the blanks later, and let Jodie rant about flowers. It felt good, as good as any recreational drug could make me feel, I was