I was enraged—and embarrassed. That night, in a teary fit, I ripped those nails off with my teeth. My mother cried for a month. My friends decided he was gay. I became severely depressed. David and I still talked, but it felt like we would never be able to work out our problems.
One year later, on a trip to South Beach with friends, I bumped into him by the pool at The Shore Club. My heart sank every time we passed each other that weekend. Back in New York, he called me. We began seeing each other again, secretly this time. Before we could tell our friends or families, we decided we needed to repair the damage between us.
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This time around, I didn't care about our differences— or what clothes either one of us wore. I just wanted to be with David. Over the next 10 months, the distance between us lessened, and we became a better, closer, less volatile couple.
One day, he whisked me away from work and drove me to a beach on the Ducati. Once there, he handed me a blanket, and when I shook it out and laid it down, I saw that it read: "I love you, will you marry me?"
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Six weeks later, we tied the knot at a tiny ceremony. Everyone was thrilled. "Your life is like a fairytale," my friends said. Sometimes it truly felt like one. As part of their family tradition, David's mother presented me with a Chanel bag, crystal Lalique doves, and countless other presents. Every time we went over for dinner, his mother would serve up another gift along with dessert. It felt like a parade of finery: sterling trays, Baccarat candlesticks, hatboxes filled with perfume, scarves, and Roger & Gallet soaps. For years, she had been collecting these things to lavish on David’s bride of choice.