With a curious eyebrow raised, I grin through tightly pressed lips. “Well?”
With what seems to be some great deal of force, Chad turns his attention away from the bar, bringing his dark brown eyes to meet mine. “Huh?” he says with no expression. “What’d you say?”
I place the party blower between my lips, uncross my legs, and jump up. Wheeee, I can faintly hear the sound as the blower expands with an exhalation. “A dance?” I offer dryly.
“Uhh, sure.” He takes a quick pull of his beer before setting it down and leading me to the dance floor, one hand loosely in the pocket of his black dress pants.
“Looks like my incognito setup for Lara is panning out just fine.” I gesture across the way at the new duo as I move onto the dance floor with Chad. Lara’s really working the floor, her hands wrapped around the dark-haired hottie, their bodies moving in unison.
“You organizing Operation Blind Date for Lara, now?” Chad asks, pulling me closer, but not too close, leaving about six inches of platonic distance between us.
Chad and I may have a history, but it’s a brief one—a blip, if you will. It was so brief a fling sometimes I forget it even happened. Chad’s been that dopey mutual friend for years as best buds with Conner, and I like to think our decade-long platonic relationship speaks louder volumes than a fleeting hour-or-so-long sexual encounter one summer a few years back.
It’s not like either of us had ever considered hooking up again after our afternoon fling, anyhow. I’m kind of surprised at myself, actually, having hooked up with Chad. He’s that good guy friend who’s almost like a brother…the whole thing kind of sounds incestuous now that I look back on it, but hey! When you’re alone, high, and horny, things happen. Maybe that’s just another gritty detail for Dr. Pierce that I can add to the minestrone mix that’s my life.
And, for what it’s worth, I’m not the only girl here who shacked up with him one plastered night. Sometimes the girls and I get to kidding about how Chad’s been that friend who’s just there at a rather sexually convenient…or inconvenient…time. Anyway, what can you expect from a Pike frat boy, especially when there’s loneliness and booze or dope in the picture? He’s a nice guy and good friend, nothing more.
“I want Lara to find someone special,” I tell Chad as I watch Lara dance. “She deserves to not have a total asswipe of a boyfriend. Definitely not someone who winds up as an asswipe of a husband!” I make a hearty groan.
Chad spins me, lightly placing a hand above the small of my back, the flight of the ruffles of my dress coming to a halt. He’s keeping in beat with the music, but his focus is on the bar. He looks distracted.
“Maybe this club hottie is dating material, maybe just a quick romp,” I say with a small giggle, drawing my head back to look up into Chad’s eyes, his six-feet-plus height actually making me realize how grateful I am for Andrew’s slightly shorter height.
Chad gives me another spin, almost robotic, and I push Andrew from my mind and give in to the music. Chad flashes a weak half-grin as his hand returns to my back and I sway and shake. “Maybe,” he says simply.
“At least it looks like she’s having a fun time.” I glance over at Lara and her dancing partner once more. They’ve got their hands all over each other, and I can’t fight the giddy and satisfied feeling that washes over me. “And we all deserve to find someone special after all,” I say loudly. “You know?”
“Yeah,” Chad replies in a distant sort of way. “We do.”
He nods, then gives me another spin, this time making it a double one, causing me to laugh and hiccup, feeling that third cocktail slosh in my stomach and head. Oh, I don’t go dancing and clubbing enough, I think as Chad spins and twirls me about the floor throughout the duration of the rest of the upbeat song.
“Phew!” I gasp through a half-trot, half-stumble.
“Nice work there, Jackie,” Sophie says once I take a seat next to her at the pink-lit bar. I wipe at the sweat that’s coating my forehead. “Lara and Joey Tribbiani over there.” She stifles a laugh as she pulls on her cocktail.
“Hey,” I say, looking back at the entwined couple as I catch my breath. “You’ve got something there…”
I swiftly turn back to the bar and rap my bright red nails against the metallic bar. “Lara needs it,” I say.
A tall, lean, bleach-blonde twenty-something bartender struts up. “Hey there sweetie,” I say with a bat of the lashes. “Do me a solid and give me an apple martini, please.”
“Tab?” he asks by rote, rapidly shaking a cocktail mixer.
“Anderson,” I say. “Jackie Anderson.”
I can see Sophie twist her face in confusion.
“And you?” the bartender asks, gesturing to Sophie.
Sophie declines with a shake of her head and looks at me, expression still one of uncertainty.
“Anderson?” she finally spits out.
“Yeah.” I act like there’s nothing to discuss.
“Decided you’re no longer married or something?” She wheels around on her barstool and faces me head-on.
“No bigs.” I flick a wrist at her, it heavily dressed in a wide ring of Swarovski crystal wraps and bracelets Andrew got for me before he left for Singapore. He said it was a “because you’ll miss me and I’m sorry for having to leave” gift. Whatever they’re for, they look absolutely fabulous with my outfit, and the way they sparkle under the strobe lights and sprinkle about pink glitters against the bar! Fabulous!
“Jackie, I’ll never get you,” Sophie says vacantly. “So damn hot and cold.”
“Taste that, sweetie,” the bartender lisps as he sets the iridescent, green beverage in front of me.
“I’m a very complex creature,” I say to Sophie in a mock-seductive tone.
“You revisiting the whole divorce thing?” She nurses the remains of her drink.
I take the cold martini in my hands. “Nah. Just makes me feel good sometimes to use my maiden name. Especially when I’m going stag at a wedding, at a bar.”
I smack my lips and sing to the bartender, “Delish!” I offer Sophie a taste.
“You know,” I continue. “Sometimes when I want to feel free and have fun and just not like a prisoner trophy wife.” I simper and wink at the bartender. “It can feel good to pretend I’m single.” I run some fingers through my short hair.
“And pretending you’re single on the dance floor, too?” she queries in her oh-so-adult way.
I don’t respond, instead sipping at my fruity drink.
“Please be careful, Jack.” Sophie rests her bony hand on my bare arm. “I know things are rough with Andrew right now, but I don’t want you to get hurt—even if you end up hurting yourself.”
I laugh and look back at the dance floor. Claire and Conner are lip-locked, making out kind of grotesquely at the far corner of the floor. They say weddings make people horny, and apparently that buck doesn’t stop with the single-and-looking-to-get-lucky crowd. Evidently married couples can be just as in love and ready to get some as the unattached. Well, some married couples I suppose.
I glance at my large, sparkling wedding ring, and Andrew’s face comes into view. I said I didn’t think about him much at all at the wedding, but I’m certainly making up for it here at Re-Live. And seeing couples out on the dance floor together only makes Andrew’s face pull closer into view.
“I’m fine,” I brush Sophie off, looking back to Claire and Conner, who are now moving off the dance floor towards a table. I glance over at Lara and her hookup. They’re pulled close together. I search for Chad, who meandered off to the bathroom when I set out to join a single Sophie at the bar. Here he is now, dancing closely—grinding is more like it—with a long-haired brunette who’s wearing ripped tights with cut-off jean shorts.
I turn back to Sophie. “Hey!” An idea pops into my head. “You want me to find you a dance partner?” I nudge my elbow jokingly at her side.
She laughs in her glass. “I’ll pass.”
“You
know, here I’m thinking that Lara’s the dry-on-love chick, but you’re sitting here dating a cocktail.”
“Jack, I’m fine.”
“You can be fine, or you could be lucky.” I wiggle my brows.
“I’ll go with fine, thank you.” She clears her throat before taking another short sip.
“Suit yourself. But you know?” I lean my head to the side, nearer her. “You could really do yourself a favor. Treat yourself to something fun. Let me help.”
Sophie raises her almost empty cocktail and gently shakes it. “What do you call this?” Her voice turns proud as she adds, “And, Gatz is running the café all morning tomorrow. This woman knows how to treat herself.”
“Wow!” I’m impressed. Sophie is actually giving herself a break. A pathetically short one, but a break nonetheless.
“I’m not going in to the café until noon,” she says, still proud, and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
“A treat’s a treat, however brief, I guess.” I pull myself farther onto my seat.
“Actually,” she says, crossing her legs. She runs a fingertip along the rim of her glass. “I’m going to take a longer break.”
Her words take me by surprise. Did she just say break and longer in the same sentence?
“I’m just feeling dried up a little,” she continues. “All stale. No fresh, creative ideas, nothing exciting going on—”
“Join the club!” I quickly cut in, because I just have to seize the opportunity to point out the obvious. “See? Life isn’t always a party or whatever you said. All lemon-y.”
“That’s not the same thing,” she says. “I’m talking about actually doing something for myself, something that’s not work-related.”
“Yeah?”
“You know John’s in London again?”
John, Sophie’s brother, is an international lawyer at a fancy firm down in San Francisco. The kind of law he practices means he’s often working both in California and overseas in England. Sophie visited him the last time he had a case over there, when she was studying in Paris. Right before she left for Zambia, Emily even encouraged Sophie to go over for another trip this summer, to give her that much-needed time away from all of the stress and monotony at home and the café. Sophie had said “maybe,” then immediately went on and on about how she has a business to look after now and can’t just take her ten days vaca like that, with nothing to really consider.
I’m with Emily on this one, though. Sophie just needs to choose a week or two, pack up her bags, and hit the road. Go visit John, maybe even zip back to Paris like she’s been dreaming of, and, hey, maybe she’ll get lucky with that Frenchie she used to see when she was living in Paris. Just have fun!
“I haven’t seen John in ages,” Sophie explains. “Not since Thanksgiving. And I’ve done some serious thinking about a trip, even mentioned it to my parents—”
“And?” I ask excitedly.
“I’ve decided I’m going to take one this summer,” she says with a smile. “In June some time, when Emily’s back and she and Gatz can help out at the café.” She takes a quick sip. “And after I hire and train a new full-time replacement for Em and Gatz. My parents thought it was a great idea and gifted it…a kind of one-year-café-anniversary gift.”
“Sophie!” I enthusiastically pat her arm. “That’s great news!”
“I need to refresh,” she breathes out. “Need to get out, get inspired, and, hell, like I said, do something for myself.” She takes another sip of her drink.
“Paris, maybe?” I bite my lower lip in anticipation.
“Maybe…”
“Oh! Paris! So jealous.”
“Ask Andrew to take you to Paris and I’m sure he will.”
“Eh.” I loosely wave a hand. “So!” I grin broadly. “London? Then maybe Paris?”
“Maybe.” A small smile forms at her lips.
“Some French flings, maybe?”
She groans and gives me a discerning look.
“Okay, okay. I know. ‘Grow up, Jackie.’”
That coy smile of Sophie’s is still playing her lips when she says, “Hey, maybe,” and she raises her glass to mine and toasts, saying, “To letting go of those lemons and makin’ some cupcakes.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Honey?” I ask as I emerge from the bathroom, clad in a black-lace La Perla teddy. “You already asleep?”
“Out like a light in a few,” Andrew grumbles.
He’s rolled onto his side, one arm propped under his folded pillow. He blinks a few times and blows a kiss my way.
“You and your damn sleeping pills.” I spritz some Chanel Mademoiselle on my wrists and décolletage. “You’ve hardly been back in town and you’re already back to your boring, busy routine.”
With a flick of the bathroom light, I jump into bed, purposely moving rambunctiously so I might have one or two extra waking minutes with my husband.
Since Andrew returned home from Singapore a couple days ago I haven’t had more than a minute to tell him all about Robin and Bobby’s fabulous wedding. He’s been so busy with “loose ends,” as he calls them, to tie up with the big overseas deal, and I suppose I’m lucky I’ve been able to tell him one, maybe two, anecdotes about the wedding and my time while he was gone.
“Busy day at the office tomorrow,” he says through a short yawn.
I roll my eyes as I fluff two pillows. I place both against the headboard and make a high-pitched sigh as I sink back, upright. “Well, if I’ve only got a few fleeting seconds with you before you fall into a deep sleep, then I want to tell you more about Robin’s wedding.”
I turn towards him and nudge him—softly at first, then more aggressively when he doesn’t respond. “Come on. Don’t sleep just yet. Please. Can’t you spare five short minutes? I’ll make it quick. Promise.”
“I’m really tired,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry.” He blindly worms a hand behind him, reaching back towards me and finally alighting on my leg to give it a few conciliatory pats. “Tell me more ‘morrow.”
I swallow hard and stare at the back of his head, his salt and pepper hair freshly cut and still coiffed, and frustration begins to brew. He had enough energy for the past half hour to sit here and toy with his iPad while I got ready for bed, yet now, once I’m here, it’s light’s out—no moment spared to reconnect, to be husband and wife.
“You really would have enjoyed it, Andrew,” I whisper. “It was a really nice wedding.”
A smile can’t help but tug at my lips as I think back on how beautiful Robin looked, how truly happy and content she seemed. “It was really classy and well done, understated but sweet and—”
“Can you please shut off the light, doll?” Andrew interrupts. “It’s past ten and I’m exhausted.”
“You’re really that exhausted?” I say in a small and dejected tone. I pull the comforter up tighter and tuck it snugly around my waist.
“Time change…big client…fine details…” he rambles in a sleepy haze. “Lights…”
I give a quick huff and cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, Andrew, just give your sleeping pills a second to kick in and then you won’t give a crap about the lights.”
I reach for my copy of Home & Design Décor on the nightstand and shake open to the middle of the magazine, conceding defeat. I stare at nothing in particular—simply something to do as I brood and eventually settle into one of my routine evenings: Jackie with her magazines, Andrew with his Ambien.
“You know,” I say after some festering, “if you’re not going to talk to me and you’re always going to go to bed early, then I should just go out. Go do something.” I look over at him and he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t stir. “It’s not like you’d even notice.”
Suddenly he mumbles, “I love you, doll.” He pats a hand in my general direction behind him, then lets it fall limp between us, the Ambien working its black magic. “G’night…”
“Goodnight,” I mutter through a heavy sigh.
; I move my empty gaze from the magazine to Andrew’s hand.
My eyes fall to his wedding band, and I can’t contain myself. I slowly shake my head, pick up his hand, and drop it in between his slumbering body and the edge of the bed, nearly letting it hang over into the dark, empty space.
“I just don’t know how this is going to work,” I say quietly to myself as I flip through the magazine’s pages. My eyes fall on a spread featuring a gorgeous, aquamarine lap pool that’s splayed across it, with a superficially bubbly couple sitting at the edge, toasting champagne under the moonlit night. I sniff at the thought of how some couples still have a spark.
***
Emily’s been in town back from Zambia for three weeks already, but it feels like a lifetime. And that’s a great thing! She’s been around like old times and we’ve been getting to hang out a bunch. I have to make the most of my time with her, seeing how she and Gatz are officially leaving for the complete other side of the globe on the first of July.
I try not to think much about it, because then I get all dreary and mopey and want to pour myself a glass of JD or text Lara a hundred times asking if she wants to blow off work in lieu of the latest Ryan Gosling movie or something.
Getting to spend so much time with Emily takes my mind off of my Andrew woes, and my Nikki ones, too—which, sadly, are escalating a touch. Nowadays Andrew returns about ten percent of my calls, and I don’t even call that much, so ten percent probably isn’t even mathematically possible.
Lucky for me, since Andrew’s so busy and spending heinous hours at the office lately, I just dash on over to Emily’s. I even stay the night sometimes. Andrew’s not very keen on me jetting over here, leaving him alone some nights, but what’s the alternative? Watch him fall into an Ambien-induced sleep night-in, night-out? Fifty-something isn’t exactly old, and he did marry a woman in her mid-twenties. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that I’d like to go out for drinks or dancing now and then, certainly stay up past ten some nights.
When Girlfriends Let Go Page 17
