by Lisa Sorbe
“Fuck, Jen,” I say, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. “You need to get laid. ASAP.” I press my cool hands to my fevered cheeks. “And by someone other than Miles,” I add for good measure.
Well, maybe Miles?
I groan as I stomp from the bathroom.
When I step into the living room, Miles whistles. “Holy…” He stops, glances over at Emilia, and winces. The two are sitting on the floor next to a large square coffee table, coloring books, blank pads of sketch paper, and crayons strewn about. “Butterflies?” He shrugs, grins.
I cross my arms and smirk. “Holy butterflies?”
“Yep. Holy butterflies.”
Emilia giggles. “Holy butterflies!”
I look at her and laugh. “I’m not even sure if I should scold you for saying that or not.” I make my way over to them, my heels sinking into the plush carpet, and bend down, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “You be good for Miles, all right?”
She nods, tongue poking between her lips as she focuses on her drawing. When she stops to trade colors, she peers up at me and bites her lip, suddenly shy. “You look so pretty. Like a movie star.” Her voice is soft, and she’s looking at me something akin to admiration. An admiration I certainly don’t deserve.
“Well, thank you,” I tell her. “Still not as pretty as you, though.”
And then I sigh. Because it’s the truth.
I grab a black blazer from the back of the couch and glance at Miles. “You sure about this?” I ask for what has to be the millionth time.
I’d been at the shop painting that morning – with Emilia by my side – when Victoria called, yet again begging for a girls’ night out. Miles heard me tell her I didn’t have a sitter for Emilia and offered to watch her on the spot. I tried to tell him no, that wasn’t necessary, but by that time Emilia had caught on to what we were talking about and then it was two against one.
So, for the second night in a row, Miles is at our house.
To be honest, I wanted to stay at the shop all night, painting the hours away in my little studio with Emilia at my side, sitting at the old school desk I purchased from a thrift store down the street and sketching her own little wonders out onto a notebook that she calls her porofolio. She’s got talent, and I’m amazed at the drawings we tack up on her “wall” of the studio. So far, my own attempts at rekindling my talent have been shaky. But I can feel it down there, hovering just out of reach.
Miles says I’m just being too hard on myself, that every canvas I’ve splashed with paint in the last week have been, in his words, ‘amazing’. And sure, to his inexperienced eye, maybe. But, then again, he doesn’t know how cutthroat the artworld can be.
I remember the definition of cutthroat I gave Emilia last night while we were swimming: Competitive. Driven. Aggressive.
Miles waves me away and, after seeing what he’s doing, Emilia mimics the motion. “Go, go,” he says. “We’re fine. Get out of here. Milly and I have a fun night of coloring and movies and junk food ahead of us and, not to be rude, but you’re totally harshin’ the vibe.”
Emilia nods. “Totally harshin’ the vibe.”
“Emilia, you don’t even know what that means.” I sigh. “Fine. Okay. I’m leaving.”
The two barely pay me any attention, so I pluck my keys from the sideboard and double check that I have my phone. As I’m walking out the door, I hear Emilia ask Miles if he’d like to see where her grandma hides the secret stash of chocolate frosting.
Shit. I hope he doesn’t feed her too much sugar tonight.
The problem with people is that once you act interested in them, they’re no longer interested in you. It’s the chase, the need for attention that keep people in your grasp. Makes them cling to you like you’re the last life preserver on a drowning ship. It’s only when you show you care that they suddenly realize they’ve got you, that you’re not really necessary for survival after all, and move on. You’ve got to keep them guessing, begging for your attention.
Humans are always clamoring for the next best thing. You just have to make sure you’re it. Or, at the very least, make them think that you’re it.
We’ve been at Ike’s, a trendy club downtown with elevated cherry red booths, sleek silver cocktail tables, and mirrored walls that reflect the soft blue of the recessed lighting, for close to an hour now. The place is filled with the usual types: woman wearing outfits that cost more than most people’s rent and men who care more about their image and what’s in their banks accounts than the person sitting across from them.
House music seeps from the dance floor into the lounge, the volume only diminished slightly by the separation between the two spaces. I don’t mind the noise, though, because it’s drowning out the sound of Victoria’s voice.
Her lips never seem to stop moving.
I don’t care about the person sitting across from me.
And I don’t feel bad, because I know she doesn’t care about me, either. I’m just an accessary, someone she keeps around to make her look better. And, in all fairness, I’ve kept her around to make me look better. I’m prettier, more sophisticated – or, at least, I act like I am – and her flaws make mine less noticeable.
And since actions speak louder than words, so far I’ve been able to fool everyone. My actions kept me afloat after Julian, and everyone’s adoration has been my life preserver for the past five years. All the attention, the pining to be by my side, the worshipping the ground I walk on… It was reminiscent of my life with Julian, albeit on a much smaller scale, and I clung to it so fervently because, in reality, I was drowning.
But now I just want to… let go. Let go and sink.
Because I don’t think this is the life I want anymore.
Raina’s with us tonight, a little mini-me with died black hair and blue contacts. Her barely-there black dress is an exact copy of the one I wore out months ago. Although, to be honest, she’s a little too hippy to pull it off. But imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?
Now, I just think it’s annoying as fuck.
Victoria finally stops yapping about a couple we know from high school whose marriage appears to be coming apart at the seams and takes a drink of her martini. Her vicious, no holds barred account of what these people are going through has me wondering what she said about me when I returned home, sans wedding ring.
Raina, who’s been blatantly staring at me all night, takes advantage of the sudden break in conversation to pounce. “Jen, I just love your dress. Absolutely adore it!”
I give her a small smile. “Thanks.” I don’t offer more, because I know what’s coming.
Wait for it… Wait for it…
“Where did you get it?”
I groan. Out loud. Raina doesn’t even notice.
“I got it in New York awhile back. When I was there for a fashion shoot,” I add to pad the story. A reminder to everyone at the table that yes, I modeled. “It was one of the dresses I wore for the spread.” This is all the truth; I’m not lying. What I leave out is the fact that my husband paid the designer for the dress after the shoot, because he couldn’t bear to see me take it off. In fact, Julian liked me in it so much we had sex on the way home, in the back of the town car with the driver sneaking glances at us in the rearview mirror. The fabric rolled right over my hips, and while I was fully clothed, I’d never felt more indecent.
I haven’t worn it since. Until tonight.
“Who’s the designer?”
I can already see her gears turning, thoughts of e-bay and scouring internet searches until she finds a gently used version of the dress. My mouth is open, a lie on the tip of my tongue, when three men approach the table, stealing Raina’s attention.
One of them, a dark-haired guy with a perfect five o’clock shadow and muscles straining beneath a fitted navy button up, raises his beer in greeting. “Ladies.” His eyes linger on me for a moment before sliding to the empty stool next to mine. He pulls a megawatt smile, flashing it around
the table. “Mind if we join you?”
The men are in their seats and clustered around our tiny table before we even have a chance to respond. Although, Victoria and Raina’s smiles are probably answer enough. I hold my expression neutral, not sure if I’m up for playing the game.
My mind keeps straying back home, wondering what Miles and Emilia are doing.
“I’m Adam.” His voice, laced with a southern drawl, is charming.
I smile my fake smile, pretend I’m interested. But only a little. “Jen,” I reply, fingering the stem of my glass.
His eyes stray to my fingers, and he nods at my drink. “Look like you’re close to needing another one of those. Mind if I buy you one?”
I glance at what’s left of my champagne cocktail and find myself shaking my head. “No, thanks.” The taste of my favorite drink has suddenly become too sweet in the three months since I’ve had one last, and I honestly don’t think I can stomach another. All that cheap beer they serve at Bert’s has tarnished my pallet.
I smirk when I see the shock on Adam’s face; he thinks I’m shooting him down. But a night wouldn’t be a good night if at least one man didn’t buy me a drink. I look him in the eye. “But you can buy me a beer.”
He chuckles, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You got it.” He leans in, his voice a throaty whisper against my temple. “Be right back, gorgeous.”
The other two introduce themselves as Jordan and Eric and handshakes ensue before each guy turns to his prospective girl – that I’m sure was deigned his before they even got to our table. I notice they all look alike, stylish hair that’s just long enough to be considered wild but still short enough to be respectable for their day jobs. Tight button downs that hint at their toned physiques without looking like they’re doing what they’re actually trying to do – show off their biceps.
Then again, maybe I have no room to talk. My dress is just as tight and clingy as every other woman’s here. A subtle advertising of the goods.
I’m leaning back in my seat, wondering what I used to find appealing about all of this and happy that I at least get a free beer out of the deal when a familiar blonde walking through the front door catches my attention.
It’s George. Her hourglass figure is wrapped up in a green sleeveless blouse and tight black pants paired with swanky gold heels. And leading her into the club is a man who looks a lot like he could be best friends with our trio. Her eyes roam the room for a moment, and when they land on me, she waves, whispers something in her date’s ear, and bounces my way.
“Jenny!” she squeals.
“Hey, Geor –”
Before I know it, I’m engulfed in a hug that’s tighter than my dress.
She leans back, holds me at arms-length, and studies me. “I’m so happy to see you!” she says, beaming, “And you look phenomenal. As usual, of course.”
If it were any other woman, I’d question her motives. But it’s George, and even though we’ve only been around each other a few times over the last couple months, I know enough about her that the sentiment rings genuine.
The truth is, she isn’t stupid. Just really, really sweet.
George has a heart of gold. Miles told me that, back in June. And it couldn’t be more true.
And seeing her makes me want to smile. So I do. “Thanks,” I say. “So do you.”
George pulls up a stool, which elicits a scowl from Victoria, and motions toward the table. “Are you on some group date or something?”
I laugh, a little too harshly, and pull my glass to my lips, draining the last of my cocktail. “Um, that would be a no.” Then, “I’m actually wondering what I’m doing here, to be honest.”
The words slip out, and I bite my lip like it’s not too late take them back.
George cocks her head, purses her pink lips. “Maybe you’re here so you can realize you don’t want to be here.”
“George,” I say, pretending to be shocked. “That’s pretty fucking deep.”
She just laughs. “Hey, it’s been known to happen. But,” she says, her expression turning serious, “sometimes we change – our interests, our desires, even our personalities – but we don’t realize it right away. In fact, sometimes we do everything we can not to realize it. Like, we go on, day after day, doing the same things we’ve always done and acting like we’re the same person we’ve always been. Like nothing’s different. When absolutely everything is different.” She taps her finger on her chest. “On the inside. Know what I mean?”
I nod, shrug, shake my head. “Yeah, maybe. Kind of. I don’t think that’s what’s going on with me, though.”
“Well, when it comes to ourselves we’re usually the last to know.”
“So,” I say to change the subject, because eluding to the fact that I’m not the cold bitch I’ve always been has my stomach feeling… swoony. “Who are you here with?”
“His name is Tristan. Sort of a blind date thing. He’s down from Minneapolis for the weekend.” She shrugs. “Yada, yada, yada. It’s a total set up, but he’s cute, so… Why not, you know?”
I don’t really. Because despite Miles’s insistence that he and George weren’t dating, I genuinely suspected they were. And that he was just telling me they weren’t because I liked to give him shit about it. Which makes me ask the obvious question. One that makes me wait with baited breath for the answer. “What about Miles?”
George grins a knowing grin. “Miles.” She sighs. “Yeah, Miles and I never really could quite click. I guess I just wasn’t his type. We’re friends, and that’s it. I don’t think he was ever really looking for more. With me, at least.”
I snort. “Yeah, okay. I find that hard to believe. You’re pretty much sex on a stick.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “That’s funny coming from you. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.” She cranes her neck toward the bar, looking for her date, I suppose. When I glance back, I see the crowd is three deep with one haggard person manning the bar. Looks like it’ll be awhile before I get my beer.
“Anyway,” she says, turning her attention back to me. “You know Miles. He doesn’t exactly care about what’s on the outside, am I right?”
I shrug. She has me there.
“Besides, I… Well, I don’t want to step out of line here, but I always thought he had a thing for you.”
Now I laugh. So loud that everyone at the table looks up from their conversations and gawk at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Um, no. No way. Now that is definitely not true.” I sweep my hair back from my head, lifting it off my neck for a bit. It’s so hot in here. Why is it suddenly so warm? “He doesn’t even like me. In fact, he told me so himself.”
Months ago.
“Oh, yeah?” George asks, her eyes dancing. “When did he say that? Way back when you first started working for him and were being a total bitch?”
The shock on my face must be evident, because she busts out laughing, which makes me laugh.
Victoria gives us a dirty look, clearly annoyed. “What the fuck is so funny?”
George and I just look at each other and laugh harder. I reach up and wipe away a tear while she presses a hand into her stomach. “You wouldn’t understand,” I say, my voice wobbly.
“See?” George lifts a brow, her face flushed. She points at me. “The last to know. Understand now?”
And yeah, I do.
Well, shit.
I’ve never had real girl-friends. Like the kind that support you and are there for you and go out of their way to make sure you’re taken care of. I’ve heard about them, of course. Watched that sort of sappy bullshit on TV and in movies where two friends love each other like siblings and stick together through thick and thin, men be damned.
But I’ve just… I’ve never had that.
I didn’t even think it was real.
The people I always seem to find myself around tend to be egotistical, self-centered, martyrs, or downright vampiric. They use and use and use, running
you ragged while sucking you entirely dry. That is, if you didn’t do it to them first.
It’s a tough lesson to learn.
I only had to learn it once.
But when George hugged me tonight and told me the man she previously liked might actually have feelings for me – and said it with a genuine fucking smile on her face – I didn’t have any reason not to believe her.
In fact, I believed her so much I left Ike’s right then and there, ditching out on Victoria and Raina and poor Adam (who hadn’t even returned with my beer yet) and headed straight home.
George is right. I have changed, if not a lot then at least a little. Because what I once considered priorities – even just a few short months ago – aren’t anymore. And the only two people I want to be with tonight are here. On the other side of this door.
That I can’t seem to walk through right now.
I sigh and roll my shoulders. Bounce around on the balls of my feet. Push my key into the lock.
It’s ten-thirty according to the antique grandfather clock in the foyer, and when I step into the living room I see Miles sprawled out on the couch, his long legs resting on the ottoman and arms behind his head.
It looks familiar; everything about him looks familiar.
And I suddenly realize that nothing has looked familiar to me in a long time.
The action adventure flick he’s watching has been turned down low, the actors’ voices and the roar of the car chase and pop of bullets soft, like the sounds are being filtered through a fluffy pillow. He doesn’t look surprised to see me when he glances my way, just grins a lazy grin. A thick blanket knitted from soft gray wool is draped over his lower half, and he looks so cozy it takes every ounce of control I have not to crawl under the covers and press myself up against him.
“You’re back early.”
I nod.
“Emilia went down about an hour ago.”
I nod again.
His voice is soft, soothing, and it loosens the tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders for close to a decade and never quite realized was there until this moment. This moment right here, when I can feel it fading…
