by Watson, Lucy
If she thought it was weird that I confessed my undying love for her as she handed me a warm Asiago Chicken Sandwich and large fries, she didn’t say. But what she did say—after we inhaled our food listening to her “get ready” playlist while I filled her in on the latest and not so greatest—was for me to sit on the toilet and tilt my head back. Which I did.
An hour later and I’m still here.
“Bend your head forward.” I follow her order for the tenth time as she sprays body-building shit on my hair. I tried to tell her that body isn’t my problem, it’s frizz control. Did she listen? Nope. “Okay, back.”
I sling my head back, feeling the weight of the frizzy mess I’m sure is on my head. She plays with my hair for a few breaths, adds a few more spritzes here and there, and then takes a step back, studying me. I always thought getting a makeover would be fun. Wrong.
A bright smile spreads across her perfectly-applied-makeup face. “Girl, you look so awesome.” She grabs my hand. “Let’s get you dressed. No peeking,” she orders, tugging me past the mirror with a cheesy smile and into the near-empty bedroom.
Apparently getting into faux-leather pants and sky-high heels is a two-man job, but once you’re in, boy, does faux-leather feel good on the skin, soft with just the right amount of stretch. The off-the-shoulder white crop top, on the other hand, not so good.
“Umm… are you sure about this shirt?” I lift my arms in the air, exposing the bottom of my lacy bra. “It’s super short.”
“You look smoking hot.”
“I don’t know.” I tug on the bottom, wishing it were about a dozen inches longer. I also wished I’d skipped the jumbo fries.
She slaps my hand away with a small laugh. “Trust me. I’m going to have to fight the guys off of you tonight.” She gives me a wink, then starts dusting my stomach and clavicle with gold-dusted body shimmer.
I can’t help but laugh. “This coming from a girl who looks like she stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.”
“Have you looked in a mirror?” she says, with a pointed look, giving me a final brush of shimmer. “You literally have Scarlett Johansson’s hourglass. I would kill for that. I’m all legs and no ass.”
Before I can say I’d gladly trade my curves for her legs, she grabs my hand and tugs me to the mirror. I brace myself, knowing this is either going to be really good or really bad.
My breath catches at what I see.
It’s good.
Really freaking good. Like, who the hell is this sexy bombshell looking back at me with loose chestnut curls falling down my back and deep blue eyes made even deeper by my burgundy lips, kind of good.
In these second-skin leather pants paired with this shirt, I look sexy. Not cute. Not adorable. Not magic-dress-beautiful. But fucking sexy.
For the first time in forever, I feel like I have it.
“You like?” Mara asks, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Her smile tells me she already knows the answer.
I match her smile. “I mean… wow, Mara. Just wow.”
“Told you to trust me,” she says with a chuckle, pride coloring her voice as she starts to retouch her makeup. She gives her platinum blonde hair a swoosh and artlessly swipes hundreds of dollars’ worth of makeup back into her boho bag.
“I have such a good feeling about tonight.” She catches my eyes in the mirror.
I ignore the tingle moving up the back of my neck at her words. “Me too.”
The thing about anxiety is it doesn’t care that you haven’t had a night out in forever. It doesn’t care that you need to dance away all the bullshit weighing you down. It doesn’t care that you finally feel like you have it. Anxiety is a sneaky son of a bitch. I take in a steady breath through my nose, set my phaser from stun to kill, and steel my spine. My life can go back to being craptastic tomorrow. Tonight, is for me.
I give myself a little I’m a badass wink in the mirror. Is that strange? Maybe. Does it make me feel a little like Black Widow from The Avengers? Sure does.
Mara sprays a light mist of perfume, which smells deliciously like lotus flower and rich amber, in the air. Which we walk through. Then out Rose’s bedroom we go, looking like two badass dive-bar-chic bitches.
If this were a romantic comedy, I’d strut my stuff down the hallway in slow motion to an uplifting, yet sexy, 80s rock song. And at the end of the hall, Nick would go slack-jaw and hit Ben on the shoulder, motioning for him to look my way. Ben would then turn to me, and that’s when I’d see it: the look of a man blown-away by my unexpected bombshell sexiness. Of course, before reaching him, I would trip a little, showing him that even though I’m a sexy beast, I’m still quirky and relatable. Then I would smile sheepishly at Ben, and he would laugh that smooth laugh with a that’s-my-girl shake of his head. And we would live happily ever after.
This is definitely not a romantic comedy.
How do I know?
Because Ben is currently shooting me a death glare from the bottom of the porch-lit front stairs. Stairs he was going to walk up until he saw me and stopped cold in his tracks.
His narrowed eyes slowly rake down my body, causing the hair on my arms to stand tall. He crosses his thick arms over his chest. Heavy dark brows pull tight over black eyes.
Hello, darkness my old friend…
I manage to shut the door after Mara, even though I’d rather be on the other side of it.
Avoiding Ben’s scorching gaze, I swing my eyes to the crunching gravel to see Nick and Jesse walking up from the garage. Their talking dies out when they see us.
Mara intertwines her slender arm with mine. “Why does Ben look like he wants to kill you?” she whispers as we walk toward the stairs.
“This is just how he looks at me sometimes,” I whisper back. Unless we’re in a hallway. Unless it’s over special tea. Unless it’s when he needs me to take him to the E.R…
I deflate a little, trying to figure out what I did to put that look on his face, trying to hold onto my excitement.
“Don’t worry, I got you, girl,” she says as we take the stairs.
We clear the last step just as Nick and Jesse sidle up to Ben’s side. We could walk around them, but that’d be weird since our Uber isn’t here yet, so we just stand there facing each other in some kind of strange West Side Story standoff.
If Jesse starts snapping, I’m outta here.
“Hey.” Nick grins, his eyes jumping from me to Mara, back to me, then finally landing on Mara, no denying the interest in them.
I don’t have to be looking at Ben to see where his gaze is. I can feel it burning a hole through my stomach. I catch eyes with Jesse who grunts with a nod. Even though he’s looking at me, I know his grunt is meant for Ben, who grunts in return.
Thinking maybe this is their version of an “aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend” grunt, I motion to Mara.
“This is Mara,” I say, my voice quieter than I’d like. “Mara this is Nick, Jesse, and Ben.” I motion to the group in a sweeping gesture. I just want to get this over with, hoping it prompts them to go inside the house, where they were obviously heading to begin with.
“Hey.” She gives them all a quick smile, her eyes lingering a bit longer on Nick.
His lopsided grin grows under her attention. “You look familiar.” His head tilts, his gaze searches her face. “Did I ink you?” He says ink like you would say fuck.
“No, you didn’t ink me,” she says with a smirk. “We went to the same high school. I was a few grades behind you.”
“No shit?” Nick looks like he wants to add to that, but Ben beats him to it.
“Where’s the rest of your shirt?” Ben says, his voice low, gravelly, his eyes sliding down my body.
I somehow resist the urge to tug the hem of my shirt down, but still can’t stop my shoulders from slumping, feeling my it leak from my pores, which pisses me off.
Mara tightens her arm around mine. “This is her single-and-ready-to-mingle shirt. And she looks awesome.
” Her voice is sweet with just the right amount of attitude.
Not many people can make “single and ready to mingle” sound cool, but it turns out Mara can rock cheesy lines, the same way she rocks a fanny pack. Like Sam Elliot rocks his gray bushy mustache—it shouldn’t be sexy, but on him it totally is.
“Ready to mingle?” Ben repeats, his eyes slicing to mine, his voice menacingly soft.
Mara squeezes my arm a little tighter, prompting my response.
“Yep.” I raise my chin, trying to level him with my stare, but even in Mara’s sky-high heels, he towers over me.
His eyes narrow. Ben grunts, evidently not liking my answer. How many fucks do I give? Not a single one. Okay, maybe one.
“I want to mingle with you guys,” Nick chimes in, his eyes lit with mischief.” His smile brightens. “Where are we heading?”
“Sorry, girls only,” Mara counters like a total diva, which I’m pretty sure Nick mistakes for some kind of mating call because his grin widens.
She turns her hazel eyes to mine. “Speaking of single…”
I can’t read her look, but I know she’s trying to tell me something. Before I can figure it out, she grabs my hand and holds it up with an overly bright smile that sets off warning bells.
“You need to lose this rock, girl. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re taken.” She turns to Ben. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind holding it for her, right?” Her voice is light, but there’s no mistaking the heavy shit she’s throwing down. “You know, so she can mingle.” She says mingle like Nick said ink.
My stomach drops. This is it. I want to be angry at Mara, but she’s doing what any good friend would do. She’s showing me the truth. Even if I’m not ready to see it. Even if I don’t want to see it. Because I need to see it so I can either hold tight or let go.
Ben’s glacial glare slices to mine. His nostrils flare and his jaw ticks as he holds my stare.
“Okay.” My fingers twist the ring, my eyes holding Ben’s. “If you don’t mind.”
Say you mind. Say you care.
Show me I mean something to you.
Then he does the thing that causes my helium heart to fall from the sky, truth weighing it down like lead.
He holds his bandaged hand out for the ring.
I take in a deep breath, slide the ring off, feeling a bit queasy. Tires crunching gravel mixes with my pounding heart as our Uber pulls up.
I step up to Ben, placing it in his palm.
And there it is. The end of our story.
I welcome the cold. I breathe it in and fill my lungs with it. Ben closes his hand around the ring, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen. He takes a step toward me, his body vibrating with heat and energy. Heat that does nothing to melt the polar vortex surrounding me.
“Uber’s here.” Mara’s voice cuts through our stare-down.
I nod with a glance her way. Her eyes are worried, and her smile’s stiff, like things didn’t go how she’d thought they would.
She was wrong. So was Nick. So was Rose.
With “Here I go Again” by Whitesnake blasting in my mind, I realize that this won’t take me down. That I’ll survive Ben. I’ve been through worse shit, and I’m still standing. Maybe I’m a little broken in places and hunched over with one of those old-lady walkers, but I’m still standing.
I’m. Still. Fucking. Standing.
I flip on my reserve tank of power, flashing a bright I’m-too-good-for-you-anyway smile at Ben, finishing it with a fuck-you wink. “Don’t wait up, big guy.”
I hear Nick in the background mumble something, followed by Jesse’s deep grunt.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Ben grits out before brushing past me to take the stairs.
“Good,” I call out after him.
“Great,” he returns before disappearing in the house, slamming the door behind him.
He just had to get the last word.
Fucking bastard.
* * *
List of things I’m one hundred percent sure of while I lean against the wall, feeling the music vibrate my back, as I watch Chuck (aka Ryan) sing the shit out of an Imagine Dragon’s song:
1) These heels were a mistake.
2) Some guys think deodorant is optional.
3) Chuck is freaking hot.
4) Chuck is totally into Mara.
5) Mara is totally into Chuck.
6) I want to go home.
Not because Chuck’s into Mara. Even though he’s seriously hot, there’s no spark. He and Mara, on the other hand, could power New York City. Mara made it clear that if I were into him, she wouldn’t be, which, since I could tell her ovaries were naming their babies, said a lot about what kind of friend she is. A chicks-before-dicks kind of friend.
But because inside this twenty-eight-year-old body, that’s receiving a surprising amount of attention tonight, is the soul of an eighty-five-year-old with bad hips. Simply put, as Rose would say, I’m pooped.
I’m sure if I had a few shots, I’d be feeling too good to feel anything else. But I’m teetering on the razor’s edge of wanting to get wasted and wanting to get buzzed, so I’ve kept my drinks to a minimum.
I glance over at Mara, whose eyes are glued to the stage, her lips tipped up in an enamored smile, her hair a little damp around her forehead from dancing.
A lot of dancing.
Turns out, Mara is an awkward dancer who doesn’t give one shit about what people think—which makes her the best dancer in this freaking place. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed or danced so hard in my life. She’s free in a way I hope to be one day.
We had a few yummy men work their way into our dance party of two, and a few not so yummy ones. I even had a pretty interesting bump-and-grind session with a sexy-as-hell, off-duty firefighter who smelled deliciously like whiskey and leather. He could also move, like really move, but I couldn’t seem to let myself go enough to kiss him when he went for it.
Even though he felt good, he didn’t feel right.
Did I mention, he had dark hair and a beard?
Yeah, so there’s that.
I bring my cell from my purse, praying it’s late enough to suggest calling it a night without being a total buzzkill.
I’m pretty sure since Chuck suggested Mara come over later to check out his vinyl collection, I’m leaving solo tonight anyway.
11:28. So freaking early…
“Want to go to the bathroom?” Mara asks over the music.
“Sure,” I nod-yell with a forced smile, trying to forget that I probably have three more hours on my feet in this humid, swamp-like air.
Note to self: faux-leather pants are not swamp friendly.
She grabs my hand and guides us through the crush of dancing bodies, past the stage, catching eyes with Chuck who smiles at her as he sings a stripped-down version of “Thunder,” not even sparing a glance to the girls dancing at the front, vying for his attention. I like Chuck for Mara.
We step into the hallway, my ears ringing from the music. My feet are sore and heavy, but the air feels so crisp and fresh against my damp skin I can’t help the deep sigh. I lift my mop of hair for my neck. What I wouldn’t give for a hair tie right now.
Mara looks over her shoulder, “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I smile. “Just a little tired.”
“Already?” Her eyes are wide in shock, her brows raised. “But it’s so early.” No, shit.
“It’s pathetic, I know.” I have to laugh at her expression as I follow her into the bathroom.
The smell of urine and perfume with a tinge of vomit lingers in the air. I scrunch my nose.
If only the Bathroom of Doom had smelled like this…
I shake away the image of Ben, who’d I’d been thinking about not thinking about all freaking night.
Two champagne blondes walk out of the handicap stall that Mara quickly disappears into. They look too young to be here. Or maybe I’m too old. I wonder if some almost nearly thirty-year-old woman looke
d at me once thinking this same thing. Probably.
One of them stops in front of me, and in these heels we’re almost the same height, which is cool. The fact she’s standing in my space, staring at me while breathing alcohol breath in my face, not so much.
Feeling weird, I step back and turn my eyes to her friend who continues to the scratched mirror and starts to reapply her lipstick, or tries to at least.
I think about telling her that she’s sort of missing her mouth, but her friend steps closer, stealing my attention.
She holds her hand up. I almost give her a high-five, before she drops it and motion to my clothes.
“Oh my god, I love that for you,” she slurs to me, her glossy eyes grazing over my outfit. “It’s so fire. Total vibes.”
Either she’s invented a new drunk-language, or I’m old, because I haven’t a freaking clue what she’s talking about.
Her friend turns from the mirror, looking like Harley Quinn on a bad day, and says in a way too enthusiastic voice, “Oh my god, same. So, fire. Love-loves.”
Yep. I’m old.
A good person would tell her that she kind of missed her mouth. Turns out I’m not a good person.
“Thanks,” I say, because it feels universally appropriate.
They smile and walk past me out the door, without hitting the sink first. I guess, sanitation isn’t one of their love-loves.
I cringe, hugging my hands around my waist, trying not to picture this place under a black light.
Mara calls out from the stall, “Let me just say goodbye to Ryan, and I’ll get us an Uber.” She flushes. Her voice is overly bright as she continues, “You can crash at my place if you don’t feel like going home.”
I’m so tempted to take her up on her offer, but even though Mr. Wellington doesn’t come around that often, since we’ve nearly completed his list, it doesn’t mean he’s not checking the cameras, so I can’t risk it.
“You should totally stay,” I say. “I mean… it’s early, and you guys seem like you’re hitting it off. You should stay.”
She opens the door and steps out of the stall, her brows pinched. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say, with an it’s-no-big-deal laugh.
