Heartless, page 44
I pull my shoulders back and hold my head high. Tonight’s not about feeling sorry for myself. Tonight’s about moving forward. Shutting the book on a failed marriage. Welcoming the future with open arms. Embracing my new reality one day at a time.
“We love you, babe.” Gia lifts her glass again and gives me a wink. “We’re not celebrating your divorce; we’re celebrating your freedom. Remember that.”
I take a seat at the end of the half-circle booth we share. Everything in this hotel bar is dark as midnight, and ambient sconces provides just enough light for us to maneuver around. People pass by, mostly suits and businessmen, and they all look like shadows. Had I told Saige to pick the most depressing bar in downtown Seattle, she’d have nailed it.
“What’s wrong, sweets?” Saige hooks her arm around my shoulders, and I’m engulfed in a cloud of Moet and Chandon and expensive perfume.
“Nothing at all.” I force a weak smile and take a sip from my flute.
Saige squints, tilting her head. “You’re lying.”
Exhaling, I say, “I’m just tired. Dash let Beck watch a scary movie last night and Beck had nightmares and I was up all night and-“
“Sh, sh, sh.” Saige cups her hand over my mouth. “You’re not Mommy here. You’re Maren. And tonight, you’re a newly minted debutant divorcee with a killer ass and a one-track mind.”
I pull her salty palm from my lips. “I’m not sure about the one-track mind thing, but I have been doing lots of squats lately, so thanks for noticing.”
Saige rolls her eyes. “Stop being so Maren.”
“So Maren?” I echo, a single brow arched.
“Yeah,” she says. “Stop being so modest and prim and proper and perfect. Let your hair down. Get a little crazy. Have some fun.”
Saige scans the bar, though I’m not sure how she can see a thing in here because I sure as hell can’t.
“Him,” she says, leaning in and pointing to what appears to be a man sitting at the edge of the bar. I can make out a hint of a profile but that’s about it. “You should screw him tonight.”
Laughing, I take another drink. “It doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way.”
“There you go.” Saige tilts her head backward. “Stop being Maren for two point five seconds of your perfect little life and just trust me. That guy over there is smoking hot. Believe me, he was the first thing I saw when I walked in here tonight. He’s been sitting in that same spot for the last half hour, and he keeps glancing over here looking at you, but you’re too stuck inside your head to notice what’s happening around you. This could be the beginning of a very mutually satisfying arrangement.”
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
I steal a glance his way, but he’s facing forward, elbows resting on the bar, minding his own.
Saige is delusional.
Clearly.
Taking another sip, I leave my stare fixed on him a bit longer, hoping my eyes adjust in the dark so I can make out a semblance of a profile. The longer I gaze, the clearer his outline becomes. Even from here, I see he’s attractive. He looks to be tall, his knees brushing against the underside of the bar and his broad shoulders filling a dark suit coat. His dark hair is clean cut and groomed. The man looks like every other suit-donning professional businessman in here, and yet he’s the only one drinking alone.
“Why don’t you walk by?” Saige brushes her shoulder against mine. “Or better yet, why don’t you go order another drink. Stand next to him. Say hello. Smile. Deposit the bait. Set the trap. And then wait.”
Laughing through my nose, I shake my head. “I can’t. He’ll see through me. That sounds super obvious.”
“Who cares? It’s just for one night.” Saige stomps her heel. “You need to hook up with someone. You need to experience a penis that isn’t attached to a philandering manwhore for once in your life.”
Glancing down into my empty champagne glass, I exhale and nod. Nathan was my first everything. First love. First boyfriend. First fiancé. First husband.
First breaker of my heart.
And while I’m not one to sit around feeling sorry for myself or waxing poetic over our glory days, I’m in no condition to go from humble housewife to roaring sexpot all because I blew out a candle on a divorce cake.
“I know you mean well.” I place my hand on Saige’s shoulder. “But I just . . . can’t.”
Saige pouts, and then she gets that gleam in her eye. She’s horrible at taking “no” for an answer, and I know this from experience. Last year, her husband told her she couldn’t book a trip to Paris, so she brought Paris to Seattle courtesy of his Black Amex and by way of Chanel, Dior, and a thousand-dollar cake shaped like the Eiffel Tower.
She clasps her hands together. “Please, please, please?”
“Begging doesn’t work with my kids. You think it’s going to work with you?” I scoff.
Maren’s baby blues hold steady in mine, and I catch Tiffin cutting into the cake beside me. These women got all dolled up and came dressed in their finest, braving the Seattle rain for me. Saige took the time to order this cake and throw this party for me. It’d be incredibly rude if I sat here like a boring old bump on a log.
I glance over at the suit at the bar once more, only this time he is looking my way.
Holy shit.
My eyes snap away from his, and I’m grateful that the darkness hides the warmth burning in my cheeks.
“He looked over here, didn’t he?” Saige’s lips twist into a satisfied smile. “I fucking told you.”
“Stop.” I bat her away. She’s gloating, and it’s annoying.
“Go,” she says, her voice stern like mine when I tell one of my boys to pick up their Legos or take the trash out for the twentieth time. “Go to him. Now.”
My fingers wrap around the stem of my empty glass, and my heart races so hard in my chest I could very well pass out if I don’t take a moment. The mere thought of strutting over there and putting something on the table - that I’ve never put on anyone’s table but Nathan’s – is downright terrifying.
I’m not that woman.
Not that there’s anything wrong with being that woman.
I just wouldn’t know how to properly be her.
I wouldn’t do her justice.
Saige chews her bottom lip, staring hard at my ensemble.
“What?” I ask, staring down at my outfit. A white blouse is tucked into a black, high-wasted pencil skirt, and my look is finished with a pair of patent leather stilettos. The outfit was from a job interview I had a couple hours ago with a local temp agency, but I had enough foresight to throw the pumps in the back of my car before heading over here.
“Wait.” Saige reaches for my blouse and unbuttons the top two buttons. “Much better.”
Tapping my ass, she all but pushes me away, and I hear some of the girls cheering and laughing behind me.
I don’t have a choice.
I have to do this.
My throat constricts, and I’m not sure I could swallow if I tried, so I clear my throat and take the first step in my journey, chuckling to myself when I think about how cheesy and symbolic this moment is.
The neckline of my blouse is wide open, and my breasts are basically on display for the first time in a long time. Adding a slight sway in my hips when I walk, I lick my lips and hold my head high, eyes focused on the prize and fist tight around the warm glass I’ve been gripping the last ten minutes.
Everything happens in slow motion, and all the sounds fade away. The clinking of glasses. The laughter of businessmen. The soft lull of the cocktail waitresses making their rounds and taking orders.
My knees wobble with each step that brings me nearer, but I won’t stop. I didn’t come this fair just to-
Oh, shit.
He’s young.
He’s very, very attractive. Ridiculously, over the top good-looking.
But he’s young.
Stopping in my tracks and spinning on the ball of my stiletto-covered foot, I make my way back to the table. My veins run hot and the room is spinning, and I’m equal parts embarrassed and relieved, but I just . . . can’t.
“What? Why’d you come back?” Saige crosses her arms over her chest. “What the hell, Maren?”
Glancing around the table, I’m met with disappointed looks.
“He’s really young,” I say, injecting a laugh.
“How young? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?” Saige’s brows are angled in and her lips are pressed flat, which is never a good thing.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. I just took one look and realized that I’m way too old to be picking up twenty-something guys at a bar and hightailed it back here.”
Saige groans, banging her balled fist against her forehead. “Maren. You’re thirty-fucking-five. Even if he’s twenty-five, you’re still not old enough to be his mother, so who the hell cares? And even if you were old enough to be his mother . . . who the hell cares?”
“I wouldn’t even know what to talk to him about. We’d probably have nothing in common,” I say. “And he probably uses one of those cheesy dating apps and overshares everything on social media and has ridiculously high standards when it comes to women because Millennials are so damn entitled.”
Saige places her hands on my shoulders. “Maren, I love you, but I really don’t like you right now.”
I laugh. “What? Why?”
“You were going over there to check him out and possibly say hello and to hopefully get the ball rolling for some sexytimes tonight,” she says, “not to interview him to be your next husband.”
“I don’t know about y’all, but I’m amused,” Marissa says in her Texas-transplant accent. “Tequila shots?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tiffin says. “I’ll come with.”
The two of them slide out of the booth and head toward the bar, leaving Gia and Lucia chit-chatting amongst themselves and me to deal with Saige’s wrath.
“You didn’t even introduce yourself. You took one look at him, judged him, and then you scurried back here like you were above him,” she says.
“What?” I clasp my hand over my heart. “I’m not above him. Jesus, Saige. If anything he’s out of my league. He’s beautiful. I’m just not what he’s looking for. I promise you that.”
“But you don’t know.”
“Oh, but I do.”
A guy like him has probably never seen cellulite and C-section scars in his life, and I’m quite positive the last person he wants to screw is some thirty-something ex-housewife slash single mom slash divorcee-with-baggage slash born-again-virgin.
“Go back over there,” Saige insists, chin tucked into her chest and posture squared with mine.
“No.”
“Maren.”
“No,” I say, this time with more grit.
“You need this,” she says. “I know you. You’re going to leave here tonight and hole up in that big empty house of yours and be the devoted mother that you’ve always been. And that’s fine. But one of these days you’re going to wish you’d have gotten back out there when you had the chance.”
I bite my lip and look away.
“You’re hot,” she continues. “And you’re single. And you need to get laid just as much as the next person. I’m not sure where this lack of confidence thing is coming from but I sure as hell know it’s not you.”
“It’s not that I’m not confident. I’m sensible,” I say. “You don’t try to sell a Lincoln to someone who’s shopping for a Lexus. It’s a waste of time and energy.”
Saige rolls her eyes. Hard. And makes a gagging noise in the back of her throat. “You’re killing me here. Killing me. You don’t get it. At all.”
“You’re forcing this on me,” I say, arms crossed.
Her jaw hangs. “Just last week you were complaining about how you wasted your twenties on bad sex with Nathan, were you not?”
I nod. It’s true. I said those things.
Married fresh out of college at twenty-two and a mother at twenty-three and again at twenty-seven, my twenties were exhausting and exhilarating. When my sex life didn’t consist of missionary-in-the-dark-and-under-the-covers, it was basically non-existent.
“And you’ve been busting your ass at the gym for the last six months,” Saige adds, “because you said looking good was the best revenge.”
“It is.”
“But I guess all of that means nothing now.”
I know what she’s doing. She’s using a reverse psychology guilt trip cocktail on me. And it’s kind of working.
“We’re baaaack.” Gia places a tray of tequila shots and lime wedges and salt shakers in the center of our table. “Let’s do this, ladies.”
“Y’all, I’m getting real, real sick of listening to these two bickering like a couple of old bitties,” Marissa says, grabbing a salt shaker.
“Agreed.” Gia glances at me, winking. “You two need to agree to disagree. Maren doesn’t want to screw the hot guy. It’s her loss. She’s okay with it. Right, Maren?”
“Right.” I grab a tequila shot and elbow Saige, handing it off to her. She knows I still love her, and I know she’s extremely frustrated with me right now.
“Besides, he’s gone now,” Tiffin points toward the bar, toward the empty seat once occupied by one of the dreamiest men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Saige’s shoulders fall and she yanks a salt shaker from Marissa, a silent symbol of defeat, and we all queue up our shots. The tequila goes down smooth and finishes with a slight burn, and as it settles in my blood, I’m enveloped in warmth and relaxation.
Taking my seat at the table, I settle in for an evening with my girls. My best friends. The ones who’ve been by my side through hell and back. Over the course of the hour that follows, we shove our faces with cake, exchange motherhood war stories, and complain about our husbands – current and ex.
Exhaustion sinks into my bones after a bit, a product of staying up late with Beck last night I’m sure, and I check the time on my phone during a lull in conversation.
“I don’t want to be the first but . . .” I slip my purse over my shoulder. “It’s getting late, you guys.”
Marissa checks her watch. “Oh, wow. It’s almost eleven. I told my husband I’d be home by ten. Whoops.”
Saige swats us. “You guys are super lame, just so you know.”
“Call me tomorrow, okay?” I slide off my chair and wrap my arms around my best friend, kissing her cheek. “Thanks again for the party. I had fun, I swear.”
I tell the rest of the girls goodbye and head out, checking to see if the rain has died down yet, and I see that it’s beginning to dwindle. A row of cabs line the street, all proactively waiting to collect bar patrons and safely deliver them to their homes.
I waste no time hailing a ride home. Rattling off my address to the driver, I climb in and lean my cheek against the cool, rain-slicked glass of the rear passenger window. The chiseled, shadowed face of the suit at the bar comes to mind as we head to suburbia, and I can’t help but wonder how tonight would’ve gone had I listened to Saige and not given a damn.
But it doesn’t matter now because I’ll never know.
***
I kick off my heels and let my sore feet sink into the plush carpet of my living room. The house is eerily calm tonight. Nathan and I separated six months ago and share fifty-fifty custody, but going from a loud, wild household to pure, deafening silence hasn’t been an easy transition for me. At least not yet. I miss those boys so hard when they’re not here, but I know they look forward to their time with their father. I’d never take that from them, despite the fact that he’s a cheating liar of the douche bag variety. Plus I couldn’t if I tried. Nathan’s blue-blooded, old-moneyed family pushed a pre-nup on me shortly after our engagement, and me, being young, naïve, and woefully in love, signed on the dotted line. Our fifty-fifty custody arrangement was in place before the first Greene baby was even conceived.
I take the phone from my purse and leave my bag and keys on the foyer table, the clink of metal on marble echoing through the first floor.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I work the buttons of my blouse and unzip my pencil skirt, letting everything fall into a pile at my feet before swooping them up and folding them neatly over the back of an arm chair when I make it to the corner of my bedroom.
A personalized notepad with my monogram rests on top of my pristinely organized dresser, between a gold wristwatch and a pair of rose quartz earrings laid side by side. My eyes are tired, but I click on a lamp and read tomorrow’s To Do list.
1. Personal trainer – 8 am.
2. Call Gerald to fix the broken back step. Cedar?
3. Fill out paperwork for temp agency – due Monday!
4. Make hair appointment. Wax too???
5. Call Aunt Margaret – birthday. 59? Ask Mom.
6. Return sweater to Neiman’s. Find receipt!
Sliding the top drawer of my dresser, I retrieve a pair of matching satin pajamas, white with navy polka dots, and I head to the bathroom to wash up for bed. I mentally run through tomorrow’s to do list one more time, nodding to my reflection and agreeing with myself that I’m much too busy for reckless sex with hot twenty-somethings anyway.
I finish up, click off the lamp on the dresser, grab my phone, and return to my bed, occupying the left side the way I have for years and leaving the right side perfectly made. Firing off a text to Saige, I thank her again and tell her not to stay out too late.
She replies with a devil-horned emoji.
Laughing in the dark, I don’t have the time or energy to decipher the code, so I darken my screen and slide my phone across my nightstand.
Buzz, buzz.
“Saige,” I groan. Yawning, I roll over and tuck my face into a pillow. If I ignore her, she’ll stop texting me after a bit.
Buzz, buzz.
“Oh, for the love of God.” I yank the phone back, eyes squinting at the brightness as I place it in front of my face and prepare to inform her I’m trying to get my beauty rest. I’ll also tell her she’d be wise to do the same seeing how she wants to tag along to my personal training session in the morning.
