Page 8 of The Seven Month Itch
Too short.
Too sheer.
Too little fabric.
Defeat pats me on the back and hands me a participation trophy. “I can’t do this,” I say through an exhausted breath.
“I know, dear. Here you go.” Emma reaches around to hand me an outfit from my closet.
“Oh, thank God!”
“Hurry up. We don’t want to be late.”
Chapter 4
Justice
Self-care Sundays are a coveted weekly tradition. They’re also an excuse to ignore the outside world in favor of laundry, deep-conditioning my hair, and reading a book that doesn’t include the words “emotional healing” or “divorce.” It takes an act of God for me to give up a low-key night with shrimp and broccoli. Yet, here I am. On cloud nine with a buzz, headed to the main ballroom.
Em’s talents at the bar cart gave me the courage not to ditch my best friend for an evening with room service and Nick at Nite reruns. Who knew vodka tasted so good after the third cocktail?
A figure in a sleeveless lace blouse catches my eye. She looks elegant and confident, ready for an evening with other singles without the urge to vomit in one of the fancy potted plants. I stop and smile at my reflection in the mirror. My top looks like it’s part of a stuffy suit until I turn to look over my shoulder. There’s some backless action that stops right above the top of my winter-white slacks. I don’t have a huge rack—it’s a good handful—but these cheeks more than compensate for it. With my hair pinned in a messy high bun and this red lip stain, I look like a librarian in search of trouble. The tortoiseshell glasses don’t hurt, either.
Call me a good girl gone bad…at least for the next hour. I make no promises after that.
Emma gives me the once-over and winks in delight. Her walk is more of a skate, one that defies gravity and would land me in the hospital with two broken ankles and a bruised ego. Her hips sway with every step. It’s a miracle her dress hasn’t crept above the toned stems she calls legs, as short as the thing is, but that’s part of her magic.
We step into a ballroom that makes elegant look underdressed. On the left is a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with French doors. Rows of crystals drip from the ceiling and hover above cocktail tables set with white linen and bouquets of red roses. Couples form in a sea of singles. Some gather at tables, deep in conversation. Others steal a private moment in a corner with a drink in hand.
“Oh, dear God, they have name tags.” Emma frowns at the registration table in complete disgust at the “tacky” sticky labels that await us. I choke back a laugh. If I have to mingle with strangers, she can wear a name tag.
After check-in, we head toward the bar. Em’s diamond heels wink in the light as she floats across the room without effort. She passes a man who swallows so hard after one glance at her cleavage, I say a silent prayer he doesn’t have a stroke and die on this marble floor.
Her steps slow when her eyes land on the corner of the room. “You’ll be good by yourself.” It’s more of a statement than a question. She’s not coming back to the suite tonight.
I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. “Be safe, lady.”
Emma turns to me and smiles. “Always am, love. Try to enjoy your night. Don’t leave to order room service upstairs as soon as I’m gone.” She disappears into the crowd.
And then there was one.
Em hooking up on our girls’ trips isn’t uncommon. She doesn’t turn up her nose at my need for a hotel with a soaking tub, and I don’t judge her for prioritizing dick over turndown service. Hell, I had both when Terrence would pop in for marital relations if we were in the same city as his layover.
I get it, and I gotit.
Don’t leave to order room service upstairs as soon as I’m gone.Please. I can smile and chitchat without a chaperone, and I will prove it tonight. I do it during work conferences—like the time Olivia, my assistant, ate a taco with a five-o’clock shadow and spent our entire trip laid up in the hotel bathroom. I walked the whole expo floor by myself and only got the bubble guts twice, thank you very much. I just…need a drink first.
A lone stool at the bar wedged between two groups opens up. At least there’s more than one bartender to make the service faster. This is fine. I’m fine. I’ll grab a drink or two and check some people out.
Then I’ll go upstairs and spend the night with room service.
I order a classic manhattan and swivel the barstool to face the room. The women on either side of me curl into their prospective lovers. Based on their giggles and their hand placement over their breasts, it’s only a matter of time before they disappear into the night.
“Here you go, beautiful,” a voice says from behind.
I turn and lock eyes with the bartender in a black vest, who has my drink. The rolled sleeves of his white shirt reveal a series of tats on his forearm. Our fingers graze when I take the tumbler.
“Thank you. That was fast.” I shoot him a smile.
