Page 97 of Intoxicated
Is this what it’s really like to be in love? Because I fucking hate it.
I down my drink in about two gulps. Although the alcohol burns like a bitch, I tell myself it’s for the best. Maybe I deserve some burning for the dumb shit I said to her a few weeks ago. You know, when I had her in my grasp? When I was learning everything about her, in the most wonderfully hellish way? God, I blew it. I really blew it. Cher may play by her own ethics, but she still has some integrity. It told her to get the hell away from me, and I don’t blame it. I would’ve ran for the hills when I said something as stupid asyou get off on feeling like a slut and that’s why you sleep with so many guys and bail on any relationship that get serious.
What was I thinking? I wasn’t, was I?
I look over my shoulder. Through the crowd passing me by, I barely make out my father’s salt-and-pepper hair as he speaks to Brian and the vixen in the red dress. Seeing Cher stand so closely to that pecker pisses me off in ways I can’t explain. It’s like I’m a kid and someone has taken my favorite toy. For himself.
She glances in my direction. For a moment, our eyes meet. Something stabs me in the gut.
So much for coolly winking and pretending I don’t really care about her.
The next half hour doesn’t go much more smoothly. I find someone to talk to, but he immediately senses that there’s something “off” about me. I tell him I’m getting over a summer cold that knocked me on my ass. “Gotta watch out for those wildfires out there,” he tells me, as if I don’t know. “Just because you can’t see the smoke in the air, doesn’t mean there isn’t any there.” Thanks, buddy. I’ll keep that in mind.
Like I’ll keep Cher’s presence in mind.
I don’t see her much more after I leave the bar, but I feel her presence everywhere I stand. Rose-scented candles on the tables remind me of the red of her dress and the crimson of her lips. The peal of a woman’s laughter makes me remember when we got so high we barely knew where we were. The knowing chuckles of men about to get lucky tonight make me think of every time we shared a kiss that didn’t necessarily lead to sex.
Of course, I also think of the damned sex. I don’t need a specific trigger for that.
I have to decide, tonight, what I want to do. Should I march up to her and demand a moment to explain myself? To ask her to take me back? How much should I prostrate myself at the shrine of Cher, Professional Succubus? Or should I end it for good? Say my piece and kiss what we had goodbye, but on my terms?
Am I seeking a second chance, or closure?
Let’s be real. I already knew she’d be here tonight. She wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to hobnob, with or without a guy. Even without someone’s invitation, she would have found a way to get in, even if it meant bribing the doorman. Cher lives for this shit. The dresses. The tuxedos. The champagne.
The drama.
I haven’t seen her for fifteen minutes. Even now, as I look around the ballroom, I see no sign of Cher or Brian. Maybe this is my chance to simply leave. I’ll hire a ride back to my South Waterfront apartment. Be done with this. Be done withher.Who needs closure when…
When…
She’s standing in the foyer, where I have gone to decide whether I should leave. I was not expecting to see her here. Not sure what I expected, hanging out in one of the smallest areas of the whole venue. You know, that’snotthe men’s room. Suppose I shouldn’t be shocked to see her there, too.
Her back is to me. What is she doing? Reapplying makeup? Waiting for someone? Checking her phone? Do I say something now? Or do I walk by, hoping she’ll say something? How much of a man should I really be?
Ugh.Fine.
It’s now or never. It’s my chance to get closure. I owe myself – and her – that much.
“Cher.”
A compact snaps shut. Shoulder blades tighten. The fringe of the red dress grow taut across her back. A deep breath is inhaled and, slowly, Cher turns one critical eye toward me.
It’s like cutting yourself on glass but continuing to dig through the shrapnel. That’s what it’s like to willingly enter these moments with Cher Lieberman.
Although she says nothing in acknowledgment, she continues to gaze at me with one eye cast over her shoulder. It’s the same damned look she gave me whenever she dared me to go harder, faster, ormore, more, more.
I hate her for it. Damn it, I love her.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your evening.” Where the hell didcalm and politeDrew Benton come from? Because inside I’m a total wreck. Everything is shaking. My mouth and throat are dry. I swear to God, I wore too much cologne. Either that, or I’ve picked up the fragrances of every rich asshole in this venue. I don’t smell anything radiating off Ms. Chanel No. 5, though. No Victoria’s Secret body spray. No Ralph Lauren. No Britney Spears. None of the other scents she enticed me with earlier this year. I would know. I had my nose buried deep in those scents so many times that I can tell you whatBritney Spears perfumesmells like. It actually smells good! Like really high quality!
It smells like Cher.
“Wanted to say I’m sorry, that’s all.” My hands hang in my trouser pockets. It’s either that or twiddle my fingers like the nervous wreck I am. Cher’s demeanor hasn’t softened or otherwise changed since I started talking to her. For all I know, she’s plotting my demise. Or she’ll go stone-cold and completely ignore me after two more seconds. “I’m sorry for what I said the last time we saw each other.” We’re attracting a little attention. Probably because most of the people here know who I am, and if they don’t know who she is, they at least know she came here with another guy. That in itself is noteworthy. “That was wrong of me to say. I shouldn’t have thought it. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with who you are.”
She looks away again. A few eyes are on us. I’m not sure they know what they’re witnessing.
“Just wanted to say that. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or made you angry. I’m not asking for your forgiveness or anything.”
