Session 33

Chapter three

For some reason, Saturday morning crept in slowly, instead of cracking open like usual. I rolled out of bed without my alarm screaming me awake, but my nerves were already buzzing. The bright morning light poured through my windows, as if the sun had nothing better to do than mess with me. I closed the curtains and shuffled into the kitchen for coffee, but the caffeine did little to bring me to life. I couldn't shake the depressing feelings clinging to me like a rabid monkey on my back.

I wandered back into my room, contemplating returning to bed, but the pile of laundry in the corner dared me to. With a sigh, I gathered it up and prepared for a trip to the laundromat, where I'd drop it off. I had a washer and dryer at home but hated doing laundry.

A steamy shower didn't do much to lift the haze from my mind, but I dressed anyway. I slipped into my black skinny jeans and crop top, the fabric hugging me like a second skin. After lacing up my black and red Jordans—comfortable but not lazy—I tamed my wild curls into tight, springy coils framing my face. My reflection stared back at me.

"You look fine," I said to myself, applying a swipe of lip gloss. But even as I murmured those words, forcing a dimpled smile, my eyes gave me away. The light was gone. Pretty? Yes. Present? Barely.

“Fake it till you make it,” I whispered to the mirror. I didn’t believe it, but I kept smiling anyway.

Resigned and ready to go, I grabbed my keys and the bag of clothes, heading out the door. I dropped my laundry off quickly, then drove to the Brandon Town Center. I needed bras and panties that were too tempting to ignore. I made the trip worthwhile, blowing three hundred dollars on lace and satin that would make me feel good, if only for a moment.

I felt better than I had when I woke up. Shopping bags swayed from my arms as I headed to the food court. I spotted Naomi from work—petite, mixed-race, with a head full of pretty curls. One of those effortlessly gorgeous women with a great personality. She lit up when she saw me and headed straight over, her curls bouncing with each step.

"Hey, Mrs. Mars, look at you! I love the street-chic aesthetic. You look so different outside of work. More relaxed. And you thick. I ain't know you were hiding all this," she said, eyes sweeping over me. "What brings you out here? I thought you lived in St. Pete?"

I laughed, trying to shake off my awkwardness as I clutched my shopping bags tighter. “Thanks, Naomi. I do. I just drove over to spend some money. And outside of work, just call me Angel."

Naomi’s face lit up like she’d just remembered something. She dug into her oversized tote bag, pulling out a flyer with bright red letters and a giant grill plastered across the front.

“Okay, Ms. Angel. Look, I’m throwing a Memorial Day BBQ, and you have to come,” she said, thrusting the flyer at me. “It’s gonna be good food, good music, good vibes. You need this in your life. Address is on there. Don’t make me come to your desk and harass you about it Tuesday because you didn’t show up.”

I nodded and took the flyer without making any promises.

"I gotta go, Angel," she said, giving a quick wink before turning on her heel and jogging over to a man with dreadlocks leaning against a store display. They headed into Macy's hand in hand, and I stood for a moment, turning her invitation over in my mind. "Memorial Day BBQ" stared back at me like a challenge. I wanted something life-changing to happen—could this be it?

I stuffed the flyer into my purse and wandered over to the food court for teriyaki chicken.

Back home, the quiet of my condo felt like it would swallow me whole. I dropped my bags at the door and rushed to use the restroom. I ended up leaning against the bathroom sink, my reflection staring back as if it had all the answers but didn’t share them with me. I peeled off my clothes and took another shower, trying to let the hot water relax me, but I was anxious. I kept thinking about Naomi's invite.

After my shower, I went back for my bag. When I picked up my purse, the flyer fluttered out onto the floor. I stood, staring at it. I knew I should go to Naomi's party, but the thought made my nerves buzz. What if she hated me after getting to know me? Work would turn very awkward.

I paced around the living room a few times, trying to talk myself into going. When talking didn’t work, I took action. I stripped out of the pajamas I'd just put on and dug through my closet. I found a black and red sundress, its tags still attached a year after I bought it, because I rarely went anywhere. I picked out a new lace bra and panties, slipped them on, then tried on the dress. The fabric clung to my curves, hugging my waist and cupping my hips before flowing out. It showed just enough cleavage to be tempting. I slid my feet into black Tory Burch slides and spent time playing with my hair until it framed my face like a halo. I checked my reflection from every angle. I looked good. It took all my willpower to leave the house before my doubts could creep back in.

The drive to Naomi's was quick, and I could hear the music bumping a block away. Her white, ranch-style house was packed, with cars lining the street. The energy was high, and people spilled into the front yard, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces.

I parked and sat for a moment, nerves twisting in my stomach. After taking a few deep breaths, I got out of the car and strutted through the front yard like I was born to be there. I'd never been shy, just awkward around people. A couple of men looked hard, and I tried not to blush as I held their gaze just long enough to encourage them before moving deeper into the crowd.

I found Naomi in the backyard, easy to spot in the smallest pink bikini I'd ever seen, laughing and dancing with her dreadhead like they were the only two people there. Her ass was in his lap as she twerked. Sweat slicked down his pecs, his abs tight and defined—his body easily earning a perfect ten.

But as my eyes wandered to his face, it was clear he wasn't a ten up top. His nose and lips were disproportionately large for his round, beared face, and a scar ran jagged from his right cheek down to just above his pec. He wasn't ugly, just rough-looking.

I lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching them dance, contemplating the best way to approach—or whether I should at all—when suddenly, a deep voice rumbled in my ear, "You know it's not polite to stare."