Chapter 12
S CARLETT
Two days later
Sunday
My phone rings repeatedly as I pick up speed on the treadmill. Sweat trickles down my chest, and rivulets of heat make my skin blister.
I needed this so badly.
The entire weekend has been a long ‘keep yourself busy and try not to think of him.’ The man who almost put my ex husband through the hedge.
I couldn’t escape Mrs. Eisenhower’s sarcasm on Saturday morning. With nothing better to do, my eighty-one-year-old neighbor keeps track of everything happening on our street.
I benefit the most from her surveillance as I’m the one getting news around the clock about my neighbors, as well as her insightful observations and poignant comments about my life.
She has said repeatedly she is hard of hearing and struggles with the glare from streetlights at night. While I’m not dismissing what she’s saying, she does well with gathering information for fun.
So, my suspicions were correct.
She witnessed some of the scuffle the other night.
I don’t know how much she’d seen, but she had a big smile on her carefully hydrated face the following morning, and her comments didn’t fail to appear.
‘I never liked your ex. My cats didn’t like him, either. I think he was mean to them,’ she said.
While I never caught Joachim doing anything to her cats, he did speak negatively about them and cat people in general.
Her tabby cat used to sunbathe on our front porch, and he always had a hard time walking past her.
As if she was an alligator or something.
He was squeamish like that.
He must’ve had a bad experience with a cat when he was a child. I don’t know what else could’ve fueled his dislike for them.
He never confessed to any of that, but he was always irritated by them, which I found childish and even comical. Now that I think about it, I no longer see it that way.
He was squeamish about a lot of things, except one.
He had no problem finding a new woman, although he did postpone telling me about that.
I still think his omission had to do with the car loan more than anything else, which only shows how pragmatic he was about these things.
Charlotte Eisenhower also said men like my new male friend––she had no idea what she was talking about––had made women like her blush in her day.
I didn’t want to exchange notes with her and inform her he had me blush several times early that evening.
I tried to avoid her yesterday but couldn’t tell her to go inside when my car arrived in the afternoon, and she was all eyes and ears as the towing truck delivered my old car, fixed and detailed.
It looked like a new one. The only thing missing was the bow and someone taking a picture of me next to it.
In all fairness, not only did they fix my car, but they also detail it. It looked brand new. It smelled fresh, and the windshield was spotless.
Everything looked fine.
It still looks finer, and it runs perfectly.
I took it for a spin yesterday afternoon when I drove to the store to buy oranges, grapes, a few candy bars, and coffee.
Mrs. Eisenhower was inside her house when I returned, and I was happy I didn’t have to give her an explanation.
Even so, I feel her inquisitive gaze every time I walk into the kitchen. Hers faces mine, and although the hedge separates us to a point, it is not difficult to peek into each other places.
My mother loved this feature.
Me? Not so much.
My mother also loved Charlotte. She said she was quirky and had a good heart.
I don’t know about that.
She intimidated me when I was younger, much younger. A teen. She was loud and had an opinion about everything. Nothing has changed, and I expect her to ask me about my new man.
My new man isn’t my new man, and sooner or later, she’ll find out.
Finally, I finish working out and slow down, and my phone buzzes again.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I say, panting, and sliding off and moving to the window sill.
I pick up my phone, the name of a good friend flashing across the screen.
“Sammy? What’s up, girl? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Things okay?”
“They’re perfect,” she says, laughing at the other end of the phone line.
Sammy is a math teacher I met through my ex. She was one of his few friends who sided with me after our separation.
In all fairness, we have many things in common.
She’s twenty-eight and a divorcee, and she’s working hard to make ends meet, just like me.
She’s taught me how to do several side hustles and put me in touch with the right people.
I’m taking whatever jobs she has for me whenever I’m getting a call from her.
I never say no to some extra money since I fear those opportunities might dry up if I get too picky.
I’ve been making extra money with wedding photography, pet sitting, house sitting, waitressing, and running errands. Online tutoring, as well. You name it.
I’m not choosy.
I’ve done a few things I won’t put on my resume anytime soon, but it’s nothing illegal.
We catch up on things, and I feel good about talking to her. Getting a little cold, I toss my bathrobe over my shoulders and head to the shower, phone in hand.
That’s why I like exercising at home.
I can take a shower, drink freshly squeezed juice, and eat a candy bar, all while talking on the phone.
“Listen…” she starts. “We have a big party event tonight in Manhattan. It’s a Christmas party, and my boss wants extra people on the floor.
I already told him about you, so he knows you’ve worked as an waitress.
It’s a swanky place and the tips will be amazing.
You can leave with some serious cash at the end of the shift.
The only thing is, you need to make the trip here, and I don’t recommend you driving in.
Parking is non-existent in this part of town. What say you?”
“Uh…”
“Please don’t tell me you’re still thinking about it?”
“No, no. I’m coming. Of course I’m coming. Thank you so much for calling me. I was pondering whether to drive to Bayside, leave my car there, and take the train. Or get the train from my town. Or a variation of it.”
“Forget about the car. Get a cab or use a ride-sharing app and book a car. The weather might be finicky tonight. And you might be drinking a cocktail.”
I smile.
“Or eight,” we say at the same time before laughing.
This used to be our joke.
“Okay. All right. Sounds good. I’ll probably do that,” I say.
“I know it’s expensive but you could also get a cab when you go back. I’m sure we’ll make a ton of money, and the fare will be a drop in the bucket.”
“Sounds good. Yeah. I’ll do that. What time do you want me there?”
“No later than seven.”
She gives me the address, and we chat a little more before shifting the topic and sharing––it’s mostly her––some experiences with a couple of dating apps.
It’s a crazy world out there, and I commend her for being so driven and courageous when meeting these men.
A few minutes later, we wrap it up, but not before going over one last aspect of my new job.
“What do you want me to wear?”
“Go wild. Dress sexy. Do your hair, put on some makeup, and rock some skintight dress. Don’t forget about the heels. We need to look like cameras will be rolling. Sexy and classy. We’ll probably have one of those cute little aprons. The ones you see in sexy movies.”
We chuckle again.
“You mean pornos.”
“I mean what I mean.”
“You’re crazy, woman.”
“Crazy for money,” she sing-songs. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s all math in the end. I want to buy myself a little house in your area, and you know the prices are insane.”
“I surely know that. That’s why I’m grateful for what I have, although there are better areas with bigger houses.”
“Frankly, I’m not looking for a lot of space. If I ever get married again, I will be pondering that option, but right now, no.”
“I hear you. Okay. Let me go take a shower. We’ll talk later.”
“Bye,” she says, a smile in her voice, and I place my phone on the kitchen counter before heading straight to the bathroom.
SCARLETT
Later
I don’t know if what I see in the mirror is what my friend had in mind.
I wear a black skintight dress that molds to my body, highlighting my shape. It features a long metal zipper running down my back and a hemline that falls just below my knee. I also wear matching heels and black sheer stockings with a tiny beaded bow at my ankle.
The neckline of my dress is round and revealing, so I have to make sure my bra doesn’t peek from underneath.
I wear black lace lingerie, which is not very creative or inspiring, so I go back to the closet and rifle through the contents of a box before pulling out a soft red satin bra and matching panties. The color, a fiery, deep, blood-like red, makes me look for a matching shade of lipstick.
My hair has volume and falls down my back in big waves, my eyes glinting between silky lashes coated with mascara.
Overall, I look more like a guest than a server, but I’ll deal with it later if it becomes a problem.
I hope it won’t.
I toss one last glance in the mirror.
Yes, I’ll probably draw too much attention, and I’m not so sure it will be the kind that generates more tips.
It is what it is.
I spin around and scoop out a narrow belt from the back of an armchair. I fasten it around my waist, and without looking in the mirror, I brush my hand over my skirt and run my fingers through my hair, which only adds more volume to it, before sliding my coat on.
I debated with myself whether to take the train or not, and eventually, I settled for getting a cab to the train station and then another one in New York.
The car awaits me in the street when I walk out.
A cloud of white steam lifts from my lips, and the few drops of perfume I put on my skin explode into a mushroom of flavor in contact with the cold air.
Ten minutes later, I step out of the cab and walk onto the platform.
I used to work in Manhattan, so I know the train schedule by heart.
Before long, the train arrives, and I welcome the nice temperature inside.
Very few people travel on a Sunday evening, especially going to Manhattan. A week before Christmas, things slow down.
Excited that I haven’t ruined my shoes, I slide into a seat by the window and look outside.
I used to love these trips to Manhattan when I was little. I didn’t mind the chaos in the streets. The noise. The variety of things you could see and do.
It still holds the same fascination for me, but I no longer see myself living over there. As much as I envisioned my life unfolding in Manhattan and wrestled with the idea of living in Long Island, my big dreams of making it over there are slowly fading.
Besides, I love my life here.
I’ve lucked out with the private school I work for.
And I grew accustomed to having Mrs. Eisenhower as my neighbor despite her being the nosy self that she is.
With that being said, I still enjoy the tumultuous life in Manhattan, looking up at the high risers and imagining the excitement of a high-octane life.
Maybe I won’t teach forever.
Maybe I’ll reinvent myself in a year or two.
Or maybe I’ll end up like my friend, Amalia, who has moved to Connecticut and lives in a quaint town where she raises her twins and teaches exclusively online.
You never know what life has in store for you.
The swarming crowd in the Manhattan train station sobers me up. The space spins with me as my brain struggles to adjust to the dizzying pace the people move in and out.
Holding my bag close to my chest, I pace out of the station, find a cab, and head to the address Sammy has given me.
She, for instance, lives in New York and can’t stop praising it for what an exciting place it is, despite looking to buy a house in Long Island.
Perhaps, her working her butt off has to do more with buying something in Manhattan than in Long Island.
Although I can’t envision the kind of job that comes with that type of money.
I enter the place a few minutes before seven.
It’s a posh restaurant, indeed, hosted in a high-end hotel with a separate spacious bar and a large waiting area packed with people.
Moments later, I meet her, Sammy.