43. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
P ink gloss stains my lips, a subtle glitter twinkling in the golden light of the reading room.
A tiny compact mirror balances on Duggan’s lap, and he holds it in place for me.
He sits on the chaise lounge. The red velvet cushions him while the hard floor is my seat.
A few makeup smudges block the clear view of the confused young woman who stares back at me from the mirror, surrounded by a wall of her favorite things.
Not even those trinkets and collectibles comfort me right now.
On the other side of the wall, Bubbles naps on her back, a gentle snore leaving her with the rise and fall of her chest.
I’d rather stay home with her tonight, but I pack away mascaras, setting powders, and lip gloss, getting ready for the night ahead.
My knees click as I stand, brushing down my satin dress that’s creased so easily since I sat on the floor.
My bum catches on one of my prized possessions, knocking it to the ground.
Bubbles doesn’t react as the magic eight ball rolls past her nose.
I pick it up and shake it, the same question I’ve been asking myself for the last hour running through my head.
Should I go tonight?
Shane texted me last night and invited me to some last-minute plans to celebrate his dad’s birthday.
Initially, I’d said no, looking forward to a night in with Bubbles and her bad haircut that she looks so adorable with.
However, that idea was thwarted by a series of text messages that begged and pleaded for my attendance.
The promise of sitting away from his mother sealed the deal, and after an hour, I agreed.
I’ll be fine, I tell myself, waiting for the answer to float to the surface of the blue liquid in the ball.
His parents aren’t the only reason I don’t want to attend. Shane is part of it, too.
I don’t fully trust him yet.
Although history has proven he won’t get angry in front of people. He’s always been calmer in crowds. And yet, my gut twists with suspicion. My hand rubbing in a circular motion fails to rid me of the feeling.
The ball agrees it’s a bad idea, but it’s too late to back out because my ride is here, honking out front and insisting I stop wasting time.
“You can do this,” I try to convince myself.
The taxi Shane requested to pick me up honks again. Sitting in it to meet up with people I know shouldn’t be a scary idea. Shouldn’t be...
And yet, I hesitate before leaving.
Swallowing my nerves, I trade the ball for my purse and finally move to the door when the car honks for a third time.
“Supper is down in the kitchen for you, Bubs!” I call back, hating that I’m leaving her because she’s home alone tonight.
Ambrose left around an hour ago, going wherever it is he goes.
Locking the door securely, a feeling of dread swamps me as I stare back at the house from the open car door. The reminders of what happened last time stare back at me. The word SLUT still stands out proudly.
Next time, Bubbles could be hurt.
It would break me.
Blinking away the grim thought and Shane’s efforts to make this place look better, but resulting in it looking worse, I get in the car. A female driver had been requested, and she greets me from up front with a friendly smile that showcase big teeth.
“Butterflies, yes?”
“That’s right,” I confirm the venue that’s in Shane’s messages, and I fidget with the hem of my dress. “Do I need an address?”
“No. I know the place. And I’m sorry for all the honking. It’s a big house. I wasn’t sure you’d hear.”
“I did. I just wasn’t sure I felt like coming.”
“Oh, first date?” the lady asks, reversing down the hill and spraying mud along the edges.
“No, but I do have the jitters that would make you think that. I’m meeting someone, and we’re sorta in an in-between stage where I thought it was over, and now it might not be.
It’s his dad’s birthday, and my kinda-ex would like a plus one.
I guess I should be excited that he asked me, seeing as his parents aren’t my biggest fans. ”
There’s a chance I’ve said too much, it happens, but the awkward feeling passes when my driver opens her mouth and talks again.
“Oh, they’re the meddling kind, huh?”
“They’re something.”
We continue the rest of the way in silence. Our only interruption is the growl of my stomach, still screaming with my nerves, and the rumbling of the car engine when my driver and her heavy feet tap the gas a little too hard.
“Do you need me to wait until you meet your sorta ex-boyfriend? This place isn’t the most—well, you’ll see when you get inside,” she explains, pulling up and braking just as hard on the gravel.
“No, I’ll be fine.” My smile is hopeful as I hand her the fee for the ride, which took longer than expected thanks to heavy traffic.
I step out of the car and return her wave as she pulls off.
I count the few bills I have left as I enter Butterflies—a dark bar full of men and a fraction of as many women flocking around them.
Seven dollars seems like such a small amount as I tuck the bills back into my purse. Shane said I wouldn’t need money once I got here, but the insecurity only adds to my anxiety.
I don’t see him or any of his recognizable relatives among the faces in the crowd. I move deeper into the room for a better view, my heels sinking through a soggy carpet that too many drinks have been spilled on as I walk.
The music is so loud.
This isn’t my kind of place.
My hands clap over my ears as I get closer to the speakers. The loud beat drowns my thoughts and causes a pounding in my throat.
Men gawk at me to the point of discomfort. Women glare, staring at me with hatred and judging my reaction to this room, to the memory they know nothing about. Their fingers roam over their guys as they fight to keep their attention.
That’s fine by me. I do not want it.
I just want out of this place because Shane is clearly not here.
Edging back, I freeze in the doorway, greeted by a downpour of rain that has come from nowhere. I linger there, typing out a quick text to Shane.
Dollancie:
Hey, I’m at Butterflies, but I don’t see you here. Are you running late?
Little dots appear on my screen, indicating he’s typing.
Shane:
Why are you at Butterflies? The party is at Bluebells.
Dollancie:
But you told the taxi to bring me here?
Shane:
No, she must have gotten it wrong.
Dollancie:
No, because you also said Butterflies in your message yesterday.
Shane:
I’m sure I didn’t.
Dollancie:
Well, you can check, but the message says Butterflies.
Anyway, does it really matter?
Can you come and get me? This place gives me the creeps.
Shane:
I don’t have my car. Get another taxi or walk. It isn’t far.
A man who smells like stale cigarettes steps into the doorway, invading my space and lighting up another cigarette that he puffs my way. The orange glow holds my attention as I keep my phone close to my chest.
Fire.
I hate fire.
A cough builds in my lungs, and I step back, putting some distance between us.
“You waiting on some friends?” His thick gray mustache hits his bottom lip as he talks.
“My boyfriend is coming to get me. I’m at the wrong place.”
“Oh… so, you’re lost then.”
“Not lost,” I correct him. “I know where I am, but it isn’t where I’m meant to be.”
“No.” He takes another puff and blows another cloud of smoke into my face.
Before it chokes me, I press my lips together.
His eyes wander down the length of my dress, stalling on each curve. I keep my purse at my stomach, hiding what I don’t want to be seen.
“Women who look like you don’t usually hang around here. How about you let me get you a drink while you wait for your boyfriend?”
“No, thank you. Sensitive bladder and alcohol don’t mix.” Hopefully, that admission will put him off, but his toothless smile says otherwise. “I need the bathroom.”
I brave the eyes of the crowd once more, moving to the battered red door with a lady symbol. Her crisscrossed legs hint that this is the restroom, and the smell that welcomes me as I push open the door confirms everything.
I move to a cubicle and slam down the seat, hiding the unflushed contents and giving me somewhere, though uncomfortable, to sit.
I check my messages.
There are no additional messages.
Dollancie:
Can you at least come and meet me?
The rain is bad, and the people are weird.
I wait for an answer, and ten minutes pass while I stalk through social media pages.
Everyone seems to be having a nice night tonight…
Everyone but me.
The main door opens, and I quickly stand, securing the cubicle’s weak door.
“What do you think she’s doing in here?” A woman’s voice blares.
“Probably plotting to steal our men,” another replies, her accent thick with accusation, her tone heavy with alcohol.
Keeping my eyes on my phone, I wait for Shane to open my message, but it remains unread.
Satin fails to relax me, and I scrunch my dress harder, worsening the creases.
A heavy fist pounds on my door, and it rattles on its hinges. A brass voice follows, “Come out, you little bitch!”
A cold tear falls down my flushed cheeks, and I check my phone again, seeing no new messages.
I try Annabelle, but the phone rings and rings before going to voicemail. I try Nyx next, but his phone does the same.
As a last resort, I glance at my messages, seeing the only other person whose number I text.
Lucky.
My fingers move to the little icon at the top, and I click the unblock option. Close to a dozen messages appear on my screen, many of them telling me that I’d gotten things wrong and that he isn’t in a relationship.
I let the women’s hate fade into a blur in my mind as I type, testing my luck.
Dollancie:
Hey. You around? I really need someone to talk to right now.
Only if you do not have a girlfriend. Or a wife.
Those little dots give me a reason to breathe easier, even without knowing what he’ll say.
Lucky:
I’m single. Still single. And I’m around.
What’s up?
Dollancie: