Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
For reasons I don’t fully understand—maybe because Emma is basically God when she gets bossy—we do exactly as she says.
Claire and Lucy dump the contents of their overnight bags all over my bedroom floor, while I open my closet doors like I’m unveiling my disappointing collection of Outfits for People Who Go to Bed at Ten.
We take bits and pieces from the piles, each one of us carefully crafting our looks. Lucy takes charge of makeup, and honestly, her display rivals the glam squad from the premiere.
When she’s finished, we look like we’ve just returned from a two-week beach vacation. I lose track of everything she’s put on my face, but it’s so well blended I could walk into Sephora and they would ask me for a tutorial. The cherry on top—a bold, apple-red lip.
For a second, it almost works. Then I crash back down.
It’s like I’m on the world’s messiest rollercoaster. I’ve been fighting the urge to call Harrison. Trying to enjoy my time with the girls. Trying not to spiral. The longest I’ve gone without slipping into a self-deprecating slump? Seventy-three minutes.
I’ll forget for a while, and then something pulls me back. A song, a smell, a stupid detail. You’d think there wouldn’t be so many triggers in my own place, but even my bedsheets smell like him.
Still, when we stand side by side in front of the mirror, it’s worth it. We look hot as hell. Dangerous. Like the kind of women who get revenge.
Lucy’s in head-to-toe black: tight faux leather pants and a corset borrowed from Claire. and she’s braved a pair of five-inch-high heels. She could walk into a Vogue shoot and no one would blink.
Claire’s in a slinky mini slip dress in deep red with strappy heels and a leather jacket that says don’t mess with me unless you’re buying.
As for me, I’ve gone full main character. Sheer tights, a barely-there mini skirt, a crop top courtesy of Lucy, and my brand-new knee-high boots—purchased impulsively during our first girls’ weekend. I throw over a brown fur coat to keep warm.
Too bad the high doesn’t last.
The moment we walk into The Anchor, the noise swallows me. It’s packed. Not cozy-weekend-buzz packed, but can’t-hear-my-thoughts packed.
None of it registers. All I can see is our booth. The candlelight table. I can picture him waiting, all dressed up. It’s so vivid it’s scary. Goosebumps rise all over my skin.
Just a mere four days ago, that was my reality.
Now it feels like someone else’s life.
Claire and Lucy drag me inside. I avoid looking at the bar. I know Tony’s seen me. I can sense it, but I don’t meet his eyes.
All the booths are taken—a group of guys sitting in ours who clearly don’t know they’re violating a sacred space—and Claire suggests sitting at the bar. Just in time, a table opens up.
“Over there!” I shout, practically elbowing a man out of the way to claim it.
It’s perfect—tucked into the corner, furthest away from Tony. I know I have to talk to him if I want to make a point, but I’m going to need a drink first.
“You doing okay?” Claire asks, taking a seat in front of me.
I nod. “Just a lot of memories here in such little time.”
“Cheer up,” she says, offering a smile that’s equal parts soft and fierce. “Let’s have a few drinks, and then maybe we can play some rounds of pool. Lucy’s terrible, though. Are you any good?”
“I can hold my own,” I tell her.
“I’m a great cheerleader,” Lucy adds. “I’ll get the first round.”
She sings as she goes, “Te-qui-la!”
I’m a little apprehensive at first. I’ve been out with Claire before—she can hold her liquor just fine. But Lu? She’s a wildcard. Tonight, she comes back with three tiny frozen shot glasses and a pint for each of us.
“This is the kind of night it’s going to be?” I tease. “Shots and beer? Takes me back to dorm room days.”
“I’ll get something sweeter next time,” she promises.
Somehow, we fall back into talking about Lucy’s worst date—there are a lot of them—and I’m grateful for the distraction. She’s not even remotely upset about any of them. She cherishes the experience. Something I should learn to do.
“You should write a book about this,” Claire suggests, still laughing hysterically. Granted, I’d be laughing too if it weren’t for my current emotional state.
“A book about what? The teddy bear?” Lucy asks.
AKA the guy who asked her if she liked body hair, only to reveal he was fully covered in it from head to toe. He gave himself the nickname.
I finish my beer in one big chug and look over at the bar. It seems a little calmer now. Tony’s eyes catch mine.
“Excuse me,” I say, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
I’m walking over, my legs shaking from the nervousness. The alcohol has helped, but not enough.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” he says, weirdly cheerful. “What’s with the frown?”
Does he not know?
“Have you not seen the news?”
“No. I don’t like reading that stuff. It’s never true,” he answers, naively. “Where’s Josh? No plans with him tonight?”
“He’s probably off somewhere getting it on with this ex-fiancée.”
His mouth drops open.
“Julia, whatever you’ve read—”
“I haven’t had to read anything. There are pictures all over the internet,” I interrupt. “It started on Thursday, and it’s only gotten juicier.”
I pull out my phone, type in his name, and the infamous picture fills the screen. I toss it over to him. He studies it for a few seconds before his face falls.
“Have you talked to him?” he asks, confused. “This isn’t like him.”
“I’ve barely heard a word since we last saw each other.” My voice cracks, pain leaking through. “I’m not going to chase him when it’s clear he’s too busy.”
“He’s not been in for a couple of days,” Tony mutters under his breath.
“Who knows, maybe he fooled you too.”
I can taste the bitterness in my voice. It takes him aback.
“I’m sorry,” he says, as if it’s his fault. “This—” He hands me back my phone. “It’s not like him. There has to be an explanation. I’ll talk to him myself. He should’ve called you the minute this hit.”
“It’s fine,” I say gently. It’s far from okay, but Joshua Harrison isn’t his responsibility. “It’s better this way. I expected it to get complicated at some point.”
Tony waves off my words. “Complicated? Sure. This? Not acceptable.” His voice is borderline angry. “Don’t worry about your tab—it’s on him.”
I laugh. “In that case, I’m going to make sure I can’t remember that picture by the end of the night.”
“I know this is rough,” he says, with a fatherly tone, “but take it easy.”
“I will,” I say, rising from the stool. “I’ll send one of the girls over with our order.”
He nods. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“It was bound to happen. With the pressure from work, we’re at a breaking point anyway,” I say with a sad smile. Maybe if I blame Jeff, I’ll feel better.
I slide back into the booth, both girls looking at me expectantly. I fake a smile.
“Our tab is on Harrison tonight, girls,” I announce, turning to Lucy. “Order us whatever you want.”
Her eyes widen, and she does a little dance. “Let’s get this party started!”
“Excuse her,” Claire says, as we watch her walk towards Tony like a girl on a mission. “She doesn’t mean to be… insensitive—she’s just very free-spirited.”
“I wish we were all like her.”
She wiggles her way to the bar, cutting in front of anyone waiting. It doesn’t take her longer than a couple of minutes to dance her way back to us.
“We’re letting loose, right Jay?”
She sets down the second round of shots and three mojitos. I don’t see any option other than to agree.
“To women,” she answers, “and to kicking mediocre men to the curb.”
Cheers to that, I think as I toss back the shot.
Liquid courage, they call it—what an appropriate name.
As predicted, by the time we finish those extra strong mojitos, Claire’s ready to show the bar how it’s done. She stands up—pretty steadily for how fast she’s chugged her drink down—and heads straight for the pool table, where two guys are already playing.
Lucy and I follow closely behind.
She chats them up enough that they let us join. They credit our first win to beginners’ luck. We go for another round, and this time it’s even faster than the last one.
We’ve been gathering a small crowd—mostly men—who think they’ll be the ones to kick us off the table.
By the time the third pair take their drinks and head back to their booth after only getting one of their balls in, all the others have slowly backed away. Except for two, who sit there watching us, probably pondering what their odds are.
Claire notices.
“Are you lads up for a little competition?” She flirts, getting way too close to one of them. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Winner stays on the table?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t like letting people win, even if it’s hotties like you.”
I suppress a full-body cringe shiver. Oh boy, he must not have been paying attention.
“How about you let us worry about not losing, and you worry about playing your best?” I say, keeping my voice low and seductive.
“I’ll tell you what,” says the other ‘lad,’ making his way over to us. “If you’re so confident this can be any sort of challenge, let’s bet on it. If we win, you girls buy our next round and join us for the rest of the night.”
Sounds like hell.
I look at Claire, but she seems confident in our skills.
“And if you lose?”
They both scoff. “If we lose, we’ll get your next round and do whatever you want.”
Endless options to embarrass them after such a loss. I like this kind of bet.
We shake on it and set up the table. Lucy sits on the sidelines cheering us on, sipping her fresh margarita.
“Do you mind if we break?” the taller one asks.
“You don’t think we can do it?” Claire snaps.
“It’s not a mystery that we’re stronger than girls.”
Are we even playing the same game? Since when did pool become a test of strength? This is going to be a massacre.
“Sure,” I answer, pulling her back. “You can start.”
We’re on fire. I’m shocked we’re doing this well while tipsy.
The boys are sweating as our balls vanish into the pockets, one after another. They still have three left to go by the time we move on to the eight-ball. It’s my turn.
Charlie—we’ve learned his name from the absurd number of times he’s tried to pump himself up—walks over as I’m lining up the shot.
I call the top left pocket. I’m leaning down, and he mimics my stance. His face inches from mine, all notion of personal space gone. I don’t lose my composure. Instead, I turn to face him.
“Yes, Charlie?”
“Are you sure that’s the pocket you want to call?” he says, trying to distract me. I fake a sweet, innocent smile. He takes that as his cue to place his hand on my lower back.
I’m about to tell him off when someone interrupts us.
I don’t need to look. I know his voice by heart. Even when it’s rougher and deeper than usual.