4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Lizzie
F our hours and way too many cocktails later, I watched as Brooke headed off down the road in her Uber, cackling and calling out “Lizzo! Everyone, look… it’s Lizzo!” while waving dramatically from her rolled-down window.
Not quite drunk enough to dodge embarrassment, I did my best to avoid the stares as I stood waiting for my own ride outside Bar Kumquat, the final spot we’d landed at. But attempting to focus my blurry vision on my phone screen felt like a lesson in futility.
I mean seriously , I never should’ve let myself order that last drink. After all these years, you’d think I would learn. I was still such a lightweight compared not only to Brooke, but all of my friends—well, except for Lena. One drink, and that girl turned into an emotional mess, every freakin' time.
Thankfully, the Dearie Girls had mostly slowed down from the shenanigans of our younger years. But tonight, I definitely wished I had behaved more like thirty-year-old Lizzie, rather than a long-buried version of myself.
Because now that Brooke had gone, I was starting to feel not only the brandy hitting me, but also my somber mood from earlier. I leaned against the side of the brick building, longing for my bed—and possibly a lobotomy.
Ten minutes later, a notification popped up on my phone screen—the Uber driver had canceled my ride request.
Fuckity-fuck-fuck.
As I tucked my phone away, the fog in my head cleared just enough for me to realize where I was—and that my boyfriend Randall’s townhome was only a handful of blocks away in his posh Loring Park neighborhood.
I’d been feeling so disconnected from him lately, what with the end of the trimester approaching. He’d been so caught up in preparing for finals that he’d barely even taken time to call, much less initiate spending any time together. So even though I was a little hurt that he had yet to respond to my text from earlier—-I also wasn’t all that surprised. And now, it hit me just how much I’d actually been missing him.
Actually, it was right in this very spot that we’d first come together. I’d had the hots for the silver fox professor ever since my second-year twentieth century lit class—though in a huge auditorium, there was no reason for Randall Price to ever notice the quiet redhead sitting near the back of the room.
So when I nearly plowed him down while exiting girls’ night at Bar Kumquat years later—- apparently a common theme in my life —-I couldn’t have been more mortified.
But instead of being annoyed, Randall’s face had lit up in a sexy smile, his gray eyes crinkling at the corners as he held me steady, taking me in.
“Whoa… where are you rushing off to?”
Face blazing, I’d been about to attempt a coherent response when I saw the recognition flash in his eyes. “Wait, I know you. St. Kate’s, right?”
“You… know who I am?”
He chuckled. “Of course I do. I recall having you in at least one of my classes. You were always so… engaged. But it’s been a while…”
“… Elizabeth.”
“Yes, that’s right. Elizabeth Blake.”
He remembered my name?? “Well, I graduated over five years ago now.”
“Then it’s been far too long.” He then glanced down, and I remember feeling very self-conscious in the little black dress Brooke had convinced me to wear out that night. But there was something in the way he’d looked at me that made me glad I’d given in. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to join me for a night cap? I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to all these years.” He leaned in. "I recall a spark of talent in you, Ms. Blake.”
I mean my God, who wouldn’t have said yes to that man? Confident in all the areas I was lacking, it was like an instant boost to my self-esteem, being noticed like that. I remember accepting his offered hand, feeling the other rest on the thin material at the small of my back—and I was a goner.
At least—-I’m pretty sure that’s how it went. Right now, standing outside in the dark in another time completely, the details felt a little… fuzzy.
All I knew was that drink turned into three years of being wrapped up in the arms and the life of that man—and while every moment wasn’t necessarily perfect, being with Randall made me believe I could become exactly what I dreamed of. I just needed to stay focused.
And get some damn face time with my boyfriend.
I was about to pull out my phone again and send him a text when I heard another notification sound from my purse.
brOOKE: I’m home!
KAIT: Congrats. Any particular reason for this special announcement?
brOOKE: Huh?
INDI: You texted our Dearie chat, love.
brOOKE: Oops! That message was meant for Lizzo.
INDI: Okay…
KAIT: Okay…
LIZZIE: Alright…
brOOKE: LIZZO! It’s about damn time…
Giggling in spite of myself at the ridiculousness of my friends’ never-gonna-die joke, I closed out of the chat, at least feeling in a better mood.
And the more I thought about it, the idea of cozying up with my sexy boyfriend at his place sounded infinitely better than hiding from my life under a quilt. Plus, maybe I could pick his brain on that sticking point I’d hit in Chapter Three.
But that could wait until morning… I had far better ideas in mind for what I wanted to do with my boyfriend tonight. And none of them had a single thing to do with writing.
Maybe this time he’ll be willing to do a little extra so I get my happy ending, too…
Slowly, I made my way through the neighborhood, my head a little swimmy as I stumbled through the first few blocks. After a while, I could see the row of townhomes slowly growing closer off in the distance, lamps glowing alongside each door.
In my head, my friends’ joke had transitioned into the melody. “Turn up the music, I’m gonna celebrate…”
Humming to myself, I shimmied with a saucy little step into the final intersection, feeling my left sandal slip off the edge of my heel. A moment later, I’d tumbled to my knees in the middle of the street.
“It’s ok! I’m gonna be ok!” I said loudly to no one in particular as I lay sprawled face-first on the pavement.
Jesus—Pull it together, Lizzo.
Standing up gingerly, I brushed the dirt from the knees of my jeans before taking a quick scan to see if anyone had watched me biff it. By some miracle, this part of the neighborhood seemed mostly deserted.
All the old folks have gone to beddy-bye , a voice trilled in my head, and I snorted—totally something Brooke would’ve said about Randall.
Usually, I was a little defensive about our age gap. But for some reason, tonight that shit was funny.
Yanking off both shoes and looping the straps around one finger, I chose to ignore the fifty million disgusting city germs I was probably exposing myself to and continued on, barefoot. A few minutes later, I finally found myself standing in front of his place.
No matter how many times I’d been there, I still marveled at the beauty of it. Randall had moved into the historic brownstone long before we’d started dating, and it was where we continued to spend most of our time together.
Sometimes, I wished we’d go out for dinner, a show, or something … but he’d usually talk me out of it.
“Then I can keep you all to myself,” he’d always say.
As if I could argue with that. Randall knew all the best takeout places, besides being a decent cook himself with an impeccable wine collection. And really, I didn’t mind staying in all that much. I’d always been a homebody.
Plus, his place was gorgeous—though maybe a bit stuffy compared to the eclectic boho style of my apartment, which he jokingly referred to as ‘a glorified dorm room’ .
And tonight, Chez Randall also happened to be very convenient.
Gripping the handrail as I made my way up the concrete steps, I paused in front of the imposing black door to test the handle. Finding it locked, I began digging around in the ceramic planter on the stoop where I knew he kept his hide-a-key. Randall had never actually given me my own copy—even after two years together, he was still weirdly private about that stuff.
Snorting out laughter as I rummaged around in the plant, my fingers finally closed on the hollow frog.
‘Hide-a-key’. Such a silly word…
I flipped open the lever beneath the toadstool, letting the key drop into my hand before chucking Mr. Froggy back into the planter. After a couple of jiggles and pauses to steady my hand, I heard the lock click open, and I slowly made my way inside.
The place was quiet and mostly dark, outside of the warm light emanating from the living room at the end of the hallway, bathing the wood-paneled walls on either side of me in a soft glow. As I gently closed the front door behind me to block out the noise of the city, I could hear low jazz music playing. Good, he was still up.
I began tiptoeing my way along the carpeted hallway, anxious to surprise him. Pausing at the hallway mirror to take a quick peek at my blurry reflection, I took a moment to tidy the mess on my head left by my earlier tumble.
No, wait—I need sexy hair!
I ran my fingers into my long, auburn waves, flipping my head downward to shake it all up.
But of course, I once again overestimated my ability to keep myself upright after four— or was it five? —cocktails.
I toppled forward, taking a sloppy nosedive onto the padded antique bench against the wall before rolling over onto the floor. As the shock wore off over what I’d just done, a giggle burst out—and I quickly clapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.
It was then that I heard it. A loud grunt, one that I’d become very familiar with over the past couple of years.
Was he seriously having fun… without me?
Scrambling up off the floor, I crossed the remaining length of the hallway and rounded the corner, ready to interrupt his playtime with some of my own.
Problem was, somebody had already beaten me to it.
A topless brunette had her back to me on the dark leather sofa as she straddled my boyfriend’s lap, pants pooled at his feet and hands grasping her waist as they moved together. Scattered across the wooden coffee table behind her were piles of papers and two, half-filled stemless glasses—along with the two hundred dollar bottle of wine (which I really couldn’t afford in the first place) I’d given him for his birthday a few weeks earlier.
I could even see the tiny card still hanging by a red ribbon from the neck of the bottle, with the note I’d handwritten— ‘Happy Birthday, my love.’
My… love.
"My favorite wine… you remembered," he'd told me that night with a smile. "You're always noticing things like that, Elizabeth…"
Always noticing—except, apparently, for this .
I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience—seeing and hearing opposing messages—face and hands all numb and tingly as my brain tried to make sense of what was happening.
Then, somehow, I found my voice.
“What is this…?”
I’d intended to sound more shocked, more angry. Instead, my voice came out in a breathy whisper—as if the rest of me were still caught in the tipsy stealth mode of two minutes ago, still hoping to surprise my boyfriend with my sexy entrance.
But my feeble confrontation was enough to get their attention. Instantly, the brunette’s head whipped around, and I caught a glimpse of her familiar face, eyes widening.
Oh my God.
“You’re sleeping with Jessica!?”
Randall’s head craned to the side to gaze past his teaching assistant’s naked body, and he had the absolute fucking audacity to look annoyed.
“Calm down, Elizabeth.”
Head spinning, I found myself hovering somewhere between my worst nightmare and disbelief.
Calm down? Was this actually happening right now? Or was it all an incredibly vivid hallucination, thanks to the alcohol pickling my brain?
And was it completely irrational and off-topic that I couldn’t help but compare the shortcomings of my own short, curvy body to the slender, leggy one perched on his lap?
I stared at him. “You did not seriously just ask me to calm down while your number two pencil dick is still inside another woman.”
Randall released a sigh, as though I were just another moody freshman he’d been forced to tolerate in his classroom. “Come, now… we’re all adults here. This was nothing… just letting off a little steam in between grading papers.”
He reached across the sofa to grab a throw blanket, handing it to Jessica—who quickly wrapped it around her body as she scrambled off his lap. Judging by the horrified look on her face as she rounded the end of the sofa towards the bathroom, the fact that they’d been doing ‘nothing’ was news to her.
“Nothing…?” I echoed numbly under my breath as Jessica slammed the bathroom door behind her. With a jolt, my heart finally caught up with my brain.
This is real, Lizzie. Your so-called gentlemanly boyfriend is actually a cheating asshole.
At some point during my last thirty seconds of rapid awareness, Randall had arisen from the sofa and pulled up his pants. Now he just stood there, arms crossed, silently observing me with his steely-gray eyes. He hadn’t bothered to button his shirt, so I was forced to witness not only his indifference but also his perfectly sculpted chest on full display—still tan from his week-long conference in Maui.
Which Jessica had also attended, as his assistant.
God, I was such an idiot.
I felt the initial shock dissolve into shame as one of the last remnants of my life I’d believed I could count on began to crumble—followed by the inevitable tears.
It was moments like these that I hated how easily the tears seemed to come. Sadness, anger—it didn’t matter.
But I couldn’t stop any of it, could I? Not the crying, not the humiliation—nor the betrayal, the loss.
Finally, Randall closed the distance between us, pulling me into his chest as I closed my eyes, furious at myself for being unable to keep myself from falling apart. Then I felt his breath, hot against my ear.
“Elizabeth, there’s no need to get emotional… you and I, we’re ok. ”
Ok?
It was enough, at least, to mostly sober me up. Wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, I maneuvered myself out of his grasp, backing away from the man who I thought had been my everything.
“How can you possibly think we are ok? None of this ,” my voice cracked as I gestured wildly towards the aftermath on the sofa, the wine, the bathroom, “is ok. Lying to me is not ok. Having sex with other people when you are supposed to be in a committed relationship is not ok , Randall.”
He ran a hand through his perfectly styled, salt-and-pepper hair, groaning in frustration. “There you go again, with your romanticized ideals. Elizabeth, sex can truly be just sex . This doesn’t change how I feel about you. And besides, you’re making an assumption here. We’ve never actually discussed being exclusive.”
“Yes, we have . Don’t you recall that weekend up in Duluth last year?” My eyes widened, realization dawning. “Wait… are you telling me you’ve been seeing other women the entire time we’ve been together?”
He was silent.
Jesus Christ.
“Do you even love me at all, or has all of this just been… convenient to you?” I heard my voice waver, and I dug my nails into my tingling palms to keep myself from unraveling.
Randall’s eyes avoided mine—and for once, the man accustomed to commanding a room with his words looked as though he had no idea what to say. “Elizabeth…”
But before he could finish his sentence, we heard a door open as Jessica walked out of the bathroom, partially dressed. As she continued to hunt around in the background for the rest of her things, I could see tears streaming down her face as well—and for a moment, I felt bad for her.
And slowly, all the pieces clicked into place—it all made sense.
Why we rarely spent time together outside of his place.
Why he’d never shared a key.
Why he’d acted so fiercely private about the rest of his life.
I had never been enough for him.
I turned my gaze back towards Randall, now feeling nothing but disgust.
Actually… oh God, I’m going to be sick…
And before I could consider my next move, I heaved the contents of my stomach all over his feet—along with his antique beige Persian rug.
“Fuck, look what you’ve done…!”
It was the first time I’d seen the esteemed Randall Price truly freak out. For some reason, it made me feel just the teensiest bit better.
I mean, I hadn’t intended to vomit. But it was a suitable exclamation point to cap off the worst day I’d had in a long time. I was done here.
As he hurried off towards the kitchen to find something to save not his relationship but his precious rug, I stepped around the mess to reach for a tissue from the box on the coffee table. Wiping my mouth, I noticed Jessica watching me. Her expression seemed to volley between pain, fear and humiliation—and I felt myself soften.
“Lizzie, I’m… so sorry. He told me the two of you weren’t seeing each other anymore…”
I held up a hand. “Please… don’t say any more. It’s ok.” Then my eye caught on something else. As Randall rushed back into the room with rags and a bucket, I grabbed the bottle of wine from the table, tossing the gift tag at him. He caught it, briefly scanning the message inscribed on it before glancing back at me, realization dawning.
“Elizabeth, don’t do anything stupid…”
“Too late… you’ve already beaten me to it.” Then I held up the bottle, waving it between us. “There’s seventy-five dollars of wine left in here that I paid for. That makes it mine, so I’m taking it home to celebrate the fact that I am no longer yours . Goodbye, Randall.”
With way more confidence than I actually felt, I turned on my heel, picking up my sandals from where I’d deposited them. I offered a silent prayer of gratitude as I left the room that— this time —I didn’t suffer a single misstep.
And as I crossed the last stretch of hallway towards my freedom, I may have accidentally tilted the bottle just a smidge, leaving behind the sort of deep-set stain that only a ninety-five point Pinot Noir could do.
Anyway, it was fitting, wasn’t it? And reminiscent of the mark left upon the heart of a thirty-year-old, would-be hopeless romantic by an inadequate jackass who—as it turned out—had never really loved her at all.