Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Skanky dresses make uncomfortable nightgowns.
If you’re in doubt, drink more.
Nora shouldn’t text at night.
Otis had dragged me to Garland’s —the only gay bar in town—after work to meet his castmates.
While he was dancing and tossing invisible lassos to pull me to him, I tried hard not to scan the selfies of me and John again.
I had deleted them twice. Then thought—what if I need them in the future for some form of blackmail?
I rechecked the social media numbers again. The steady climb of John’s made my head ache. I needed a distraction. Maybe some colorful drinks and a few kisses. Anyone hot, really—just as long as they looked nothing like John.
“What are you doing?” Otis leaned over my shoulder, peering at my phone. I quickly snatched it out of sight, hiding the Google search for John Kater I hadn’t even realized I’d typed. My body parts seemed to have a mind of their own.
“Oh, girl,” Otis said, squeezing into the sticky booth beside me.
“What?” I took a large sip of the drink he presented me with. This week’s Garland’s special was a pink cocktail with a cherry and cotton candy on top. It was an abomination, but packed a punch. I took another sip.
“I know that look,” Otis said, stealing the cotton candy.
“What look?”
“The look you have whenever Gillian Anderson pops up on TV. You...” —he pointed his straw at me in an accusatory way— “...have a crush.”
“I do not,” I protested, flicking the cherry his way. He caught it in his mouth, chewing while wiggling his eyebrows. He certainly had his talents.
But I felt the heat spreading across my cheeks, worried they matched the drink. I hoped Garland’s was dark enough for him not to notice. He’d mistake what I really felt—anger and annoyance—with something far worse.
Otis just raised a brow. “It’s a bad idea.”
“I’m not…” I huffed, crossing my arms, then uncrossing them, realizing how defensive I must look. “I don’t have a crush on John. You’re gross for even suggesting it.”
“OH, LOVE. No, it’s too late.” Otis pressed a fist against his mouth.
“Shut up.”
I wanted to tell him he was seeing things that weren’t there. But at that moment, Madame Fatal came stalking down the stage. The beautiful drag queen with the killer cut crease and a breastplate rivaling Jessica Rabbit walked past, throwing Otis a wink.
“No,” I pointed at him. “Every time you date a drag queen, I have to knit together your broken heart with Buffy reruns and so much ice cream that we both have to detox for a month. And I don’t currently have enough money for fancy juice.” I pushed the drink away. “Or this thing, for that matter.”
Otis grabbed my hands across the table. “Alright, sweet summer child, let’s both vow not to get our hearts broken, okay?” He squeezed my fingers before pushing the drink back to me. “I’m sure Claire will let you put it on her tab,” he winked at me.
The Four Non-Blonds’ “What’s Going On” blared out of the speakers before someone—my guess was the bachelorette party that entered halfway through the night—shot a golden confetti cannon over our table.
Claire, the bartender I’d briefly dated before the Tobias disaster, brought over a tray with shots in a color that definitely promised a hangover.
“The ladies are giving out free drinks.” She nodded at the bride-to-be, who was now dancing atop the pool table, her tiara hanging dangerously low over her brow.
Claire was simply beautiful. Scully-red hair, but instead of a clean bob, long waves tumbled down her back, creating a stunning contrast to her gray eyes and freckled nose.
She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was to be a cottage-core lesbian living with three cats and a goat in a mushroom-covered forest while reading witchy books—and having lazy afternoon sex under a canopy of trees.
We had a whirlwind romance that ended when she met her current girlfriend, and I met Tobias.
Tobias the golden retriever. Good looks, well-mannered, and Dad had.
..loved him. Tobias had been the All-American dream.
Perfect for someone...not me. I was thorny and difficult. Even before the accident happened.
I held my hand against my stomach, where a piece of car window had sliced my gut in half. Even now, after all this time, I could still feel it sting when I moved too fast.
What had John thought when he’d glimpsed the scar at the hot tub? Did he find it ugly? Did he wonder how it happened?
I shook my head. Screw him. Who cared?
“You okay, hun?” Claire brushed a hand over my shoulder. I stood on unsteady legs, took two shots at once, grabbed her face, and kissed her. Deeply.
The room around us cheered.
“Never been better.”
The room was tilting. My mouth felt like something had died inside it. The smell of tequila lingered on my top, giving me flashbacks of green shot glasses slammed on sticky tables, the burn of alcohol mingling with stolen puffs of cigarettes.
I maneuvered myself onto all fours, grabbing my sheets like they were lifelines in a storm.
Next to me, someone groaned. The someone, completely wrapped in a blanket, was Otis. I lifted the corner.
“Turn the light off,” Otis whined. He was fully dressed, including the shiny new Valentino sneakers he had shown off to every single person last night.
More memories flooded back—Madame Fatal in murder heels and a Cher wig, a confetti cannon exploding sometime between pink cocktail number four and slurring my address to the cab driver.
Me fighting for Otis’s phone as he threatened to confess his love in a drunk text around 3 a.m. Claire asking me to go home with her.
I had declined.
She had a girlfriend, and if my mushy brain remembered correctly, they were poly, but that didn’t make it okay to kiss my ex because I was trying to ban a certain someone from haunting my thoughts.
Another memory crashed into my mind with the force of a freight train—a bathroom selfie that would give my mom a heart attack, with Otis’s face covered in red lipstick and my cleavage smeared with glitter.
I patted the covers, trying to find my phone.
My head pounded so hard I was sure Otis could hear it. I kicked him. He yelped and pulled the cover over his head. “What?”
“Otis, move your skinny ass. Where’s my phone?”
He grumbled something inaudible.
I shoved him, and he tumbled out of the bed with a curse. “I’m giving this Airbnb a one-star rating,” he muttered as he tugged on my blanket, rolled himself into a burrito, and went back to sleep. On the floor.
I found my phone inside my boot as I heaved myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Even though it was only two steps, it felt like I was running a marathon. Definitely had to quit my occasional smoking habit.
A little buzz ran through my thumb as the device unlocked. I decided it was a three-shot espresso kind of morning. With blurry eyes, I glanced at the screen. The strangled noise of a small dying animal escaped me.
“What was that? Did you step on a rat?” Otis peeked over the edge of the bed.
I opened my messages again. Nope, I hadn’t hallucinated. It was still there.
“No. No. NO.” I dry heaved, clutching the cupboard, trying to keep the room from spinning.
“Nora, now may be a good time to tell you I didn’t finish that first aid course, so please don’t die, okay?”
I wobbled to the doorframe. “You remember the selfie we took?” My voice sounded distant, hollow, teetering on the edge of a breakdown.
Otis grinned at me from across the room. “You mean after I got Fatale to kiss me?” His brows jiggled.
“Yeah, that one.” Vertigo hit me. The room seemed to shrink. “I sent it.”
Otis placed his elbow on the bed and a hand under his chin. His hair sticking out in every direction. “As you should. We looked amazing. Or so I think.” He pursed his lips as if pondering our life choices.
I placed the phone on the kitchen counter, not daring to touch it. Staring. Staring at the message.
“Who was the lucky receiver?”
The picture glared back at me. Smudged porno lips.
Dark eyeliner on half-closed lids. The slinky black dress I still wore with its deep V that hugged my curves so well.
Golden glitter on my cleavage accentuated my winding rose vines.
My leopard coat loosely hung over my shoulders and Otis was… licking my ear.
“You look like you’ve just seen the uncut version of the human centipede.”
I swallowed my panic. “John.”
“John who?” Otis sat up straighter.
I turned to face him fully.
Otis’s face went slack. It took him three full seconds. It was almost comical how his expression fell as his mouth hung open. “NO.”
“Yes. I sent the skankiest pic of the year to New York Times bestselling author John Kater.”
Otis pressed his fist to his mouth. “Did he respond?”
“No. He probably thinks I did it on purpose.”
Otis folded his arms under his head. “Well, did you?”
“For the love of musical theater, Otis. I thought you were on my side.” I pressed my knuckles into my eye sockets, trying to piece together last night.
We’d gotten home. Otis had slipped on the stairs.
I remembered sitting on my bed, angry at John, then—sweet, sweet revenge.
I had found his number in my phone after he’d called himself.
I hit my head repeatedly against the doorframe. I was a giant idiot. Now he knew I was thinking about him.
Otis flapped his hands in the air. “Wait! See if you can hit unsend.”
“That’s a thing?” Hope sparked in my chest as I held my phone between my fingertips, praying it wouldn’t betray me again and send him a nude selfie next.
I tapped the three small dots in the corners and hit “unsend to all.” I exhaled, relieved as the picture disappeared. Almost collapsing on the floor.
Then… I screamed, throwing my phone across the room.
Otis ducked as it sailed over his head. “What the—?”
“He’s typing.” I screeched, pointing at my phone.
“You’re so screwed.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. Do something!”
“Do what?”
“I don’t know. Burn it.”
“You want me to burn your phone?” Otis tilted his head, open-mouthed.
“You’re right. Let’s burn the entire house. We can run, change my name, and hide in the Mexican desert. Or maybe Iceland. How is Iceland this time of year?”
I waited for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Otis stood, brushed down his wrinkly shirt, and chewed on his nails. “Okay, I’ll look.”
“No,” I shouted, charging at him, leaping onto the bed.
He approached my phone like it was a rattlesnake. “You don’t want me to look?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I danced nervously on the bed. “Fine. Do it. Quick.”
Otis tipped the phone over. “I don’t think it’ll make a difference if I do it quick or slow.” He tilted his head, grimacing.
“What?” I asked, peeking behind my fingertips that still smelled like stale cigarettes. My stomach churned. I either needed something heavy and salty soon, or the margaritas would make a comeback.
“He texted.”
Oh no. A pregnant pause.
“What does it say?”
Otis picked up the phone and read.
“I swear, Otis, if you don’t hurry up, I will take you out of my will.” I gritted my teeth.
His head snapped to me. “You’re twenty-four and already have your will written? You’re so weird.”
“OTIS.” I launched myself at him.
“Okay, okay,” he said. I snatched my phone from his hand, reading the green blob of a text message.
It was a link to a hangover recipe.