Falling in Between, page 2
I huff a relieved sigh when I shove my plastic key into the card reader and burst into the room. Steph’s on the bed with the TV blaring and a breakfast tray on her lap. Dani’s voice carries in from the balcony where she’s shouting at Bill.
The door bangs closed, forcing Steph to direct her attention to me. “Oh. My. God!” Scrambled egg fall from her mouth to the bedsheet, and she doesn’t even attempt to catch them. “You look like shit!”
“Thanks.” I shuffle past the bathroom. “I’m just glad I’m not dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. You heard me. Dead!”
One of these days her eyes are going to permanently lodge in her head if she doesn’t stop rolling them. “Why would you be dead? I mean, aside from the bottle of tequila you drank?”
Still clutching the sheer coverup to my chest like a rosary, I glare at her. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I could have been murdered by the cartel boss I evidently fucked two ways from Tuesday!”
“Holy shit! He was a cartel boss?”
I shrug. “Who knows? I can’t remember his name.”
Dani pokes her head in from the veranda, the phone pressed to her ear. “You slept with some random man?”
I toss my hands up and give an exaggerated shrug. “I have no idea, but based on the ache between my legs, I’d wager on yes.”
“No, Bill!” Dani groans. “You can’t give the Luxberg case to—” The door to the balcony slams shut.
Steph laughs. “It’s just like the good ol’ college days.”
“No, in college, you and Dani were the ones slutting it up.” I thumb my chest, annoyed. “Not me. I was with Harold!”
A fog of nostalgia clouds Steph’s eyes before she gives me a once-over. “What’s with the sarong?”
“I panicked when I woke up next to El Chapo.”
She snorts with laughter. “El Chapo, that’s good. But seriously…” Fighting a smile, she places the tray on the nightstand then glances at me, again taking in my attire. “You ran out naked?”
“Yep.”
“Well, my work here is done.” She dusts off her hands.
I arch an eyebrow. “Your work?”
“You had a dirty one-nighter, so you should be good to go when we get back to New York. It’s kinda like breaking a champagne bottle over a boat on its maiden voyage. A quick, grunge fuck is good luck after a divorce.”
All I can do is stare. The irony of Steph’s illogical life logic sometimes makes sense.
2
Six months later
At ten o’clock on a Saturday night, while many new divorcees hit the promising bars of Manhattan, I sit by the fireplace in my one-bedroom apartment wearing a cheap, Target robe with an empty wine glass in hand. I’ve spent the evening flipping through my wedding album, taking out the photos and setting fire to them.
I come to the very last page, and when I yank the picture of Harold shoving cake into my face from the protective sleeve, a piece of graph paper floats to the floor.
The second I pick it up and glance over it, my jaw tightens. There, in Harold’s chicken scratch, is a sex schedule. And not ours. Anger bubbles inside as I stare at the column titled: Places. Underneath is a list of stores, parks, and elevators. I ball up the paper, place it on the hearth, and hold a lighter to it, watching the red flames eat away at the edges.
Maybe I was the boring one.
Another glass of wine and I’m scrolling Facebook.
Images and memes fly across my news feed. And when it comes to a halt, well, it’s like I’m on Wheel of Fortune and the ticker just stopped on bankrupt. Baa-dum-doom-doo.
Smack dab in the middle of my screen is a post of Harold and the twenty-year-old housekeeper, Valeria, on a beach in the Bahamas. He’s sunburned with a beer in hand. Even though the selfie he shared of them is off-centered, all I can stare at is Valeria’s smile. Harold never posted anything personal on social media when we were together. He didn’t do selfies. He always wore sunscreen and only drank unsweet tea. His spreadsheet sex was always limited to the bedroom. “Well, someone has evidently loosened up a bit,” I grumble and toss the phone to the floor.
That’s it.
I’ve got to do something.
I’ve got to step outside my comfort zone.
I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want my destiny to be isolation…although, there is a certain allure to being the crazy cat lady. In a desperate bid to add some spice to my life, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and type in the web address to HookUp. Steph swears by the dating site, and at this point, I’m eager enough to try it.
As soon as the pink and blue log pops up, I crack my knuckles and flip the little plastic tap on my Franzia wine, filling my glass. Again.
I type in my name, age, profession, and relationship status—which I note mocks my career choice—then I stare at the text box requesting details about who I am.
It shouldn’t be hard to talk myself up, but it is.
If I say I’m fun, I sound conceited.
Smart means I’m arrogant.
If I try too hard to come across witty, I’ll just sound pathetic.
I could say I’m shit at using chopsticks… Great! I’ll just leave it blank.
I hit “continue,” and the computer beeps.
Evidently HookUp doesn’t want me to skip the “About Me” section.
Fine, asshole. My fingers fly over the keys, and the result is: Fun-loving girl with an admiration for the beach and a good book.
I stare at that, and I do what any middle-aged woman who realizes her life can be summed up in thirteen words would do: I down my glass of wine.
Steph swears this is my time to have fun. My last hoorah before turning forty—five years is the blink of an eye in her mind. Soon enough, I’ll be pushing sixty. Then any man that would want anything to do with my “dusty bat cave”—Steph’s words, not mine—will need Viagra, and just my luck, he won’t have Medicaid.
I palm my face and mentally insist I’m overreacting. I can write whatever I want about myself in that little biography section, because surely, no fruitful connection will come from a dating app called HookUp.
After staring at the screen for ten minutes, I come up with nothing. I can’t even make up an interesting life. Maybe I was meant for Harold and his stupid fucking spreadsheets.
This is my life, I tell myself.
Tomorrow, I’m going to get a cat.
Or two.
Or ten.
3
Rows upon rows of beer. Brown bottles. Green bottles. Clear bottles.
My gaze skims the selection of the Little Market grocery store. “Where the crap are the stupid wine coolers?”
I drink wine. And tequila. Why Steph asked me to pick up some wine cooler bullshit for our Netflix binge is beyond me.
My eyes land on the spiked, pomegranate-flavored sparkling water, zeroing in on the “Only 100 calories” sticker. Now I see. Of course, there’s only one box left, and it’s shoved way back on the top shelf.
I lift onto my toes to try to reach it, but my fingers barely brush the side of the cardboard. “Shit,” I curse under my breath and then place the sole of my Converse over the sticker that reads: Do not stand on this ledge.
I glance around to make sure there are no employees are in sight, and then I hoist myself right up there. Just like the rebel I am. And damn if the carton of drinks doesn’t move farther back when I try to swipe it. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
Now on my tiptoes, I’m teetering halfway in the cooler, swearing at the box of low-calorie alcohol.
“Here, let me get that.” A deep, ovary-twinging voice comes from behind me.
I watch a tattooed hand grab the bottles in question.
When I hop down to take it, my jaw hits the dirty, laminate market floor.
It’s the cartel boss from my Jose Cuervo night in Mexico. El Chapo should be anywhere other than Manhattan. Swallowing, I take in the white V-neck clinging to his chest. His faded jeans…which of course, hang dangerously low on his hips—and man, are they snug in all the right places. The smattering of green and brown in his eyes promise he’ll be good, but that body riddled with tattoos and the way he’s biting his bottom lip scream that he’s terribly bad. Honestly, I kind of want to pat myself on the back for this one.
“Elijah,” he remarks with a smile that could make a nun wet.
“Oh, um…” I drop the drinks in my cart, grab his hand and shake it, which makes the entire ordeal more awkward because, well, I’ve evidently had his penis inside me. Stop, Charlie. Just stop it. Say thank you and flee! But instead, I stand here, still shaking his hand like an idiot and studying him a tad too hard.
This is the type of man who will destroy everything I thought I knew about myself. About sex. About men, so maybe it’s best I have little recollection of what we did.
“Demi, right?” He smirks, and I swear to God, if I had one less ounce of self-control, I’d whimper.
“Yep.” I laugh nervously. No point in correcting him now. “Good memory.”
“Oh, I’d never forget a woman like you.”
“Oh, um. That’s uh…nice.” My gaze drifts down his body, and I swallow. He makes me dumb. “Thanks, um, for, you know, getting the beer.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “I mean, wine coolers.”
He just stares at me, his eyes twinkling with filthy promises and scandalous invitation. The silence presses in on me from all sides. I don’t do well in awkward situations. At all. Leave. Now. Grab the shopping cart, and run like the wind!
“So, um, I’m just gonna…go.” I push the cart and walk off, but instead of my planned, graceful exit, I collide with the damn display bin of BOGO granola bars.
“Just like the last time I saw you. So, it seems you always have somewhere to go.” He grins like a bastard, and all it does is ignite a hellish fire over my skin.
I fight to get the wheel unstuck from the wire bin, laughing, because…there’s nothing else I can do. With each hard tug, a clatter resounds against the floor. Elijah—or so he says—casually leans down and unhooks the wheel.
“Thanks again.” My cheeks sting with heat, and I have to wonder what vibrant shade of red I am currently.
This time, when I go to whizz by, he grabs the handle of the buggy. His arm brushes mine. He’s so close all I can do is suck in the faint scent of leather and spice that radiate from him like some alluring trap. “I want to see you again,” he confesses, his eyes glued to my mouth.
My pulse goes on the fritz when he stalks closer. “Oh.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Mexico, and I assure you, that is very, very unlike me.” He runs his nose along the curve of my neck, and the heat of his breath ignites goosebumps across my flesh.
I can’t stop my eyes from closing. Hell, I may be groaning—in the middle of the grocery store—but I wouldn’t know, because this man’s mere presence is intoxicating. Say something, you idiot!
“Coffee?”
He steps back with the smuggest smile to ever exist shaping his lips. “How very tame of you, Tiger lily.” The emphasis placed on that name sends a tingling warmth down my spine. He watches me as though he’s waiting on a response, some catty comeback to this inside joke, but again…thank you, tequila, for erasing from my memory what was possibly the most erotic night of my life.
He fishes his phone from his jean’s pocket and drops it in my hand. “Maybe this time, you’ll give me the right number?”
By now my cheeks must be a shade of red that only the devil wears. “Oh God, did I give you the wrong number?”
He nods. “Very cute of you, by the way.”
I quickly type in “Cha…” then backspace, backspace, backspace. Demi. To him, I’m Demi. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Once my number’s stored, I return his phone.
“What about next Friday, around four?” He glances at the screen with amusement.
“Sure…”
“A coffee date. Very cute.” He laughs. “I’ll see you soon, Demi.”
And with that, he grabs a bottle of champagne from the top shelf before strutting away.
There are almost eight billion people in this world, and of course, leave it to me to have a raunchy one-night stand in Mexico with a man who shops at my grocery store.
4
The sputter of traffic echoes down the subway steps, and the smell of exhaust nearly knocks me over. I weave through the droves of businessmen leaving work early, shielding my eyes from the sun when I emerge from the station.
I spend the majority of the walk to meet Steph wondering why I agreed to have coffee with this guy. Somewhere in the rule book, this has to go against the code of one-night stands. It has to.
I pass by a sandwich shop, catching my reflection in the window. I actually look halfway put together. My favorite skinny jeans, a trusted pair of Converse, and a fitted black shirt have never done me wrong. Casual Friday, appropriate and classy. It’s the perfect outfit for an afternoon with a supposed cartel boss.
Two blocks down, I find Steph waiting under the awning to Chelsea Ice Cream, arms crossed, shaking her head. “Please,” she says when I stop in front of her. “Tell me you are planning to go home and change before your date?”
“What?” I glance at my outfit. “What’s wrong with this?”
She holds up her cell. The camera shutter clicks.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
She grins while furiously tapping her fingers on the screen. “Yep.”
“It’s just coffee, Steph.”
“Mmm. Yes, but you’re not going out with me. It’s with some mysterious man you know nothing about, even though you’ve bumped uglies with each other.”
“Wow.”
She shrugs unapologetically.
“It’s Friday. After work.”
“And?” Her phone dings, and a pleased grin shapes her face. “See!” She shoves her makeshift, electronic mirror at me, showing off the unflattering picture of me she took thirty seconds ago, with my eyes half-closed and my mouth open. The caption reads: THIS is what she is wearing to meet El Chapo!!!!!! Below the picture is Dani’s response: a GIF of a parrot shaking its head.
“I don’t even know why I’m friends with you two,” I profess, then swat the device away.
“Because we’re delightful. Come on.” Steph grabs my wrist and yanks me toward the crosswalk. “It’s salvageable.”
“Salvageable?”
A flood of taxis zoom off when the little man flashes on the crosswalk sign. We weave our way between businessmen and people on bikes. “The jeans are okay.” She cuts her eyes at my blouse and shoes before she continues. “The shirt and Chuck Taylors, not so much.”
She spends the next block rattling off different department stores in the area. I turn every one down.
After we pass the third food cart, the smell of sauerkraut and onions wafts in front of my face. “Steph, I’m not worried about my outfit. I just want to grab some food and go meet the man.”
“God, that smells so gross it’s good.” Steph makes a beeline to Joe’s Yankee Dawgs cart. She proceeds to order two hot dogs and then declares Joe a thief when he tells her the total.
“Greedy asshole,” she grumbles and hands me the foil package.
I stare at the withered weenie crammed inside a most likely stale bun. Disgust curls my lip.
“Scarf that food-like-substance down,” she says. “We’ve got a wardrobe to salvage.”
Glaring at her, I take a bite. “I really think this outfit is fine.”
“You’re out of practice. I get it, but as your best friend, I cannot, with good conscience, allow you to go on a date with a man dressed like that.” She waves her hands from my head to my toes, just in case I missed the outfit she referenced.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” She cocks a brow. “And how’s the dating site working out for you? Have you had sex since Mexico?”
I glare harder and take another bite of overcooked hotdog while we navigate the crowded, New York sidewalks.
_____
An hour later, I step out of Nordstrom Rack. My trusted jeans and Converse in a bag, and a bright-blue sundress we found clinging to my body. I glance down at the camel-colored wedges that were already causing my feet to throb.
A proud smile beams on Steph’s face when she snatches the bag from my hands. “You look pretty.”
“Well, I feel like a slut.”
She laughs. “A slut? The dress almost hits your knees.”
“Maybe when I bend over! And it’s from the junior’s department, Steph. As in, people under eighteen.”
“Which means it’s fun and flirty. Exactly what you need to be. Jesus, where’s the Charlie who flashed her tits for a set of cheap, plastic beads at Mardi Gras?”
“She stayed in New Orleans back in two thousand and four.”
“No, I’ll tell you what happened; Spreadsheet Man sucked all the fun right out of her.”
I watch a businesswoman speed-walk past, her cell pressed to her ear and her red high heels just moving along the sidewalk like they’re a pair of Nike Airs. “God, how do women do this every day?”
“After a while, your feet just kind of go numb,” Steph says.
We stop at the corner across from the coffee shop. A sightseeing bus whizzes by, the wind ruffling the skirt of my dress and exposing far too much thigh. I don’t have a clue what the hell I’m doing. I shake my head as the panic sets in. “Steph, I was a bumbling idiot the other day in the store. Last week, some guy from that HookUp app sent me a sext. It took me ten minutes to Google a response that didn’t use the words ‘wet folds,’ and then I didn’t even respond.”
“You Googled sext responses?”
