Page 10 of The Forever Experiment

“I guess I’m notattending that dinner tonight,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my black denim jacket for the umpteenth time as I stare at myself in the mirror.

I had planned to wear a satin blouse tucked into black trousers and my favorite pair of Dolce & Gabbana pumps for the speaker's dinner tonight. Somehow, I ended up in a deep pink lace bodysuit that outlines my breasts a little too perfectly and flaunts far too much cleavage for it to be acceptable to wear to a business dinner, especially paired with the black faux leather skirt that hugs every inch of skin I have to offer and rests at my mid-thigh. My lips are nearly as pink as my top, glossy and accented by a cat eye. I tossed my braids into a high pony, letting two long strands frame my face. The oversized, black denim jacket is the only modest thing about me right now, down to the fuchsia Valentino platforms that screamfuck me.

I tell myself I chose these shoes because they not only match the body suit and platforms are easier to walk in, but let’s honest—that’s not the only reason. I’m definitely dressed for a date. I said I wasn’t sure if I’d bail on the dinner to go out with Easton, but then, I came back to my room, showered, and ended up standing in front of the mirror dressed like this, so I guess my auto-pilot chose for me.

Though, thisisn’ta date. Definitely not.

Just two old college friends catching up.

College friends who once had sex. The best sex I’ve ever had, even a decade later.

But I’m not thinking about that.

Liar!The designer fuck-me heels adorning my feet seem to scream.

I tug at the hem of my skirt and turn around to check my back side, straightening out my jacket before finally murmuring, “Fuck it” and grabbing my purse from the side table. I brought this outfit as a backup, ajust in caseI decided to actually go out on the strip while I’m in Vegas. I assumed I wouldn’t—I never do. I don’t go out with friends at home in San Diego, not when I visit my family in Chicago, and never when traveling for work. I either don’t have the time, the energy, or the self-confidence for it.

Tonight, it's self-confidence that’s eating away at me.

Especially knowing I’m about to go out with Easton, of all people. The last time he saw me, I was twenty-two and had a metabolism that can only be described as mythical. Now, even though I take two yoga classes a week and attempt to consume a full serving of vegetables every day, my body looks different than it did back then.

Sure, Easton looked like he was choking on his tongue when he saw me for the first time today, and he may have referred to me as a fucking masterpiece, but he could’ve just been trying to be nice. Gas me up after my big speech. Who knows.

Before I can talk myself out of the night entirely, I swipe my room key and head out the door.

I find Easton standing at a bar near the front entrance of the casino in the same outfit he had worn to the conference earlier. Suddenly, I wonder how high maintenance I look for having changed when I catch Easton lifting his head, blinking as he rears back. His jaw drops as his easy blue eyes blow wide, and my mind begins to scream that I’m definitely wearing the wrong thing.

He clutches his chest, and that dropped jaw morphs to a wide grin as he mouths:bombshell.

The twister of nerves wreaking havoc on my stomach fades to nothing at his laugh. It’s the same feeling I had when I was giving a speech earlier; every time I got afraid or insecure, I’d look at him and feel settled. As I reach him, he lets out a low whistle, extending his arm toward me.

I take it, saying, “One drink. I’ve got to get a good night’s rest because I’m attending several workshops tomorr—”

“Goddamn,” he rasps. “You look un-fucking-real, Maya. Makin’ me the luckiest man in Vegas tonight.” He spins me around, giving himself a full view of my outfit.

“I feel overdressed. You didn’t even change.”

He laughs. “Because I brought exactly two outfits. Plus,” he drops my arm before gesturing to himself, “I still look damn good. Not that it matters. Nobody is going to be looking at me when I’m standing next to you.”

My ex, Anthony, used to say the same thing, except it was always laced with venom.

I’m invisible when it comes to you.

I’d met him at Harvard, moved to San Diego for him too. His father was a renowned immigration attorney there, and Anthony was dead set on taking over the firm when he finished college. They have a legacy in the area—highly respected andwell known. While the family and the firm’s praise is more than deserved, Anthony took issue when I decided to open my own practice.

When I made a name for myself, when I was featured in articles and invited to seminars, he took personal offense. Even though we operated in completely different branches of law, he saw us as competitors, and he couldn’t handle being with a woman who was more successful. He wanted to be the guest of honor at all times, never the plus-one.

I refused to diminish my achievements to make space for his spotlight, and in the end, we deteriorated. He also hated when I dressed provocatively, complained about the way I chew my food, and was flabbergasted when I told him that while I’d love to have children someday, I have every intention of being a working mother.

I should’ve known long before I finally called it quits that we weren’t the right fit, but after watching everyone around me fall in love, get married, and find that seemingly impossible balance of work and life, I was desperate for it too.

“Is that a problem for you?” I ask.

Easton blinks. “Is what a problem for me?”

“If my outfit causes people to look in my direction more often than they look in yours?”

He chuckles, rubbing a broad, strong hand across his jaw. “Not even a little. It’s an honor to have you on my arm, Maya, baby.” He holds it out to me, and I smile as I loop mine around his elbow.

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