Page 2 of Run for the Money

She ran away without saying a single word, which for some reason felt worse than if she’d screamed. I’d never felt so invisible. Then I stepped outside the cabin and heard Paul shout at his brother about how it had been months since he’d loved me, and he was “deeply and irreversibly” in love with this new woman. That catapulted me from “invisible” to “atomized.” I tried to be the bigger person, to let Paul go gracefully instead of making a scene, but every second I spent in front of him on that mountain carved me into smaller and smaller pieces.

It’s been almost two months since the Naked Cabin Incident, and this is the first time I’ve seen Paul or the new woman since then. I can’t think of a worse scenario to run into them than this one. Trapped in an art gallery, surrounded by an overwhelming amount of lights, sound, and color, my hand still clutched between Mirielle’s, is the definition of a worst-case scenario. The petite brunette on Paul’s arm isn’t just my beautiful replacement—she also happens to work for Mirielle’s daughter. If Mirielle spots them, there’s no way I can avoid a conversation. I have nothing to say to them, only things to shout hysterically while flipping them off. Not the right vibe for the evening, even with the cacophony around us.

The statues rotate faster and faster in time with the music. I can only hope this crescendo means the artistic nightmare is about to be over. My eyes are on the doors, because the second they open I’m bolting. I might drag Mirielle with me, because her grip is so tight I’ve lost feeling in my hand, but so be it. I threw out the last of my dignity with the Naked Cabin Incident, so why not drag Mirielle Cunningham through a fundraising gala like a wild woman?

The video and music stop as suddenly as they began, and the regular lights come back on. There’s a metallic clunk and the doors swing wide. The flight instinct drains out of me, leaving behind the etiquette my parents have drilled into me since I was born twenty-eight years ago. I can’t run out of the room; that’s undignified. The polite thing to do is to make conversation with the other guests at the gala, regardless of my personal history with them.

“What an exhibit! Such a fresh take on the climate crisis. Oh, Paul Walters and Alicia Hanratty are here! Mel, honey, did you see?” Mirielle asks.

Only Mirielle Cunningham would string those sentences together so casually.

“I did see, yes, but there was rather a lot going on,” I hedge, unsure if she’s somehow forgotten Paul and I were together for four years.

“Paul, Alicia, hello!” Mirielle calls, waving at the couple.

She still has a hold of my hand, and the window for a graceful exit has passed. I toss back the last of my wine and brace myself for devastation because Paul and Alicia are headed directly for us. If they feel as uncomfortable as I do, though, they’re a lot better at hiding it.

“Evening, Mirielle. How are you?” Paul says with a warm smile.

Mirielle leans forward to kiss his cheek, and she finally releases my arm. She pulls Alicia into a motherly hug, and then it’s my turn to go through the gauntlet. Paul turns to me, and has the decency to look guilty. I wonder if he regrets the way our last conversation went, or if he’s merely embarrassed I overheard his outburst. He’s not usually big on outbursts. I certainly never inspired enough passion in him to raise his voice, even when we argued—yet another way I pale in comparison to the magnificent Alicia.

“Melanie, you look well,” he says gently.

What a sweet, affable liar.

“Good to see you. You, too, Alicia,” I say as calmly as I can, despite how badly I want to drop to the floor and scream.

Realization—quickly followed by panic—sweeps over Mirielle’s face at her faux-pas. I’m sorely tempted to address it. For a moment, it would be satisfying to say,Thank you so much for forcing me into a conversation with my ex and the woman he left me for! It’s the cherry on top of an unbearable twenty minutes! I hope you lose sleep over this for the next ten years. But the satisfaction would be fleeting, and the embarrassment would be eternal.

“I love your dress,” Alicia says through an overly cheerful smile that’s finally showing the cracks in her composure. “It’s ‘70s Gunne Sax, yeah?”

I nod. “It was my mother’s when she was younger.”

“Gorgeous,” Alicia says.

And then, all conversation grinds to a halt. No one wants to address the history between me, Paul, and Alicia, and apparently the awkwardness has eroded all ability to make small talk. Between the sensory overload of the art and the social distress, I’m too hot. If I don’t get out of this exhibit hall in the next five minutes, I’m going to sweat through all this vintage silk. Or puke. Maybe both.

“Excuse me,” I say. “It was lovely to see you all.”

I don’t wait for anyone to respond. It’s rude, but I don’t care. I need air. I head for the stairs to the rooftop bar, even though it’s cold out tonight. I’ll brave late October in Denver to escape this situation. Coming here was a mistake. I should have turned down Mirielle’s invitation and stayed home. It would have disappointed my mother, not to mention hurt Mirielle’s feelings, but I’ve managed to do both anyway.

I burst onto the roof and suck in a noisy lungful of air. My breath fogs slightly as I exhale, but it’s not cold enough out here to send me running inside. It’s dark and it’s deserted—exactly what I want. Grateful for the respite from the crowd downstairs, I head toward the edge of the roof to look out over the city.

Movement catches my eye, and I glance to the right to find a man already here—way too close to me. I can’t believe I didn’t see him when I charged over here, but now I’m directly in front of him. He’s facing the doors, his elbows propped on the railing and his legs extended slightly in front of his body, less than a foot away from my own feet. The way he’s got one ankle crossed over the other makes it clear he’s wearing cowboy boots under his tux pants—real ones, too. There’s dirt caked in the stitching. It’s not the strangest fashion choice I’ve seen tonight, but it’s up there. He’s probably looking for thesame break from the event as me, so I offer a polite smile then side-step him to face the railing, giving him some semblance of privacy.

“You certainly took your goddamn time.”

My spine stiffens. There’s no one else out here, which means the stranger’s talking to me. Aggressively.

“That’s awfully rough language for this venue,” I scold, not loving how much I sound like my mother. But I’m not loving his demeanor, either.

“Well, pardon my fucking French, Miss Manners,” he says.

I squint at him through the darkness. I’m closer to the door than he is, so if I run for it, I could probably make it inside before him. We’re only one flight of stairs above the highest level of the gala festivities, so I could reach security quickly if necessary.

Then again, he’s got a significant height and weight advantage over me. Even leaning against the railing like he is, he’s a good six inches taller than me. The tux jacket he’s got on doesn’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders, either. If he lunges at me, I might not make it to the door ahead of him. I doubt anyone would hear me scream, either.

“Don’t even think about trying anything,” I say with the fiercest tone I can muster. “My boyfriend is meeting me up here in a minute.”

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