Page 88 of Miles Apart
Isank to a new low that happens to be at the bottom of a martini glass. I chase down the burn with a gulp of vodka.
Heads are on a swivel around the hotel bar, homing in on the red strapless dress that’s hugging me in all the right places. My lips, which are the same color, twitch over the rim of the glass before I take another sip and swivel toward my unexpected companion tonight, a move I’ll regret in the morning.
“You’re still a bitch.”
Madison chokes into her champagne and coughs around the French 75 that no doubt went down the wrong pipe. She waves off the dig with her gel manicure. “I’m a good person once you get to know me!”
“You mean once you get past your thirsty ways of running after married men? You’re lucky you didn’t catch a beatdown.”
Her mouth falls open, but she quickly closes it. “You’re right.” She nods, her hazel eyes slow to reach mine. “You don’t fight, do you?”
“Do I look like I’d chance ruining this dress over you?” My face screws into a scowl. The floral appliqué and corset bodice curving around my body is for the red carpet, not jail.
Tonight’s field trip off my couch did not include this on the itinerary. A photographer I know is in town for a shoot at this hotel. Harmless, right? Take one guess who the stylist was.
Is no other stylist available in Los Angeles?
Madison and I stayed on opposite sides of the bar during the post-shoot get-together. Over time, people filtered out, sliding us closer until eventually we were three chairs apart. I had no issue ignoring her, but she wore me down. There is only so much “Emma, can we please talk?” and “I’m sorry, I made a mistake” I can take. Madison was on the verge of tears, like that would move me to empathy. Who the hell cries at a bar on a Friday night, anyway?
I should leave, but the only thing waiting for me at home is a half-pint of ice cream and reminders that I’m alone. The goalpost moves whenever I try to turn off feelings I never wanted in the first place. I hate the way they claw at my chest with surgical precision. I’m not supposed to care, but I can’t find my way back to the time in my life when I didn’t. It wasn’t that long ago, but now it feels like a lifetime away.
“I appreciate your willingness to sit with me.”
“Like I had a choice.”
Kojo already doubled down on Madison as his go-to stylist, which is a Rambo-sized knife to the back if you ask me. I barely stomach people on a good day, and any serving size of Madison Monroe will fuck up my gut. Kojo swears there’s more to her than deception and showing her ass, but I don’t believe it. I’ll only reconsider if Justice decides to extend Madison an olive branch one day. Her heart is too big for her own good. Until then, left on read.
Eric Dane behind the bar keeps giving me dirty looks for not reacting to her endless loop of apologies. If only he knew the full story of her fuckery. The only thing keeping my ass planted on this barstool are his handcrafted cocktails, but he should direct that silver fox stare at the person on her apology tour.
Yet you’re still here.
Like I said, I unlocked a new low. Peeling myself away fromGossip Girlis a shame I carry. Leaving my house was essential tonight, for my sanity and to reduce the snack bits falling into the cracks of my sofa.
Go to the hotel, have a few drinks, get a room, and get over Miles. That was the plan. Not sit next to Madison, who’s still pouting.
“Are you done cursing me out in your head?” She twists her barstool my way, her black bodycon dress touching her knees.
“Give me a few more minutes.”
Madison’s heart-shaped lips twist into a frown. At least she looks remorseful when she lets out a breath. “I really was a bitch.”
“Was?”
Her eyes drop to her glass. “I can’t apologize enough for my behavior at the singles’ retreat. Before.” She shakes her head. “I was in a bad place and wanted…there’s no excuse for how I treated Justice. I never expected Terrence to leave her while they were together.”
“You’re not that delusional.” I toss a glance her way. “Maybe you are.”
Denying Madison’s beauty is a waste of time. Her thick lips, thighs, and wavy, cinnamon-brown hair would knock a celibate person unconscious. The couple of months Madison and Terrence had in college were never a match for the fifteen years he spent adoring Justice.
I level her with a look I hope sears into her forehead so she remembers it the next time she gets the urge to be awful. “Consider yourself lucky the day you have a friend who becomes your sister. Justice is everything good in this world. She didn’t deserve the games you played. I’ve made my fair share of mess, but there are lows too low for even me. You can’t fix past mistakes, but you can glow up, grow up, and move forward.”
Madison’s eyes fill with tears. “Trust me when I say I feel awful. I’ve done a lot of soul-searching since the retreat. Work I should’ve done years ago. I’m not a person who plots and schemes to take people down. You’re right”—she sniffles—“Justice didn’t deserve that. I clung to the wrong things for jaded reasons, misinterpreted someone’s kindness. Seeing Terrence at a retreat I booked on a whim felt like a sign we’d get another chance at love. My right hand was itching—”
“An itch is the reason you acted a mess?” I fix my would-be nemesis with a stare.
“It’s something we believe back home,” Madison says. “If your right hand is itchy, an old acquaintance will cross your path.”
“What about the left?” I must be buzzed if I’m entertaining tales about unlotioned hands.
