Page 47 of Wingwoman
The peachy spray on her cheeks flushed a deeper rose color that matched her lips as her wide blue eyes met mine in wonder. “What do I do now?” she asked.
“Well, lesson number one… you can accept that drink since it came straight from the bartender. If anyone else hands you a drink, you toss that shit away. You understand?”
She nodded, concern twisting her features. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
My stomach plummeted as anxiety steeped into my bloodstream. A dark, humorless laugh escaped me. “You could say that,” I said.
That concern etched onto her face deepened even more. “I’m sorry.”
I squeezed her arm gently in what I hoped was a reassuring way. Despite the heavy thud of my pounding heart on my ribcage, I took a deep breath. A calming breath. “Thank you,” was all I said. “Learn from my mistake. Don’t be like me. Or rather, don’t be like college-aged me.”
My story wasn’t unique. And that’s what was so damn sad. My story—girl goes out with girlfriends…girlfriends ditch her…girl gets roofied and raped –it was nothing new.
But that night didn’t define me anymore. I had learned from it. And it turned my life around. Gave me my mission in life to help educate others so it wouldn’t happen as much to them.
“Now,” I said, clearing my throat and patting her arm, “go over there with the drink and say hi. Sit down with him.”
“Are you coming?” she asked wide-eyed.
Smiling, I shook my head. “If he wantedmycompany, he would’ve sent me the drink, right?”
“What if I fuck it all up?” she asked nervously.
I nearly snort laughed at the sound of the word fuck coming from Maggie’s perfectly innocent lips. “You won’t,” I reassured her. “And if you do, so what? Consider him good practice. Nothing serious. Be yourself, even if ‘yourself’ is delightfully weird. Okay?”
She gave me a weak smile. “I’ll try.”
Then she was off. Like watching a fledgling leave the nest for the first time, I watched her cross the bar, margarita in hand.
The door to the bar creaked open, light spilling into the otherwise dark bar just as Maggie sat down across from the guy. A man with a massive vase of gorgeous flowers walked toward the bar.
Pretty damn fancy bouquet for a place with peanut shells on the floor. Even still, the arrangement had my favorite color peppered into it… orange. Marigolds to be exact. And what looked like some amaryllis and petunias too.
The delivery man stopped in front of me, setting the vase down next to me on the bar. “Hope Marcoux-Evans?”
“Um… yes?”
“Sign here please.”
He shoved a form and a pen into my hand. Dumbfounded, I scribbled my signature and then he was gone.
That’s when I saw it… another scarf tied around the vase.
This one was Fendi—two slim orange borders around the edge and black and white stripes inside. It was, in a word, gorgeous.
And I knew immediately who it was from without even looking at the simple gold and blue card tucked into the flowers.
What was the deal with Josh and these scarves? I mean, yes, I loved scarves, even the less expensive ones.
I plucked the card from the vase, my knuckles trailing across the velvety petals of the amaryllis, and opened it.
Josh’s masculine print was inside, not some assistant’s flowery cursive.
Hope
noun (hop) the light at the end of the tunnel. knowing the best is yet to come.
Marigolds for creative inspiration. Amaryllis for muse. Petunias for Hope.
