Page 4 of One Hotlanta Night
“Huh?”
“That extra bag you used to keep in the trunk for going out after work.”
I hadn’t thought about that in months. “Lemme see if I still have it.” I walk outside, the humidity attacking me like I’d just stepped out of the shower, and pop the trunk of my old red Toyota Corolla to check. Wouldn’t you know, I still have that knockoff Stephen Sprouse inside. The obnoxious L’s and V’s are beginning to fade, but it’s still cute. Not like I have money for an authentic one.
Scanning the contents, I find halter slip tops, Daisy Duke shorts, sundresses, and sandals: all the essential S’s apparently. Mixed in are deodorant, body spray, and even a toothbrush for those unplanned overnighters. Condoms, obviously. Concealer and mascara for the morning after. And a phone card with extra minutes on it for my Nokia, just in case.
What happened to my favorite lip gloss, Maybelline Kissing Potion?
Rummaging, I grimace as I think of all the times I’ve used this as my go-to bag. Didn’t really matter where I was hanging out after work. It could be a nightclub in Buckhead, the Applebee’s whose last call was two a.m., or a frat house at Georgia Tech. Enjoying the flexibility of partying when I wanted, where I wanted, and with whomever I found to entertain me.
Today, though, the thought of all those “extracurriculars” makes me groan.
TheTrainspottinglook is getting old.
Free drinks and hot guys notwithstanding.
Digging around the duffel, I pop the plastic lid of body spray. Even though I haven’t opened it in months, Victoria’s Secret Lovespell immediately transports me back to the last time I used it on the regular, when I was sort of dating a couple guys at Tech.
Trent and I were on an off-spell and I was having fun; my mom called it something entirely different. Her non-flattering terms stung, especially coming from a free-spirited flower child from the summer of love.
Well, we’re all entitled to our own ideas of a good time, right?
2001, and yet we’re still living a double standard. Boys screw around as much as they want and get fist bumps and slaps on the back for their numerous conquests. Girls who do the same are just labeled as sluts.
Progress, my ass.
I hold up a spaghetti strap top covered in purple sparkles, remembering how I met Tyler and Owen while wearing it. The lip gloss had come in handy that night; I think I left it at their place. Dammit.
Hopscotching from one guy to another, I tasted enough of the thirty-one flavors to learn what I liked and what I didn’t by the time I was twenty-one. What else is your youth for? In the end, I always came back to Trent, but not because he was the flavor I liked best. Just because he was familiar.
Even if I didn’t like myself much when I was with him.
Sometimes he treated me like I was the best thing to ever happen to him. Other times, he barely tolerated me. But three whole years… that had to count for something, right?
As I finger a pair of cutoff shorts underneath the purple fabric, it makes me wonder how and when things had gone wrong between us. When Trent and I were good together, we were good. Really good. He’d seen me before fibromyalgia and hadn’t commented on my body as I struggled to find a healthy balance from losing too much weight to going decidedly up a few dress sizes. Funny how he’d been okay with that, but didn’t make much effort to understand that even though I looked normal, what I felt on a day-to-day basis was anything but.
That the pain in my shoulders and back really existed, and it wasn’t all in my head.
That some days it was all I could do to drive myself to work. Even breathing was painful.
I’d thought he was the one person who understood and accepted me, but after enough passive aggressive comments, I’d had enough. His curt dismissal of my symptoms made it easier to have more off days of our on–and-off again relationship.
Grabbing my bag to take back into the restaurant, it hit me that this was probably the best thing to happen to me.
Truth? I’ve been needing to break this off for a while.
I feel really stupid, honestly. I’ve wasted three years trying so hard to make something work that never would.
It’s time to try being single for a while and figure out what I really want.
Closing my eyes before I close this chapter of my life for good, I picture Trent’s face, imagine him showing up, apologizing, kissing me… and almost retch at the idea.
Yep, that won’t be happening again. Good to know my body is on board with my heart.
Clearly when I’m done, I’m done.
Slamming the trunk down with a satisfying clunk, I bring the duffel bag back inside to show Claire what we’ve got to work with and plan our outfits for the night. Even if I’m not in the market for a new hunk of hottie, I can still look cute.
