Page 3 of Raise The Bar
Nice.
White hot embarrassment courses through my veins. I’m a distraction. I feel a flush stain my cheeks and I’m grateful that it’s too dark in here for anyone to notice. Sasha leans in to say something to him, but I don’t catch what it is. Callum stands rooted in place listening to her, his brow furrowed. His troubled expression is so different from the one he wore when he was staring at my mouth and leaning towards me.
I need to get out of here.
“There you are!” I see a flash of brown hair and freckles as my best friend wraps her arms around my waist. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you! We were supposed to stick together. Stranger Danger, Mags!”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I see that Josh has joined Callum and Sasha a few feet away. I allow myself to look in their general direction but refuse to meet Callum’s gaze. I can tell that he keeps trying to catch my eye, but I won’t look at him. “I need to find the bathroom.”
Betty nods and says something to Josh, presumably telling him where we’re going. We make our way slowly through the sea of bodies and into the women’s restroom. The lights are much brighter in here and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. I close my eyes in the stall, feeling slightly off-balance. When I exit the stall Betty is waiting for me.
“Is everything okay?” Betty asks, worry not only fills her tone but is also etched all over her face.
No, not really.What am I doing? Why did I drag us here tonight? I thought if I put on a dress and played the part, I could somehow reclaim some of the things I’d missed out on during my years with Mark: dancing the night away, having drinks bought for me, and flirting with strangers. Is it really missing out if I never particularly wanted those experiences in the first place? I was enjoying my time with Callum. Probably more than I care to admit.
And look how that turned out.
“I don’t think this is my scene,” I confess. “I have a headache and my feet hurt. I wish we stayed home, ordered take out and watchedThe Great British Baking Show.”
Betty’s green eyes grow large and round at the mention of her favorite show.
“It’s bread week, Maggie.”
I know it’s bread week. Bread week is her kryptonite.
“Let’s get out of here while we can still find a cab and grab some food on the way home.”
We find Josh exactly where we left him and he is more than happy to ditch this failed experiment and head home. Callum is nowhere to be seen, which suits me just fine. They probably found a dark corner or cozy booth, somewhere easier to “talk”.
The three of us quickly get our coats from the coat check attendant and head for the exit. It’s well before midnight and I can see dozens of people lined up waiting to come in. I cast one last glance at the bar. I sigh deeply, pull my coat up around my neck, and brace for the cold as we walk out.
Happy New Year, Maggie.
Chapter 1
Maggie
“Ican’t keep putting myself through this heartache. I tell myself every time that this one will be different, but it never is.” My voice shakes with barely controlled emotion. “It always starts out so well; young love, filled with hope and promise. But it’s only a matter of time before I’m alone, sobbing on the floor, wondering how everything could go so horribly wrong.”
The woman sitting across from me leans forward and hands me a box of tissues, then sits back in her leather chair, carefully considering me.
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you should read other genres, Maggie?”
I balk at her suggestion. Read other genres? I’ve read these types of novels since I was in high school. Harrowing tales, filled with loss and betrayal. If the back cover of the book says something like “a devastating masterpiece” or “heartbreakingly sorrowful,” I buy it, no questions asked. If a book doesn’t rip my heart out of my chest and then drop kick it eighty yards, was it even worth reading?
The book I’ve just finished summarizing for her took a particular toll on me. John and Agnes were childhood friends, separated by war as teenagers. They find one another again as adults and fall in love only to be separated by another war. The story is mostly told through their letters to each other, where they express their love and longing for one another and their dreams of raising a family together. John finally makes it home after eight months serving his country, just in time to have Agnes die in his arms after giving birth to their daughter. Wrench, meet heart.
The term “ugly crier” doesn’t do me justice. I am a grotesque crier. A repulsive crier. My face contorts, hemorrhaging tears and other fluids from every orifice. I can’t speak. I struggle for breath as my body heaves with uncontrollable sobs.
They’re just fictional characters.Do you know how many times I’ve heard this from family and friends? Of course I know they’re fictional characters. But my feelings about them are real.
“All I’m saying,” my therapist continues thoughtfully, “is that you could take a little break from tragic works of fiction and give something else a try? Comedy? Romance? Even most murder mysteries would be lighter reading than what you’re used to. You may find that you like books that don’t make you cry. If nothing else, it would allow us to focus on more pressing areas of your life in our sessions.”
I started seeing Dr. Winifred Peters earlier this year at the recommendation of a client. She’d told me that during periods of great transition, she finds it helpful to talk to a professional counselor. I guess you could say leaving my home and a seven-year relationship on the same day with no plan in place was a bit of a transition.
I met Mark when I was twenty years old. I had set up a meeting at my bank to discuss being approved for a line of credit. I was just starting up my esthetics business and wasn’t sure what all my options were. I was expecting to meet with a balding old white man and was pleasantly surprised when a handsome man in his mid-twenties welcomed me into his office. Mark walked me through the various accounts that the bank had to offer and explained the pros and cons of each of them. He was so handsome and sure of himself that by the time I left, I was already picturing our chubby-cheeked babies. So, on the way out when he asked me to have dinner with him sometime, I practically screamed “yes.”
I was smitten with him from the start. In many ways, I still felt like a child who’d been handed the title of adult but didn’t know what to do with it. But Mark was a man. He had a career and his own condo downtown. He knew about stock portfolios and interest rates, and so many other things that I hadn’t even begun to grasp. We’d both lost our mother’s young, which only endeared him more to me.
