Page 6 of If He Hadn't Cheated
By 2 a.m., the bar is closed. The floors are sticky with spilled cocktails. My body aches from standing twelve hours straight. My back is stiff. My fingers smell like citrus and sanitizer. I’ve made almost two hundred in tips.
And I still feel empty.
I walk outside into the cool night air. The city is quiet in that strange way it gets between two and four. Not dead. Just pausing. Like it’s catching its breath before sunrise. The streets glisten faintly from a light drizzle. The streetlights make puddles look like mirrors.
I should go home.
I should.
But instead, I start walking toward The Waverly.
My boots echo softly on the wet sidewalk. I pass a couple making out in an alley, pressed hard against the brick like the world is ending. A man asleep on a bench with a shopping cart beside him. A girl in a tight gold dress, crying into her phone, her mascara running.
I see pieces of myself in all of them.
When I reach the hotel, the doorman doesn’t even blink. He’s seen me before. Maybe not me, but someone like me.
The elevator smells like perfume and money.
When I step off on the eleventh floor, I pause.
Room 1103.
The key feels heavy in my hand. I know I should use it but instead, I knock lightly.
Two seconds pass before the door opens, before I can even second-guess it.
He’s shirtless now. Lean muscle. A scar on his side. He smiles like he’s already undressed me in his head. He steps aside, letting me in without a word.
I walk past him.
The room smells like whiskey and cologne. Music plays softly from a speaker. Something jazzy. The lights are low. It’s a performance, and we both know our roles.
He hands me a drink.
I take it.
The rest is a blur. Hands. Heat. My dress slipping to the floor. His mouth on my skin. My body responding out of habit, not desire. I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. Someone else. Someone who doesn’t need to feel this in order to feel anything.
After, he falls asleep quickly. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the sheets tangled around my legs. My chest is tight. My throat feels raw. I reach for my phone.
No messages.
I slip out quietly, careful not to wake him. I don’t bother with the elevator. I take the stairs.
Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten. I start walking home. Each step feels heavier than the last.
By the time I reach my apartment, my legs are shaking. I drop my purse on the floor and strip in the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes behind me.
The shower scalds my skin. I stand there until the water runs cold. When I finally collapse into bed, I stare at the ceiling until sleep takes me.
It’s not peace.
4
Next Friday
The world spins when I open my eyes.
