Page 22 of Single-Minded
Michael turns to look at me, and grasps both my hands in his. “We’ll always love each other, and we’ll always be best friends.”
I feel myself tearing up again.Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort.Michael pulls me into his embrace. We stand there hugging way past the time I start feeling awkward, while our guests cheer.Okay. That’s enough, time to get off me.He overstays his welcome and I start to feel pissed. Well, isn’t this freaking awesome? My tacit support just makes everything hunky-dory, washes away all of Michael’s deception and lies. Let go, I remind myself for the millionth time tonight, just let it go.
Michael raises his glass again. “To my amazing Alex.”
Our friends raise their glasses and cheer, “To Alex.”
Nodding my head, I mouth the wordsthank you,gulping my champagne.
17
The doorbell rings solidly for the next hour, producing groups of guests, mostly men, I’d never met before. Beneva Fruitville, Sarasota’s most notorious and popular drag queen, makes an appearance. Apparently my grandma Leona, a regular at Drag Queen Bingo, invited her. Michael is holding court in the center of the bash, seemingly having the time of his life—laughing and giddy, clearly buzzing from alcohol or outright glee, probably both. He throws his arms up, dancing with everyone from my grandma Leona to Darcy to a few of the unknown guys who have arrived at our door. Meanwhile, I play doorman, taking the coats, feeling stupid in my tiara but not wanting to seem like a bad sport by taking it off.
Grandma Leona presents us with a hilarious divorce cake she’s made from scratch—a buttercream masterpiece that looks like a three-layer traditional wedding cake flipped upside down, with rainbow layers inside, and two grooms and a bride. I am so tempted to smash it in Michael’s face, but I’d never waste perfectly good cake. Especially not one that practically defies gravity. I take a bite and it’s delicious.
The group cheers, digs into the cake, and resumes drinking and dancing. I make the rounds a few times, freshening up the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. People kept asking how I am, and even though I know most of them want me to be okay, I feel like a few of our so-called friends are just looking for the dirty details, the plot twists of a real-life soap opera, and I’m wobbly on who to trust anymore. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I end up telling everyone that I’m perfectly fine, even though I’m not, exactly. I’m trying to have a good time, really I am. I’ve never seen Michael happier or lighter. I’ve never felt lonelier, or more out of place.
“Alex. Stop moping. This place is crawling with hot men,” says Darcy.
“They’re all gay.” I sulk. “I’m swearing off men. If I put half the energy into my business the last several months that I’ve spent wishfully planning Michael’s untimely demise, and fantasizing that somehow Michael was straight and that all of this… never happened, I’d have doubled my bottom line for the quarter. If I can’t be happy, I should at least be rich.”
“True. Whatever,” she snorts. “You don’t have to sleep with them. I just thought you might like to have a look.”
“Oh sure,” I say. “A roomful of people my husbanddoeswant to have sex with. That will cheer me up.”
“He’s not your husband anymore,” she says sternly. “I’m getting you a drink.”
As she heads toward the bar, I sneak quietly into the pantry. It’s quiet and dark, and for the first time all night I feel like I can relax. I’m digging around on the back shelf, searching for my secret stash of Trader Joe’s sea salt caramels. They only sell them during the holidays, and I usually buy a dozen boxes to last me all year. But it’s only February and I’m already on my last box. Stress eater. I slide the box open, and pop one of the two remaining candies in my mouth. And then the other one. Which is just where I am, face full of sea salt caramel, when the pantry door opens and a very tall man I’ve never seen before steps quickly inside. Okay, this is awkward. He shuts the door behind him, and in the dim light coming from the kitchen under the door, I watch him start feeling along the wall. Chewing as quietly and speedily as I can, I’m racing to finish or at least digest some of the caramels stuffed in my cheeks before he finds the light or realizes I’m there.
I probably look like a squirrel, a shame-eating squirrel.
The light flips on, and I rapidly swallow a hunk of the candy, which gets caught in my throat. I start coughing and hacking, and my eyes begin to water.
He looks startled to have company in the pantry.
“Are you okay?” he asks. There’s still a lot of caramel stuffed in my mouth, so I just nod yes. I really hope I don’t have chocolate smeared all over my lips. But I can’t guarantee anything.
He’s tall, at least six-one, casually gorgeous with broad shoulders and ocean-blue eyes, appealing in thatI just rolled out of bed like thisway. His brown hair is cropped close, making his eyes all the more startling. Midthirties, I’d guess.
I stare at him and keep chewing my cud. When it’s too humiliating to continue, I swallow the big hunk of caramel and chocolate, which moves slowly down my throat in a cohesive lump.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” I choke out, once the caramel clears my windpipe. “You must be a friend of Michael’s?”
“Carter’s, thanks. Your chafing fuel is out,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes as he pretends not to notice my choking. Very gentlemanly. “Do you have any Sterno?”
I try hard not to gawk at the little cleft in his chin. God, there’s nothing sexier than a nice strong jawline and a movie-star-quality chin dimple. It’s my own personal kryptonite. Well, that and my gay husband.
“Thanks for noticing,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
He squints at me, with those mesmerizing, deeply blue eyes, like he’s trying to place me or something. With this crowd at this party, he probably thinks I’m a drag queen with a candy addiction. But then I start to panic: Do I have artichoke dip or hunks of sea salt in my teeth or something?
Darcy casually opens the door to the pantry and hands me a glass of wine without batting an eyelash at the strange scene. Music pours in from the kitchen. She steps inside, and closes the door firmly behind her. He squeezes a little closer to me, to make room for Darcy. It’s getting a bit crowded in here.
“I’m the wife,” I say quickly to the stranger. “So nice to meet you.”
“Formerwife,” says Darcy, sizing up the man. “And she’s a doctor.”
“Not that kind of doctor,” I add.
