Page 5 of The Lies You Love
Lindsey offers to come with me, but I stop her telling her I want to be alone. The look on Betty’s face tells me she thinks going alone is another unsafe decision, but not so unsafe she’ll follow me. I’m pulling stuffing out of the back of my tights and cramming it into the restroom trash can as a couple of women look on, laughing quietly as they slick on lipstick. Their dresses are tight, and they look flawless. They won’t have any trouble getting men to talk to them tonight, I think. They’re also ten years younger, my subconscious sneers. Betty had to play the age card, the thing that keeps me awake at night. Growing old, alone. I thought Walker was the one. We’d been together for six years. When I started pressing him for more commitment, he started letting me go, little by little. He was the love of my life, or so I thought. All I was to him was a comfort blanket, a scapegoat, a placeholder until he was ready to come out as gay to his family.
I was wrong about Walker in almost every way. I had a damn Pinterest board full of ideas for a spring wedding. He broke up with me in winter, and I haven’t seen him since. It was literally like he dropped off the planet. My friends said that should make things easier, but how would it be easier when for six years, all I knew was him? We lived together, ate together, took vacations together, slept in the same bed for one thousand six hundred thirty-eight days in a row. That was a record we were proud of. When he left, it felt like I was missing an appendage—an enormous piece of myself. Eventually, after my accident, I moved into a different apartment that didn’t have memories and opened my dog boutique, but one facet remains unchanged from that cold winter day. I’m alone. No matter how many guys I try to replace Walker with, they never stay. Most of the time I don’t want them to, but occasionally, I’ll be mid-coitus with some stranger who gives me eye contact while he’s fucking me, and I’ll pretend he’s more than just one night. It never moves past pretending.
My head swims as I eye myself down in the mirror. At least with all the padding in the trash can, I have my shape back. There’s no hope for the dress or the wig. I wipe off the lipstick. Betty and Lindsey stumble into the small space.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Betty says.
I smirk. “Lindsey forced you in here to make amends so we don’t destroy Margot’s night?”
I can tell by the slant of Betty’s eyes that I’m correct. “No, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you. You’ve been on a… weird path lately and we’re worried.”
This makes me laugh. I gesture to their outfits. “Now? Now is the time you pick for an intervention?” I air quote the last word. “When we all look like eighty-year-old women? Tell me about weird paths again,” I say, but the alcohol hits all at once, and now I’m slurring.
“You said you liked the idea,” Lindsey argues, tossing her gray wig over one shoulder. “It was a majority vote. Granny night was supposed to be funny.”
“I can assure you I’m fine. I’m not on a weird path. I’m just… making sure I don’t have all-encompassing magic powers.” I smirk.
“What does that even mean?” Lindsey says, admiring her makeup in the mirror.
“Turning men gay by having sex with them,” I deadpan, scratching the back of my gray bun. Neither cracks a smile. “It was a joke.”
Betty rolls her eyes. “A bad joke. Come back out with us, and let’s try to salvage this. The next bar we’re headed to is vintage.”
“Old,” I correct. “The next bar is old. Don’t try to call it something it’s not just to make it seem cool. We couldn’t get into the cool bar.” I pull at the dress. “I will go back out there, but I’m going to talk to the guys at the bar.”
Betty scoffs. “Now that’s a joke.”
Lindsey turns and eyes me over her thin, old lady glasses. “Taking another guy home tonight will be a mistake.”
I shake my finger at her. In my most elderly voice, I scratch out, “A mistake made more than once isn’t a mistake. It’s a decision.” I return to my normal voice. “So, let me make my own decisions, would you?”
The girls move out of my way, and I do feel guilty for a beat. They’re trying to help me, even if their concerns are misplaced. These friends treat me like I’m still recovering. Margot has a drink in her hand, and she’s dancing with Megan to one of her favorite songs when I exit the bathroom. They won’t even miss me. My shoulders back, I approach the bar and the group of men. They don’t notice me at first, of course, as I sit down on the free stool next to them. The man wearing the black shirt with the word groom on the back is drunkest—his eyes heavy and lids half-mast. Someone thrusts water at him, and I order myself another drink. I embody my worst fear, single, old, ordering my own drinks, being overlooked. The bartender has a smirk on his face as I tell him to keep the change. At least I’m entertaining. That has to count for something. Maybe I’ll keep my body, and I’ll be wrinkly but hot.
I sip the gin and soda and listen in to the conversation taking place next to me. “It counts,” one man says. “It totally counts.” I didn’t catch the start of what was said, but an attractive man the size of a brick building is looking at me, white teeth gleaming in the low light.
When he notices me staring back, he stalks toward me, thick legs clad in jeans that hug his curves just right. My mouth is dry, and I set my drink down when it begins to shake in my hand. I didn’t expect it to be this easy. He has to be coming over to talk about my dumb costume, I reason.
“I’m Beckett,” he says, extending his hand. “You are part of the cougar party over there, I take it. What’s your name?”
No pick-up lines or bad jokes even though I’m wearing a fucking wig and a dress my great-grandma would wear to church. He just asks my name. Beckett, a hot guy name, I think, shifts his buddy out of the way to sit down on the stool next to me. I remain quiet, mostly stymied he’s giving me the time of day. Even if I were dressed as perfectly as the two women in the bathroom, I wouldn’t be in this guy’s league. His hair is brown and done in that messy, sexy way only attractive guys can pull off. His cheekbones are sleek, his jaw wide and defined. He is textbook beautiful. He’s also at least six-four, so he’s probably hung like a stallion.
“I’m-I’m Annie,” I stutter like a moron. It’s my name tonight. Never give a real name. It’s one of the few rules I give myself while prowling. “My friend is getting married,” I explain, turning the focus off myself. “This whole granny night bachelorette party was not my idea.” Pinching the dress, I eye it with distaste. “You guys look to be having more fun.” I peer around him to the groom who is dribbling water down his chin while he sings the alphabet.
Beckett grins, and I have to clench my thighs together. There’s a dangerous edge to his mouth. I bet he can do wicked things with it. “I’m having fun now,” he says, thick lips wet from where he just licked them. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I raise one brow. “Out of all of the women here tonight,” I say, laying a palm on my chest. “Why me?” I amend, “I know I’m a catch when I’m not dressed as Gertrude Nelly, but you don’t know that.”
His smile widens. I gulp. “Older women are my thing,” he says, winking and licking his bottom lip again. I can’t tear my eyes away. How is his face so perfect? “And I can see past the wig and frock, Ms. Nelly. You’re exactly my type. Plus, you initiated with a look, and I could never be rude to an elder.”
“Oh, okay.” Brilliant response, Auden. You sound like a meek child.
I lose my breath. Beckett motions to the bartender and orders shots for his friends and me. I take mine when it arrives and begin nursing my gin and tonic that’s watering down. I watch him closely as he takes the shot with his friends. You know how some people become even hotter when they get drunk? Their faces seem happier? Eyes more seductive and alluring? Cheeks a little pink, and movements swaggering? Of course, Beckett gets hotter as he drinks. Or, you’re getting drunker, I remind myself. I take off the glasses, but there’s no way this wig is coming off without some prep work and removal of one thousand bobby pins. I sigh. Be brave. Make the move. The worst he can do is turn you down.
I grab his elbow, and he spins to focus his attention solely on me. “Do you want to get out of here?”
He plays, tossing his head back and forth like it’s a question he’s not sure how to answer. “Let’s get out of here, Gertie. If you teach me how to knit, I’ll get you a slice of pizza on the way back to my place.”
I hold his eye contact and nearly melt from the heat enveloping me. “I can’t knit, but I can teach you a few things, I’m sure.”
