“Another gulp it is,” I joke bitterly and toss the mug back.
I’ll be fine. I know I will.
In fact, I’ll be better than fine.
I have everything going for me and now I’m free … and Robert can go fuck himself. I clink my empty mug with an imaginary one in front of me. It takes a half second for me to break into a grin and laugh at just how pathetic this is.
The clank of the mug hitting my coffee table makes me wince and then a small chuckle leaves me as my shoulders hunch. “Oops.”
With my pointer tapping the soft tip of my nose, I take a look around my trashed apartment. After our very short-lived phone call this afternoon where he took all of ten minutes to tell me it was over, barely letting me get a word in, I threw out everything that reminded me of my POS ex. Which didn’t leave me with much. There are lots of soft blues and pops of lavender and pink in the décor that remains. Especially in the mugs, the throw pillows and blankets. Nearly all of my pictures are gone … I shouldn’t have thrown away those frames.
A whitewashed frame holding an eight-by-ten of Renee, Sharon, Autumn and me takes up the full shelf to the right of the TV. The rest of the shelving unit no longer exists.
Dammit.
Robert and I promised each other under our special angel oak tree back home that we would be together forever. No, it wasn’t a proposal, but it was a promise.
Not one he meant to keep, apparently.
We made that promise when we were still kids, but it meant something to me.
The sofa groans as I lean back into it, pulling my knees into my chest. I had no idea he didn’t love me anymore. That’s what is really getting to me. It’s like whiplash. We were just together, laughing, holding each other’s hands. He kissed my knuckles in front of all of our friends. Even his smile …
I can’t. Blinking rapidly, I stand up abruptly and force those memories out of my head. With the press of the clicker, music videos take over the screen—sorry, housewives—and I turn up the volume to something that sounds like a mix of country and pop.
The lyrics elude me, but I like the beat. It guides me to my closet and that’s when I hear the chorus and recognize the song.
Even though my face is blotchy from crying, makeup will cover it.
I refuse to wallow in my living room and pity myself.
Renee told me most men kiss the same but then there are others who are different.
I’ve only kissed one man my whole life. Tonight, I’m going to find out if he’s one of the ones who kisses the same. Or if his was different.
Pausing my motions as I pull a red chiffon shift dress out of the closet, I realize that means I’d have to kiss more than one man. Because what if they are different? If two kisses are different, the one from some random guy tonight compared to the ones Rob gave me … then how would I know which guy gave the same type of kiss that every other guy gives?
A groan slips from my lips as I pull the dress off the hanger completely and then rub a hand down my face.
That’s too complicated. I’ll just call it what it is. Revenge sex, a rebound, a fling. That’s what I want tonight. And I aim to get it. My father may think I’m a Southern belle, but a scorned woman is a scorned woman and that’s just what I am.
Cupcakes and alcohol at eleven at night can’t steer me wrong, right?
Magnolia
I’m not second-guessing the red dress; red is a confident color, and a color to wear for good luck, at that. With my blond wavy hair only slightly brushed so it’s a bit wild, the simple dress makes me look a bit more refined. But I’m starting to question what I was thinking when I picked out these heels. I try not to wince or make it too noticeable as I carefully slip the right one off just a little. Just a teeny tiny bit for some relief. I’m seated at the bar so I don’t think a soul notices.
The Louis Vuittons were a birthday gift from my dad. They’re expensive, utterly gorgeous, and brand new, ergo not broken in. My feet are killing me after walking from my apartment complex to Main Street where the string of bars was waiting for me. It’s only a mile, and in flip-flops or sneakers it’s an easy walk. Nice even. But in these heels … My bottom lip drops just slightly, letting a low hiss slip out as the mix of agony and relief swirl and hit me harder than the liquor has all night.
Mistake number one tonight: these heels.
I’ll definitely be taking an Uber home.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks me, and I peek up at him. I lost a lot of my courage on the way down here. The tipsiness is waning far too quickly. I picked the Blue Room because a friend from class, Michelle, usually hangs out here. She’s nowhere in sight, though.
“My friend gets a drink here … something like Cherry ...” I let my voice trail off and hope he knows what I’m talking about. The handsome man has to be in his late thirties judging by the faint wrinkles around his brown eyes. His hair, a little longer than I prefer in men, is swept back and the color matches his black tie. The Blue Room has a fabulous dress code for their employees, in my opinion. It’s all white dresses just above knee length for the women, and crisp white dress shirts rolled up to the elbows for the men. With the skinny tie he’s wearing, I have to admit it’s a sleek, sexy look that matches the décor in this place. It’s a nod at a speakeasy, I think.
“It’s called Cherry something,” I say and chew my lip, trying to remember the name.
Michelle ordered a round when I got back from my birthday celebration in Beaufort. “It’s delicious but I don’t remember the name,” I add when he gives me a look like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Shoot.
“Berry Drop?” a bartender a few feet away chimes in. He’s the same height, but a smaller build than the man standing on the other side of the polished wooden counter in front of me.
“Gotcha,” my bartender says and nods then immediately goes for a cup of ice, making the drink without waiting for me to acknowledge the name.
“It is delicious,” he adds when he finally looks at me, grabbing two liquor bottles, plus a third.
The whole darn thing looks like it’s made of alcohol. There’s some kind of rule about mixing alcohols, but I’m pretty sure those rules don’t count when it comes to breakups.
I watch him add a scoop of fresh berries into the silver shaker and note how much I love this campus, this bar and the East Coast.
My dad didn’t understand why I wanted to leave South Carolina. None of my friends got it either. University of Delaware is a party school and I came here with undecided as my degree of choice.
It was either that or art history, which my father forbade. It wasn’t a serious enough path, according to him. I still haven’t had the balls to tell him that it’s what my degree will be in. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be too busy with schmoozing and planning meetings to pay my degree any mind.
The tall cylindrical glass clanks in front of me, beads of condensation already rolling down its cool sides. “Berry Drop,” the bartender announces proudly and nods at me to have a sip. Resting his clasped hands in front of him, he waits as I take a sip.
The smile that comes to my lips is immediate and apparently contagious, because he smiles too, claps once in victory, then moves to the end of the crowded bar.