Home > Faded Sunset

Faded Sunset
Author: Rachel Blaufeld

 


Margaret


“Another round?” James asked, his emerald-green eyes staring directly at me, but he didn’t really see me.

Yes, he saw me—the prettied-up, fun-loving, fake version of me—not the broken-down woman who lived in hell. This came as no surprise because it was exactly the look I’d been trying for before I cozied up to the bar at the Oak around ninety minutes ago.

I’d been hungry—no, desperate—for someone to take a good look at my facade and roll with the person they freaking got.

You get what you get, and you don’t get upset. For a moment, I remembered the teachers saying those exact words in my daughter’s preschool a few years ago, and thinking it was a perfect mantra.

I’d already spent a lifetime searching for the person who would know me deeply and understand me. A partner who got me in ways I didn’t get myself. When I found that person, I’d decided I would hold on tightly. But I’d failed at finding someone on my first attempt, and had lost my way on the second attempt.

Smiling at James, I said, “Definitely,” and he signaled for the bartender.

At that moment, I’d classify myself as tipsy, but not wrecked. I knew the bartender’s name was John, and he was adorably cute in his almost too-tight plaid vest buttoned over a white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He made a mean French 75, and attended graduate school here in Boston. He’d been behind the bar both times I’d been here before, but not in charge of my drinks. Now, John was my drug-of-choice dealer.

James, an established lawyer, traveled between here in Boston and New York for the law firm where he’d made partner close to a decade ago. I placed him to be around four or five years older than me.

“Divorced,” he’d told me earlier in the evening. “Wasn’t a good match.” She couldn’t handle his travel schedule, or so he’d claimed.

“Me? I’m a writer,” I’d told him and left it at that.

“Journal? Times?” he’d asked with an eyebrow raised.

His question felt less about where I worked and more about my political party. Personally, I didn’t think we were at that stage of a relationship, or ever would be.

“Freelance. I write a lot for Adweek. My life’s not that serious. Lifestyle and social media pieces, mostly,” I’d said like I meant it. I wished it to be true.

As we waited for my drink, James’s hand grazed my back, sweeping under my hair and caressing the back of my neck. More than anything, I wanted to slap his hand away, but I just met his gaze again, confirming he was still seeing me. James was into me, at least for the night, which was enough at the moment.

I’d told him I was separated. And in my heart and soul, I was separated, despite wearing my wedding band. But in reality, I wasn’t.

I was fully aware that made me public enemy number one, but everyone had a skeleton or two in their closet. Mine were neither pretty nor organized. They were a messy bag of bones that not even the most dedicated paleontologist could put back together.

John slid a fresh drink toward me as I relaxed into the high-backed bar chair. Standing behind me, James reached out to take his. Like most nights, the Oak was packed, and I’d been lucky to snag a chair when I arrived. Relieved, I’d hung my fur-trimmed jacket on the back and saddled up for a drink. James appeared moments later and had been keeping me company ever since.

“Cheers,” he told me now, tipping his lowball toward my glass.

“Cheers.” I returned the sentiment, taking a sip and closing my eyes for a few seconds.

“You probably end up in New York often,” James said, more like a statement than a question.

“You say that like you already know.”

“I assumed,” he said. “Writing, lifestyle, it’s all connected, and I was thinking we could meet up there,” he said, sprinting rather than leisurely walking from this meet-up to a potential next one.

His left hand now rested on the back of my chair and I took it in, confirming there was no wedding band. His body was turned toward me, his posture confident as he leaned a bit closer.

“You know, you need to be careful in this,” he said, caressing the collar of my coat. “I heard the animal lovers are attacking people who wear fur.”

And just like that, whatever false connection I was imagining between us evaporated. This man and I had nothing in common.

After taking a sip of my drink, I asked, “Tell me, what kind of car do you drive? A Tesla?”

He shook his head. “BMW Seven Series,” he said proudly, like this was a selling point.

“With leather seats? Guzzling gas?”

Rather than taking offense, he threw his head back in laughter, exposing the cords of his throat. Under different circumstances, I would have thought it was sexy, but I was just about over James. Not to mention, I suspected he was married with all this wanting to meet up in New York.

Then again, so was I.

“Ouch,” he said, raising a finger in the air, pretending to be burned, before settling his hand onto my thigh.

I shifted my leg slightly, trying to shake James loose as the street entrance door opened, allowing in a burst of cold air. It had been opening and closing all night, but this was the first time I’d noticed.

When I glanced at the doorway, my head started to swirl, and I tried to blame the latest drink. But it was the blacker-than-black gaze focused on me that left me off-kilter, the unzipped leather jacket, the cashmere sweater covering the body I knew better than any other.

His expression hard, the man approached, wedging himself between James and me without even bothering to say excuse me.

Breathless, I met his eyes. “Mick.”

Nodding at me, he said, “Margaret.”

I wilted a little when he didn’t use the nickname he’d given me, and so did my heart. Hearing my given name rumbling from him now, I noticed it held a mix of tension and relief.

Silently cursing at myself, I wished I hadn’t used his nickname just then. I wasn’t supposed to call him that anymore.

“Pardon me,” James said snidely, obviously not appreciating another man pushing his way between us.

“Pardon yourself,” Mick spat out as he gave me his back and stared down James. “You in the business of picking up women who are taken?”

Of course, at six foot three, Mick had a few inches on the poor guy, and I was surprised James didn’t wilt under Mick’s glare. Most people did. Instead, James tossed his credit card on the bar, making desperate eye contact with the bartender and gesturing for his tab.

“Dude, she said she was separated,” he said matter-of-factly to Mick.

“First off, don’t fucking dude me,” Mick said. “Second, I’m not her sorry excuse of a husband. Either way, if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here.”

I wished James would just do as Mick said, but instead he leaned around Mick and asked me, “You okay? Want me to drop you somewhere?”

For a second, I wondered if he had his BMW Seven Series, and then shook my head against the idea. There was nothing humorous about this current scenario, or my life, for that matter.

Mick glowered at James. “She’s more than fine. I’m here, so she doesn’t need you to drop her anywhere. Now go.”

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