The Other Women

by Erin Zak

  I have no idea why I’m already feeling like this about her. This isn’t love. I’m not falling for this complete stranger. I’m just…God, I don’t know what. Maybe I’m healing. Or maybe I’ve already healed, and this is me taking off the bandage to reveal a very faint scar.

  Either way, it feels amazing. And I don’t respond to Willow’s text for the first time in our entire relationship.

  Cecily

  I haven’t gone to the bathroom at all tonight. I normally pee six hundred times while I’m drinking, but I haven’t even thought about it until now. As I’m hovering over the toilet seat, my dress hiked up, I wonder if Willow has texted. I haven’t even checked my phone, which again, is not like me. Francesca, in all her light-brown-skinned beauty, has a way of making me live in the now. Her spontaneity feels new and fresh, which is, I guess, exactly how it should feel. Unfortunately, I’ve always been way too much of a stick-in-the-mud to really subscribe to the “you only live once” motto. The craziness of running into Francesca while I’ve been struggling with making a next move is not lost on me. This entire evening has been one crazy event after another, and little by little, I’ve stopped worrying about what might come next. Francesca is an enigma, and I’m thrilled she exists. For the first time, I haven’t let my mind wander. I have focused on her, on her words, on my own feelings, and it feels wonderful.

  After I wash my hands, I check my texts, and the first one almost makes me drop my phone.

  Luke: When did you get a vibrator?

  My heart launches into my throat. What the hell is he doing? Going through my drawers? I see the text bubble pop up, and before long, the next text appears. A picture of a shoulder massager he bought me two Christmases ago appears, and I burst out laughing.

  I reply, Luke, seriously? That’s the shoulder massager you bought me.

  He sends back the emoji with the palm to his forehead, and I roll my eyes. He’s ridiculous. At least he didn’t actually find my vibrator. I considered bringing it but decided the last thing I needed was the TSA agent to pull my bag aside and go through it.

  The next text string I go through is Willow’s: I’m sure you’re wondering if I’m still in your penthouse. I am not. I went to meet some friends. Please let me know if you’d like to meet up and talk tomorrow.

  My heart clenches as I reread the message once, twice, three times. I lower my phone and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I should text her back. I should tell her of course I want to talk. I should do a lot of things. But all I do is slide my phone back into my small black purse and head out of the bathroom. Francesca is leaning against the wall. She’s looking into the casino, which is filled with people. Makes sense. It’s the perfect time of night to make bad decisions about money, about liquor, about women…

  I slide up next to her, lean against the wall, and study her. She’s smiling. She knows I’m watching, I’m sure. “See something you like?” Her voice is low, but the sensation it sends rippling through my body is anything but.

  “I absolutely do,” I whisper. “You are so pretty.” My words seem to have a mind of their own. I wasn’t going to say anything like that. Not now, anyway. Not tonight. Not ever. Yet here we are. Her eyes flit from the crowd surrounding the craps tables to me. She licks those full lips I can’t seem to stop admiring.

  “Will you…” I pause. I want to ask her to come back to my room but not just for the obvious reasons. Sure, I’d love to kiss her. To find a little happiness tonight because earlier, I found what it feels like to be on the other side of happy. But I also want to sit and look at her and talk without people around. And taking my heels off wouldn’t be half-bad, either. “Come to my room with me?”

  Her eyebrows knit, then her left one raises higher than the right, and she tilts her head. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  She laughs. “Of course. I certainly don’t want you to lie.”

  “I need to take my shoes off.”

  Again, a laugh cascades from her. “I also wouldn’t mind doing that.” She reaches down, and I meet her hand with mine. She pulls on me, dislodging me from the wall, and we head toward the exit.

  “Water or…” I ask as Francesca slips her heels off and crawls over the back side of the couch, where she promptly lies down. She’s so comfortable in her surroundings. I admire her for that. It takes a while before I relax.

  “Are you calling room service?” Her head pops up. “That’s way too expensive.”

  “Work is paying for this, my dear.”

  “Oh.” Her head disappears. “I’d love some bourbon on the rocks. Nothing fancy. It’ll be a nice little nightcap. Before I leave.” Again, she pops her head up and makes eye contact, then winks very deliberately.

  I chuckle, shake my head, and pick up the phone. “Knob Creek?”

  “Perfect.”

  As I wait for the room service line to pick up, I turn and watch Francesca stand. She walks to the floor to ceiling windows. She moves so gracefully, especially without heels. Not that she was clunky in them before. Her movements are fluid, as if she missed her calling as a dancer. My eyes are glued to her as she places her hands, palms flat, against the windows. Her ass in those jeans…sweet Jesus. It’s a sight to behold. And the way her shirt hikes up a little is pretty much exactly how I imagine pornography films start. Not that I’ve watched many. Again, I’m sort of a prude. I wonder how out of control she gets. I cannot get over how her body seems to be an extension of her personality. Free and easy yet chiseled and hard.

  “I love this city so much.”

  Her voice sounds faraway; her tone is melancholy. I wonder why? What is she thinking? Room service finally picks up, interrupting my thoughts. I order drinks, her bourbon and my coffee and Baileys. I’m not tired. It just sounds really good. Something warm on my throat since I’ve done more talking in the last five hours than I have in the past four months. I also order french fries. Two orders. I am starving.

  When I hang up, I make my way to the couch where she originally sprawled, and sit. I can see her profile, and, this time, I allow myself to study her again. I don’t want to forget anything when she disappears from my life. I don’t want to forget this feeling or the curve of her ass or the flutter inside my chest or the color of her skin and hair and eyes.

  “Their fries are amazing. You won’t be disappointed.” She is still looking at the Strip. The flashing lights of Paris’s nightclub in the tower illuminates her features. I want to do so many things to her. The thoughts frighten me. And for only the third time tonight, I think about Willow. And how easy it has been to not think about her. What does that mean?

  She turns and gracefully strides toward me. I can’t take my eyes from her. She sits across from me on the love seat, and part of me is disappointed. I wanted her to sit by me. So I could do something stupid. Sigh.

  “Tell me more about your husband.”

  Being away from prying eyes, in the comfort of this immaculate suite, makes it easier for me to speak. “Luke asked me to marry him when we were seniors in high school. He got down on one knee right after drama practice and gave me this speech he had written on the palm of his hand.” I arrange myself on the couch so I can pull my legs up underneath me. I lean against the arm of the couch, run my fingers through my hair, and recall the memory. “He was so adorable with his sandy blond hair and blue eyes. He made me so happy without even trying.”

  “High school sweethearts, hmm?” Her voice is soaked with skepticism.

  “I know, I know.” I feel the need to defend us both. “But I was raised in rural Indiana—”

  She gasps. “Yikes.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. And my parents were ultra-religious. So the idea of bisexuality wasn’t something I knew about, let alone thought about.”

  She nods. “I can understand that. For sure.” She props her bare feet on the ottoman, crosses her right leg over her left, and stretches her feet. Her ankles pop loudly, and she laughs.
“Sorry. Part of the glamour of wearing heels for the past ten years.”

  “Is that how long you’ve been bartending?”

  “Yes, I’ve been on the waitstaff in casinos since I was twenty-one. I started at Binion’s.”

  “The home of the saddle chairs. Get out of town.”

  She smiles and leans forward, the V-neck of her shirt hanging low, so I have a perfect shot of her cleavage. My mouth waters. Literally waters. What the heck is going on with me? I have to force myself to look back at her face. “I got a thousand-dollar tip there one night. This high roller, Gerald, would come in, and he’d always request me. He was in his seventies, and he was on a heater at the craps table. He cashed out and shoved this wad of money in my hand. I counted it after he left and almost shit myself.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, it was…things like that don’t happen often.”

  We are both startled when the doorbell rings. I remember the drinks after my first thought is oh my God, Willow. I let the attendant in, who of course knows Francesca. They exchange pleasantries, and they go on for about five minutes before I tip him and he’s on his way. When the door closes, she rolls her eyes.

  “That will get around the entire casino. I should have hidden.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sadly, yes.” She takes the drink but keeps her arm extended and says, “You’re worth the gossip.”

  “Well, I’m honored,” I reply with a laugh, and we both settle into easy conversation. She regales me of stories of high rollers and cheapskates. We eat the fries, and she’s right, they are incredible. I’m starving, which may be why I eat as if someone may take them away from me. I tell her I graduated from a high school of three hundred students and went to Purdue University because it was where Luke was going. We talk about traveling and family and our favorite movies. She’s a sucker for Mission: Impossible, and I’m more of a Steel Magnolias fan. I offer my guest bedroom, and she tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

  “Guest bedroom, hmm?”

  The heat that started between my thighs has crept its way into my abdomen, chest, neck, to my cheeks. Maybe hot coffee was a bad idea? “I don’t like to assume anything,” I finally say, hoping the blush isn’t as obvious as it feels.

  “I see,” she whispers before she drinks. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I nod, but it takes a second. I don’t know if I want her to ask whatever she’s going to ask. Whatever she says, I’ll tell the truth. Lying is my kryptonite. I cannot lie to save my life. Unless, of course, it’s to my husband about my relationship with Willow Carmichael. And that was as easy as breathing, only with guilt. Heaps and heaps of guilt.

  “Will you please hang out with me tonight?”

  My first inclination is to say yes. Emphatically yes. But I also know I will more than likely be with Willow, and I don’t know how to get out of that, even though I really kind of want to get out of it. I’m so confused. The only thing I don’t like about Francesca is the confusion she has caused. “I want to.”

  “But?”

  “I have some loose ends I need to tie up. Or at least figure out what I’m doing with.”

  “With the woman?”

  “Yeah…I’m sorry.”

  “I understand. And you do not need to apologize.”

  “Do you, though? Understand?”

  She doesn’t respond, except for three blinks, all slow, all purposeful. Almost as if she is trying to not…cry? Or maybe she’s trying to not run away screaming.

  “Listen,” I say, and I stand way too fast for the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed. I steady myself, take a breath, and make my way to the love seat where I plop down next to her. I am the exact opposite of her. Clumsy and flailing. “This thing…” I motion to her and me. “I don’t know how to explain this feeling. You came out of nowhere and I am really enjoying it.” I stop almost long enough for her to respond, but she seems to know I’m not finished. “You have sort of—”

  “Confused the fuck out of you?”

  I tap my nose with enthusiasm. “Exactly. And I don’t say that word. Unless something really provokes me.”

  “Oh? A prude, hmm?”

  The heat from before floods my face, and I laugh. “I know.” I place my hand on hers, which are clasped in her lap. “Can I tell you something without, I don’t know, freaking you out?”

  “Please.” Her answer is almost breathless.

  “This woman…” I don’t want to name her for fear of the repercussions. “I was never going to leave my husband. Not for her. Not for anyone. But then she left, and my world was off. I thought, I need to leave him. I cannot survive with my world off its axis like this. So we separated. And then boom, promotion, Vegas trip, and I see her again, in the flesh, for the first time in months.” I move my hand from hers and thread my fingers through my hair. I look around the room, trying to find the words to say what I want without coming on too strong, too soon, and without any warning. “Seeing her did not right my world.” I’m staring at the ceiling. I close my eyes, and, yep, those are tears stinging, and I am way too tipsy, way too vulnerable, to cry. “Seeing you did.” My voice is a whisper. Speaking such a ridiculous truth at full volume is not okay. “So I don’t know what it means or what you’re—”

  “Hey,” she says, stopping my runaway freight train of thoughts, and my eyes are still closed when I feel her gentle touch on the side of my face, my cheek, my chin. She turns my head as I open my eyes. “I know.” She brushes the soft pad of her thumb along my cheek, and I want her to kiss me so bad. So, so bad.

  “Okay,” I whisper, and I wonder if she can hear it over the thud thud of my heartbeat.

  She trails her fingers across my jawline to my neck. If she continues, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself from lunging forward, jumping from a bridge when I have no idea what exists below. It could be water. But it’s probably rock. And my life is already messy enough. “Why don’t you…” She pauses, her voice smooth like amber, and when she moves my hair from over my shoulder, everything inside me melts. “Just call me and let me know how it pans out?”

  I don’t have a response. Is it wrong to say a small amount of disappointment has sprung to life in my chest? I sort of wanted her to fight for me, which is even more absurd than embarking on this stupid journey to begin with. “Is this how mature adults behave?” I ask, and the corners of her mouth tug upward.

  “If you think this is easy for me, maybe I should have gone into acting.”

  “I’d give you an Oscar. For sure.”

  She laughs. The sound is exactly what I need to hear. “I have a shelf it’d look great on.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She moves her hand from my shoulder, down my arm, to my hand. “You are a breath of fresh air, Cecily.” She squeezes. “But I should go…before I do something we both are not ready for.” She stands and pulls me up. I follow her to the door, wanting to tell her to stop, to not go, to stay, please, please, please stay and do those things we aren’t ready for.

  “Text me when you get home.”

  She stands in the open doorway and smiles as she brings my hand to her mouth. She brushes her lips against my knuckles before she firmly presses them into my fingers. “I’ll text you when I get on the elevator.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  And like that, she turns to leave, heading toward the elevator, which opens as soon as she presses the button. She looks over her shoulder as she gets in and winks. Before I know it, my phone lights up on the table with her number. I rush to it and pick it up, tapping with fury to get to the text.

  I should have kissed you.

  My hands start to ache. I should have never let you leave.

  Good luck today with the lady…but know you have a backup plan.

  I want to chase her. To tell her to come back. But she’s right. And I know it because it’s the right thing to do. And I have been doing the wrong thing f
or far too long.

  Chapter Eight

  Cecily

  Willow is stressed. I can tell by the way she’s sitting at her dining room table. She hasn’t touched the sandwiches she prepared. Or the salad. Or the chips she said she bought because she knew they were my favorite. They aren’t my favorite. I’d rather have Doritos, but whatever.

  Wow. The animosity I am feeling toward her may as well pull up a chair and sit at the table with us.

  How in the world did this happen? Am I really the kind of person who allows small stuff to irritate her like this?

  I came to her apartment in the hopes of figuring out what went wrong, how can we fix it, and when we can start. Ever since I arrived, though, she’s been on edge. I get it. We fought last night. I disappeared. I didn’t respond to any texts or phone calls until this morning. And when I did decide to make my way to her place, I didn’t shower. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, threw on yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt, and said “fuck it” as defiantly as possible in the mirror. I really do hate that word, but I cannot handle the betrayal this has all forced me to feel. She really didn’t do anything wrong. But I still feel betrayed. She broke a piece of me. I don’t know what Francesca went through with the woman she alluded to, but I wonder if all of this, the brokenness, is what she felt.

  When Willow flicks a few pieces of lettuce on her plate, I clear my throat, and she looks at me. “What is going on, Willow?” I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  “This is really over, isn’t it?”

  This is it. My chance. To either save it or burn it to the ground. “Do you want it to be over?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wow.”

  She blinks rapidly. I’m assuming she’s fighting back tears, but at this point, I’m not sure I care.

  I run my hands over the smooth reclaimed barn wood of her dining room table. She does have impeccable taste in furniture and decorations. And her apartment is huge. I got lost going to the bathroom earlier. She found me wandering around her office. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner about the separation.” Her stare moves from my hands to my eyes. She swallows. “I am going to divorce him.”