“I wouldn’t say the surest way, but it definitely doesn’t look good. You should go.”
“So you’ll be there?”
“Of course.”
A pert smile appears on her face as she slides her eyes to the vase of roses again. “I suppose I’ll be taking Tyler.”
Of course, I think with irritation.
Her eyes are back on me, wide once again. “And you? Will you be bringing someone?”
Now, I get it.
Her agenda.
Emily is trying to make me jealous.
The roses on her desk. Bringing up the gala and Tyler. Asking me about who I’m bringing, probably already picking up on the fact that I’m not seriously dating anyone.
Despite myself, I feel a surge of adrenaline pump its way through my veins.
It’s the challenge of it more than anything, even Emily herself. I’ve never been able to back down from one. Every kid in school who dared tap me for a fight. Every teacher who pointed out how unlikely it would be for me to “get away from my circumstances” (as though growing up in a blue-collar large family was the worst thing in the world). Every classmate who decided to play the smartass with me. Even the professors at Harvard with their Socratic method.
They had no idea how much I enjoyed proving myself.
I should know better.
Don’t take the bait.
But I can’t help myself.
“Of course I’ll be taking someone.”
Watching that slight falter in her smile, the quick blink of surprise, the inhale of disappointment.
She wants to play?
Game on.
Now, I just have to find a date.
Chapter Fourteen
Honey
Engaged!
I stare at the news on my phone feeling, well, there are just far too many emotions running through me to bundle them under one banner. Outraged. Hurt. Blindsided. Humiliated.
Pissed the hell off!
With my moratorium on all things Francis lifted, I’ve been googling him and that tart (mean, I know, but I’m feeling a bit raw) this week. I was relieved to find there wasn’t much in the news or social pages.
Until today.
I reread the headline on my phone just to twist the knife a bit more: A Merger Down the Aisle.
How romantic.
Most of the articles about Francis Hickenbatter and Maude Astor are focused on the fiscal aspect of their little merger—even down to the value of the five-carat ring he presented her with only yesterday.
I refuse to read the entire thing just to have that dollar amount thrown in my face again.
But to find out on the eve of St. Valentine’s Day?
As if I needed any confirmation that it’s over between Francis and me, this is the one thing that certainly cements it.
He knows how I feel about this holiday more than any other day.
To make matters worse, my foot hasn’t healed enough for me to even consider working, so I’m stuck at home alone while all my friends are otherwise occupied in various arenas of the world of entertainment.
As if I’d ruin anyone’s weekend of love (oh how I hate that the holiday falls on a Sunday this year!) with my morbid news.
“The bastard didn’t even have the decency to officially break up with me first.”
I lean back against my headboard and stare at the wall.
“I’m going to have to move.”
Despite Jerome’s protests, there’s no chance in hell that I’m staying here, or accepting another damn thing from Francis.
I’ll just get a day job to supplement my nocturnal career like I did before I met Francis. Like everyone else I know in the world of entertainment.
At least then my days will be less lonely.
Yes, I’ve been spoiled. Very spoiled.
But there’s something encouraging about the idea of making it on my own once again.
Honey Dewberry, independent woman at large.
I hiccup a laugh.
The phone vibrates in my hand and a message pops up, blocking out the upsetting headline about Francis’ engagement.
The text is from Mama: I know tomorrow is a big day for you. Just wishing you a happy [a red heart emoji in place of St. Valentine’s] day early. It ends with several pink and red heart emojis.
For some reason this is the thing that makes me cry, mostly out of happiness—which is telling.
I smile as I switch out of the newspaper website and open the message app, deciding how to respond.
I call instead. I miss the sound of my parents’ voices. Their accents remind me of home.
“Allie?” Mama answers in surprise, calling me by the version of my given name I prefer.
Both my parents know about Honey Dewberry, as well as what I do for a living. While they did require a period of adjustment, they’ve come to accept it.
Frankly, they know me too well to be surprised by any of it. I was always the “showy” Dixon child.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Shouldn’t you be workin’ right about now?”
“I hurt my foot so I had to take a night off.”
“Aw, and right before Valentine’s Day too,” she sympathizes. “Nothin’ too serious I hope?”
“No, I just stepped on a piece of glass is all.” I smile as I remember everything that happened after that. “What are y’all doin’ tomorrow?”
I’m always surprised at how easily my Georgia accent slips back in so naturally whenever I call home.
“You know your daddy. Mr. Surprise don’t never tell me nothin’,” she says, though I hear the slight tinge of giddiness in her voice. Even after almost thirty-five years of marriage they still have it.
It certainly gives a girl something to think about.
“More to the point, what’s that gentleman of yours got planned for you?” I don’t miss the subtle note of disapproval at the word “gentleman.” Mama and Daddy have been less quick to thaw over my choice of relationship, though they haven’t come out and said as much.
A daughter can always tell, though.
Now that the bitter pill of rejection is dissolving in my belly, their opinion of him gives me something else to think about.
“You’ll be happy to know that we are no longer together.”
The silence on the other end says more than any words could.
“I’m so sorry to hear that—wait a second, did that man break up with you right before Valentine’s Day?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I say, which is technically the truth.
If Francis honestly thinks we’re an item, even privately, after this, he is sorely mistaken.
“How’s Daddy?”
“Don’t you go and try and change the subject, Miss Albertha Dixon. You go on ahead and get it out. That’s what your Mama is for.”
I smile and feel another round of tears come. I shake it away. The last thing I want to do is ruin her upcoming special day with my messiness. “Mama, it’s fine. You and Daddy can crow all night about how right you were about him if it makes you feel better. I’m over it.”
As I say the words, they begin to ring true. Now that the impressive sheen has worn off the man, I’m beginning to see where they had a point, even if it was mostly unspoken.
Francis is weak.
I’ll bet he won’t even bother calling me to break the news until after Valentine’s Day.
The bastard.
“You still got some of that moonshine we sent you home with last time you were down here?”
I grin.
My uncle Dickey makes his own moonshine, flavored with every kind of thing just to have people buy it out of curiosity. Last time I visited I came back with a flask of cinnamon apple and a flask of peach pie. I nip into one or the other when I’m having a particularly bad day.
“Yes, Mama.”
“You go on ahead and drink you some of that tonight. You have my permission.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I sass, mak
ing her laugh.
“You comin’ down for Memorial Day this year?” It’s more of a confirmation than a question. I fly down at least twice a year, Memorial Day and Thanksgiving. Memorial Day always falls on a Monday so it’s convenient for me work-wise and Thanksgiving is definitely a slow night.
“You know it,” I reply, feeling excited at the thought.
The Dixon family is large enough as it is. Add in all the extended relatives and you have yourself a serious barbecue. I always come back to New York about ten pounds heavier but it’s worth it. Even now my mouth begins to water thinking of all the food.
“Anyway, Mama, I’ll let you go. I know you probably want to put your rollers in for tomorrow or something. Tell Daddy I said ‘Hi’—and that I’m just fine about the breakup.” That should put a smile on his face.
“Okay, baby, but you call me if you need to, you hear?”
“I will, Mama.”
We say our goodbyes and I’m left with a genuine smile on my face.
It’s moments like these that I miss home. Not enough to move back, mind you—I’m still completely in love with New York City—but it’s enough to have me calling a lot.
I think about the cost of the ticket this year and frown as I put down the phone. “I definitely have to start saving pennies.”
Better start tapping my resources for places to live, more importantly, people to share the rent with.
The thought already has me exhausted.
“I definitely think some moonshine is in order,” I murmur. “With a good, long bath.”
It may be one of the last times I get to have a bathroom that has a tub.
On my way to the kitchen, I hit up Spotify and find the perfect breakup soundtrack for a woman who damn well plans on getting over it, but maybe needs to wallow in some self-righteous anger first.
The first song is Miranda Lambert’s “Mama’s Broken Heart.”
Fitting.
That energizes me into action.
As Miranda’s own Mama councils her on how to act like a lady even when she’s falling apart, I seek out the moonshine, settling on peach pie and pour myself a good dose of the badly needed medicine. I use one of my pink-tinted tumblers so I feel more like a lady and less like a lush.
I drink as I start the water, adding lots of rose-scented bubble bath. While I wait for the tub to fill, I dance as much as my still sore foot will allow and laugh along to the hilarious song.
By the time the bath is full, the moonshine in my glass is half gone, and I’m almost as gone under the influence of it.
I put on the powder pink turban I use to protect my wavy bob and slip into the near-scalding water. Miranda has ceded the stage to Beyoncé who sings the de facto anthem for all the Single Ladies.
“That’s better,” I say with a smile as I close my eyes and sink in. I blindly pick up my glass of hooch and hum along as Queen Bey reminds her ex he has no right to trip when another man shows her attention.
“I know that’s right,” I whisper as I close my eyes and allow the peach flavored alcohol to do its thing.
They flash open at the sound of what I swear is the sound of knocking on my door. I strain to listen carefully and sure enough, another knock sounds, louder this time.
What in the Sam hell…?
“I am not getting out of this tub,” I insist, staring ahead at the faucet. “Who could it be anyway?”
I wrinkle my brow in thought as I consider the possibilities. The music isn’t that loud and none of my neighbors have ever complained before.
If it was someone from management or the front desk, they’d just call.
Which leaves only one possibility.
Chapter Fifteen
Giuseppe
Yesterday, I brooded in my office all afternoon after my meeting with Emily.
It seems Honey had a point after all.
I don’t like playing games, and I certainly don’t like having them played on me. But if that’s how Emily is going to show her cards, I might as well deal myself in.
I got as much done at work today as I was willing to put in. Despite Todd’s advice, there is something to be said for spending weekends at the office.
At least there’d better be.
I’ve switched to a t-shirt and sweatpants when I knock on Honey’s door. The music on the other side of the door tells me she’s home, which is surprising. I usually don’t catch her on weekends, and never hear so much as a peep coming from her apartment Saturday nights.
When she doesn’t come after two knocks, I think about just giving up and catching her sometime during the week.
Still, it’s odd she’s taking this long to open the door.
Sudden alarm wracks my system wondering if perhaps something is wrong.
Maybe she’s fallen and hit her head.
I knock for a third time, more insistently this time. I don’t care if she’s angry when she opens the door, so long as she opens it.
When she finally does, I’m surprised at how panicked I was.
I’m even more surprised by the visceral reaction I have to how she’s dressed…or rather, not dressed.
The only thing she has on is a towel, pink of course. Her skin still glistens from the bath or shower she was taking. Considering the small, foamy bubbles I see clinging to parts of her arms and legs, I’m guessing the latter.
“Jesse!” she exhales in an exasperated tone. The look of irritation on her face morphs into amused flirtation. “If you needed sugar that badly, neighbor, you could have just called.”
When exactly was the last time I went to confession?
“Since you’ve so rudely interrupted my bath, you have no choice but to join me for a glass.”
I’m still lost in the unfortunate physical realities of being a heterosexual male in his prime.
“What?” I ask, blinking as I snap back to attention. “I—no, I can’t. I mean, I just came by to—”
“No, no, no,” she says, actually wagging her finger at me. “You can’t say no, I’ve been dumped and I need a shoulder to cry on.”
Just the thought of Honey touching me in any way only makes things worse, even if it’s only her head on my shoulder.
What is it with us Catholic boys and our obsession with sex?
I’ve never abided by that particular rule, but I’m not a complete manwhore about it. I have to at least feel something for the woman I’m with, so one-night stands have never been my thing.
Maybe I should have committed a bit more sin in the years after Emily and I parted ways.
Honey reaches out to grab my shirt and pull me in.
I offer no resistance.
That glimmering skin. Those seemingly strategically placed bubbles. That fluffy towel being the only thing keeping her decent. Even that thing on her head makes her look like royalty.
“Sit right here on the couch while I change into something that causes a little less inflation,” she says with a twist of the lips, her eyes briefly dropping down to my crotch then back up to my eyes with amusement.
As she leaves, still limping, she turns the music off.
I drop my gaze to see the obvious bulge in the sweatpants I was dumb enough to wear over here. Granted, this wasn’t exactly how I expected the evening to go.
“Mannaggia a te,” I hiss to myself.
Even as I damn her in my head, I feel that urgent need hit me. It’s tempered only when she disappears and I have a moment to simmer down. There are definitely worse ways to spend a Saturday night.
‘I’ve been dumped and I need a shoulder to cry on.’
Honey may not be my type exactly, but if a man was bold enough to have her in the first place, why would he be crazy enough to give her up? Just thinking about being with her is enough to drive me insane.
All the more reason I should probably rethink asking her to the ABC gala.
“Now where were we?”
I turn to find Honey in that same robe she wears in the mornings. She’s taken th
e headpiece off to free her hair and added a bit of makeup, not that she needed it.
“I actually came to talk to you about—”
“Oh no, no, no, drink first. My Uncle Dickey would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t pour you some of his moonshine.”
Moonshine?
Honey gives me a sly smile as she heads to the kitchen. I watch those legs slip in and out of the front opening of her robe as she walks.
Even with a slight limp, the way Honey walks is intoxicating enough. No need to add moonshine to the mix.
But it’s Saturday. Maybe one drink won’t be so bad.
“Here you go,” Honey says, handing me a glass half-filled with something in a light amber color. She settles down close to me with her own glass, her body twisted my way, both legs tucked underneath her.
I bring the drink to my mouth, the strong odor of alcohol and peach hitting me before my lips even hit the glass.
It’s…strong. I should have known from the word “moonshine.”
By the second sip it’s not so bad.
“Look at you, takin’ to it like a natural. We’ll make a Georgia boy outta you yet.”
That explains the accent.
Honey’s lips twist with disdain. “I know at least a few men who would be coughing or sputtering right about now.”
I eye her over the rim, instantly knowing that she’s talking about whoever it was that dumped her. “Francis?”
“Yes, Francis.” A wry smile appears on her lips, but I’m more struck by the sad look in her eyes. “I found out today that it’s official. He’s dumped me and proposed to her in less than two weeks. And on this of all weekends, to boot!”
I blink and wrinkle my brow wondering what she means by that last bit. Instead, I sip my moonshine for a long moment, unsure of what to say.
What kind of asshole gets engaged to someone else right after dumping her?
“So much for trying to make him jealous I suppose,” I say with an uncertain smile.
She hiccups a laugh and takes a sip of what’s left in her glass. Her brow wrinkles over the rim and she pulls away swallowing quickly.
“Wait a second, is that why you came over? To take me up on my suggestion?”
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