We are halfway through dinner when an attractive and curvy woman stops suddenly as she walks by the table. Oh, here we go, enter Mr. Playboy. She has long blond curly hair, and I mean silky spiral curls from root to tip, the kind those of us with frizzy curls envy. She puts her hands on the table in front of Nate and leans over so that her cleavage is gloriously on display for him . . . and me.
She starts talking to him but is looking at me. If she could shoot daggers from her eyes, I would be shish-ka-bobbed to the booth behind me. “Hey, baby, I didn’t realize you were feeding them before fucking them these days,” she says with a hint of a French accent.
My eyes go wide and my chin falls to the table in front of me. Nate pales as his fists ball up under the table. Graham closes his eyes and shakes his head and Emma is about ready to jump out of the booth and grab Miss Curly-hair-boobs and rip her head off.
Nate quips back with hardly a hesitation, “Isn’t this a little far from the corner you are working, Claudia?”
Oh, God. Claudia. The ex-wife.
Now the color drains from my face. I’m looking eye-to-eye with the woman who snagged the one that got away from me. She doesn’t look at all like I imagined her. Okay, so maybe I have been imagining what she looks like even though I know I shouldn’t care about it. I thought she would look angelic, like a wounded little girl who had been crushed when the love of her life wronged her. I realize that I was probably projecting what I looked like at seventeen onto the image of her. But, this I didn’t expect. She looks . . . well she looks like a total bitch. She is dressed like a slut and although she is very beautiful, she also seems kind of skanky.
I can’t decide which emotion to go with. Jealousy? Hatred? Anger? Sympathy? After all, she was wronged and probably deserves my sympathy, but she is the one who got him, even if only for a while when I only had him for one night. I decide on hatred, it is the easiest for me to express.
“Honey, don’t bother asking for a second date,” she says to me with a big smirk on her face.
There is nothing worse than being called honey by another woman, especially one your own age. It drips with condescension. I stare at her right back in the eyes-slash-boobs and without thinking too much about it I grab Nate’s hand, entwine his fingers with mine, place our clasped hands on the table just under her breasts and say, “Don’t count on it, honey. He must like this milk so much that he decided to buy it.” Then I flash my large engagement ring at her.
I think it will take a crane to lift her jaw off the floor. She looks back and forth between Nate and me for what seems like forever. Then she huffs, turns on her mile-high Jimmy Choo’s and walks away.
It takes about two seconds for the other three people at the table to laugh, sputter, and scream in excitement at my decidedly out-of-character outburst.
“Girl, I think I’m in love with you,” Graham says with a wink to Emma. “That was epic! I’ve never seen someone put her in her place like that.”
The guys bump fists and go on and on about how great that was when I realize that Nate is still holding my hand. Or maybe I’m still holding his. I pull it away quickly, shrugging my shoulders when I say, “I just hate it when people call me honey.”
“Duly noted.” Nate leans close so only I can hear him whisper, “Baby it is then.”
I’m about to kick him in the shin when the smile is instantly wiped off his face and he freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Everyone at the table follows his gaze to where we see Claudia across the room being helped into her coat by a very attractive and muscular guy.
“Who is that guy she is with?” Emma asks Graham.
Graham looks sympathetically over at Nate. “That is Jonathon Cassidy. He’s a pitcher for the Braves.” Then he tries to lighten the mood. “What do you say we kill this bottle of wine?”
I’m not sure why Nate looks so crushed over seeing her with another man. Didn’t he call her a bitch that wouldn’t leave him alone after she sent him a text the other night? He brings a hand up to rub his bicep over his shirt where his tattoo hides underneath and realization dawns.
Claudia. Claudia with the French accent. The writing on his tattoo, it must be French. He got it for her, or because of her. But if he cheated on her, why is he so reluctant to talk about the tattoo?
Then he starts that thing again that he did before with his right wrist, moving it in circles. The wrist with all of the small scars. I don’t think he’s even aware of what he is doing. He is kind of spacing out, looking into his wine glass. Then he runs his hand through is hair, takes a breath and downs the entire glass in one drink.
We get through the rest of dinner but Nate is very quiet and reserved. Graham tells us that we are heading out to Fayetteville Street after dinner. It is a popular nightlife area with shops, restaurants and clubs. I can see Emma squirming in her seat; this is definitely her cup of tea.
Graham pays the check. I don’t even want to know what it amounts to, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were a few hundred dollars based on what I saw on my menu. Thankfully, Claudia and Mr. Baseball are long gone by the time we hit the parking lot. I find myself actually feeling bad for Nate and I don’t even know why.
On the way to our next destination, my phone chirps and I look to see that Michael has sent me a text.
Michael: Hey sweetheart, have little break, wanted to say I miss you.
I close my eyes and picture his face.
Me: Hey to you too. Miss you more. Heading to trendy nightlife spot right now. Just had the world’s best steak. You would like it here.
Michael: Be safe, Lyn. Don’t drink too much and don’t take a drink from anyone but the bartender. Steak? You? I don’t believe it!
Yeah, I’m not much into red meat. But I thought it was one of those ‘when in Rome’ moments.
Me: Well, when you eat in a place called the barn, you go with the flow!
Michael: Haha. Got to run. I love you. Call me when you get home.
Me: Love u too. Will do. Bye.
I put my phone away as we park the car in a huge lot. I hope someone will remember where we parked. We walk by all kinds of unique shops and restaurants and I wonder if there are any bakeries here. We head slightly off the main drag and arrive at the club. It is aptly named ‘The Architect.’ I stare at the awning wondering about this coincidence as Graham and Nate share a look. I have a feeling this is not their first time here.
Nate snags one of the few tables close to the dance floor. Graham orders a bottle of champagne and when the waitress brings it out and pours it into our four glasses, Graham raises his in a toast. “To new friends.” He winks at Emma and they clink their glasses together before turning to clink ours as well.
Nate leans into me and whispers, “And old ones.” He smiles brightly and then sips his champagne while eyeing me over the top of his glass.
We finish the bottle, order some waters and we head out to dance to the latest top-forty hits. This is okay. I can do this. Group dancing is not very personal and as long as we don’t split up as couples, I can hang in there. I give Emma the stare and she nods her head. I love that we can have an entire conversation with only a look or a movement.
We dance in kind of a square with equal distance between us. This continues pretty effectively for a while and we all have a thin layer of sweat somewhere on our bodies at this point. What is it about sweat that makes guys look more attractive? Someone once told me that when a guy sweats, his body puts out some kind of smell that is genetically proven to attract females. Well, if looking around this club is evidence, I’d say that theory is dead on. Bodies are coming together, grinding and moving as one. Girls are stripping off their outer layers to the excitement of the males around them. Even Graham and Emma are inching closer together and seem lost in their own little dance world.
Dancing can be like a drug. It releases endorphins and makes you feel better even if you are in a bad mood. It must be those endorphins kicking in when I look at Nate. Watching him dance is
like seeing a recipe perfectly come together. It builds up with each ingredient and then you stir it all together and all of the flavors mix, and you are then rewarded with the aroma of the scrumptious pastry as it bakes. But, just like most of the confections I make, I cannot have, nor do I want him. Okay, in all honesty I do want everything that I bake. But I don’t want Nate. Nope. Don’t want him or his sweaty, dirty-blonde hair that he sometimes runs his hands through. Not his broad shoulders or even that strip of skin between his low hung jeans and his shirt that rides up when he raises his hands over his head.
I’ll admit, however, that he is eye-candy for women. Case in point. There is a curvy, attractive woman behind him. She starts grinding into him from behind. Hello? Am I not even here? I mean we aren’t dancing closely but it should be kind of obvious that we are dancing together. He is sporting a huge smile as he moves against her. Of course he is. Then he opens his eyes and sees me in front of him and a look of shock crosses his face. He quickly reaches out and takes my hand, turning us around so that I’m the one who is now standing with my back to sweaty-grind girl. He releases my hand the instant we change positions. Sweaty girl pouts behind me and walks away and Nate is smiling once again.
A slow song comes on so I head over to the table and down my water. Nate follows me but Graham and Emma stay on the dance floor, glued together, hands roaming every which way. We go ahead and order another round of drinks for everyone. I try to pay the waitress but Nate won’t let me. We are enjoying our drinks and are watching the dance floor when another woman comes up to Nate and asks him to dance. Seriously, am I invisible? He tells her no thank you and shrugs an apology at me.
“You know, it’s okay if you want to dance with someone. It’s not like I’m your date.” I blush. “I mean, we’re not together. Well, not together-together.” I roll my eyes at myself.
“Brooklyn, I’m not going to leave you sitting here all by yourself.” He smiles at me and lifts his chin to the dance floor. “But if you want to dance with me, that would be great.”
Dance with him. Touch that sweaty body. Grind up close to him. No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. I’m no longer that little girl who will fall for some romantic lines and then fall into bed with him. No, I’m perfectly fine sitting right here where it’s safe. Just a few more hours tonight and tomorrow will be the last I see of Nathan Riley.
Emma and Graham come back to the table for a drink. I finish my second Cosmo in no time and grab Emma’s hand and drag her to the dance floor. “Girls’ dance,” I say, as I point to the guys to stay put.
Out on the dance floor Emma can’t stop gushing about Graham and how good a dancer he is and how great he is and how good he smells and on and on. In between my eye rolls, I notice Nate and Graham intermittently talking and staring at us. I know they are talking about us; hopefully they are talking about Emma because there really isn’t any point in talking about me. My story is already written, there are no alternative endings, no chances of turning the tables, no way am I going to cave to the playboy of the modern world. I see the way he is looking at me when I dance, like he wants to eat me alive. It should make me feel uncomfortable but I don’t let it. After all, I’m probably the one woman here he can’t have. So, look all you want, Nate, this book is shut. Done. Finished. Period.
Emma and I dance our asses off until I think my feet will become disconnected from my body. I am so in need of water right now. We go over to the table where the guys have fresh water and another round of drinks waiting.
“Damn, you two look hot.” Graham smiles at Emma. “And I’m not talking about your temperature. You guys looked great. I think every guy in this club is wishing they were us right now.” He points his finger between himself and Nate.
A slow songs starts. “Later you two,” Emma says, pulling Graham up from the table.
Surprisingly, a few guys come by and ask me to dance. The second guy doesn’t take no for an answer until I show him my ring. Then he turns to Nate and says, “You are one lucky guy, man.”
Nate simply says, “You have no idea.” The other guy walks away and Nate looks upset.
“Listen,” he says, while gesturing to my ring, “if you dance with me, I promise I’ll respect the ring.”
I don’t know if I believe those words or if the alcohol is kicking in, but for some reason, against the better judgment of womankind and the Jiminy-freaking-Cricket on my shoulder, I say, “Fine, but you’d better be good.” I blush. “I mean, you better behave yourself.”
He chuckles. “I know what you mean, Brooklyn. And I am good.”
I ignore his words and head out to the dance floor. He stands in front of me, holding out his hands while raising an eyebrow to ask permission to put them on me. I give him a slight nod and hold my breath. As soon as his hands touch my sides, my eyes close spontaneously and my breath hitches. My flesh is burning under those large hands and electricity is working its way through my veins. I wonder if I keep my eyes shut and imagine I’m dancing with Michael, if it will make this more tolerable. Only, I can’t do that because what I’m smelling, now that he is so close to me—that fresh laundry and Nate smell that is now mixed with a heady dose of man-sweat—that smell is most definitely not Michael.
“Um, Brooklyn, usually the way it works is that you put your hands somewhere on me as well.” He smirks as my eyes pop open.
I’m glad the dance floor is dark because I’m sure I’m blushing again. “Oh, right,” I say, putting my hands up on his shoulders and then around the back of his neck, but I don’t grip them together. I still want to maintain a little buffer no matter how hard that is to do while slow dancing.
I try not to move my fingers much but I can feel the sheen of sweat along with the rigid muscles of his neck. Ordinarily this would gross me out. I’m not like Michael. I’m not used to other people’s bodily fluids getting on me. But instead of pulling away, my body betrays my mind and plants itself right up against him.
I hear him take in a long breath through his nose. Is he smelling my hair? There are still little sparks that are igniting under my skin whenever he rubs his thumb in a circle where he has placed his hand on my lower back.
This is harder than I thought it would be. I think I’m a little drunk and should probably not be doing this. This feels too good for someone who is happily engaged. As my conscience argues with my goddess within, I decide to give him one more song. But that’s it. I smile at myself for having such resolve.
Karma is a funny thing. I never really believed in it before. The whole, do the right thing and good things will happen to you theory, I don’t buy it. I think you should do the right thing because the right thing feels right, not because you fear some wave of cosmic badness will follow your soul.
Well, apparently tonight, I am Karma’s bitch. Because the song that starts playing through the speakers of this very loud, very trendy club is the same song that played about five seconds after I lost my virginity to the very guy whose hands are burning a hole in the fabric of my favorite sweater. Nickelback is singing ‘Someday,’ and I am transformed back into a seventeen-year-old girl, sitting in the front seat of Nate’s pick-up truck, thinking that it was the best day of my life and that my future had just been decided for me and it was exactly what I had dreamed. I am frozen in time. My body stiffens. And just because Karma wants her brownies with ice cream, fudge topping and a freaking cherry on top, a tear rolls down my cheek.
Nate pulls away from me and looks at my face, which I know must be horribly streaked with mascara. His brows furrow together. “Brooklyn, I—”
“I—I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “I need to hit the ladies room.” I peel myself out of his grip and try not to embarrass myself by running to the bathroom.
I hear quick steps behind me. Don’t follow me. Please don’t follow me. I keep going, quickening my pace until I realize the sound of the clicking behind me couldn’t possibly be Nate. I turn to see Emma following
me into the bathroom.
“What happened?” She wets some paper towels and runs them under my eyes.
I explain the best I can through my heavy breathing, feeling foolish the entire time that this song would affect me. I have avoided listening to this song—okay every song by Nickelback—for the past eight years. But tonight, between the alcohol, the fun night we’ve had, and the fact that I’m out of my element, the lines are blurring and clearly I’m not in the correct frame of mind.
Once I’m calmed down and cleaned up, we head back to the table where I gulp down another glass of water. No more alcohol for me tonight.
“Everything okay?” Nate asks, looking genuinely concerned.
“It’s fine. Just some sawdust from the dance floor in my eye. I’m good now,” I lie.
He stares at me, runs his hand through his hair and then opens his mouth to speak but then apparently decides to let it go. I hope he doesn’t know why I really freaked out. Surely he doesn’t remember the song. Of course he doesn’t, guys never remember things like that.
Emma and I dance to a few more songs so I can shake it off. Dancing with Emma is great therapy for anything. It is practically a sport. She gets me laughing and back to myself in no time.
We decide to call it a night and head back to the car. We have a long walk since we parked all the way at one end of Fayetteville Street and ended up at the opposite end. Nate is keeping pace with me while Emma and Graham stroll slowly and lag way behind us swinging their entwined hands between them like a couple of little kids. We are not talking but it is a comfortable silence. I feel like I might just be able to let go of this anger I’ve harbored against him all of these years.
Be My Reason Page 8