my life as a mixtape (my life as an album Book 4)

by LJ Evans

  All the girls here had beautiful eyes. Mine were just dumbass brown. I’d had one girl tell me they looked like God had taken an eyeliner pencil to the iris as if to make a point, but that was the nicest thing anyone had ever said about my eyes. But Wynn and Mia, and even Cam, had eyes that people wrote songs about. Maybe Derek should call our next song that: All the Girls With Beautiful Eyes.

  I was standing there, staring at Wynn and her eyes, when she asked, “Would you like some sweet tea?”

  She was all manners. Southern girl manners. I’d learned a lot about Southern girls in the eleven months I’d been there. But I also knew she hadn’t meant it. She didn’t really want me there.

  “Nah, I’m going to head on over to the bar at the hotel. The guys are there, and I’m sure I’ll have to pull one or all of them off some poor girl before they puke on her.”

  I headed for the door and she followed. As I stepped outside, I turned back at the last second, remembering her sobbing in the garden and wondering if being alone was the last thing she really needed. “Would you like to come with me—us—to have a drink?”

  She hesitated. She was hard to read, but I could tell she’d considered it. I couldn’t tell why, but she had, and that made me want to push her to a yes like I’d never pushed a girl before.

  “No. Thanks. You boys don’t need a sappy girl getting in the way of your charm tonight.”

  “No charm on those bozos. Besides, I think you’ve earned a drink.” I smiled at her, thinking how weddings and divorces didn’t mix.

  “I think Derek and Mia have wine here.”

  “Wine? No way. You need hard liquor.”

  She laughed. My whole body reacted to that laugh. It still hadn’t been with a full, real smile, but it had been close.

  “I’m probably not the best company tonight. And if I drank, who knows what mischief I’d get into.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave that I won’t let you do anything stupid. I’ve got your back.”

  “Your mama’s dead?”

  I looked surprised. “Shit no. That’s just the saying, isn’t it?”

  She laughed again, this one even closer to her real laugh and her real smile. “I don’t think that’s the way that saying is supposed to be used at all.”

  “Well, hell. If you promise to keep me from saying stupid crap like that, I promise to keep you from embarrassing yourself with your liquor and sappiness.”

  She hesitated again.

  “Better than sitting here thinking of stuff that ain’t gonna make you feel anything but sad.”

  It was the first time I’d even come close to mentioning the fact that I’d found her crying her eyes out in the garden. When she looked at me, her smile was gone, and I wanted to kick myself in the ass, but it was too late.

  “You know what? You’re right. Let me just get my keys.”

  She turned and went back inside before coming back a moment later with her little purse that had matched the bridesmaids’ dresses, keys twirling.

  She climbed into my new truck, and I tried hard not to think about the ways that she and I could christen its front seat, because she obviously wasn’t in a place to want to be christening anybody’s anything. But she made it damn hard because she looked awfully good. Strawberry shortcake was always meant to be devoured.

  * * *

  Two hours later, she’d downed at least half the bottle of tequila that I’d bought. Mitch, Owen, and even Eli had all but passed out on the table.

  They’d danced with her, and she’d kept up with them, moving that body of hers in a way that made me horny as hell while I watched from the table. Because I was not the dancer in the group. I was the bass player. Bass players just stood and strummed. That’s what I was good at.

  When Owen had gotten handsy on the dance floor, she’d laughed and told him she was married. It crushed his soul, but I knew better. She wasn’t married.

  Eventually, the guys called it a night.

  But not the Strawberry Shortcake. She was still drinking. I was sort of impressed. She wasn’t falling over sloppy. She wasn’t laughing and giggling. I mean, she was drunk; her words were slurred and there was a glassy look to her eyes, but she kept herself together. I wagered I’d win a bet that said she wasn’t one to lose her self-control over much of anything.

  “You probably shouldn’t drink any more of that,” I said as she poured herself another glass.

  “I was the shot queen in my sorority.”

  Sorority? Crap. She looked like she belonged in a sorority. Like all those perfect girls that belonged together, but she hadn’t ever acted like a sorority girl to me. She was polite, and nice, and made you feel like you belonged, not like you stood out.

  “How long’s it been since you were shot queen?”

  “Too long.”

  She never gave much of herself away, I realized. Enough to be courteous. Enough to keep the conversation going, but not enough to really make you feel like you’d learned something about her.

  She tossed back the shot and then flipped the glass over and over on the table. “Grant didn’t like it when I drank,” she said.

  “Who’s Grant?” I asked, even though I had a general idea that he must be the ex.

  “You don’t know?”

  When I shook my head, she sighed. “I figured it was what everyone was whispering about.”

  I didn’t respond, and she continued with a slur.

  “He’s my husband…” She waved her hand. “Scratch that. My ex-husband.”

  “Some guy was dumb enough to marry you and let you go?”

  She laughed. It still wasn’t with a real smile though. This one was still all derision.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said as if I’d brought the subject up. “No talking about your ex when you’re out with a group.”

  “Who says that? I thought all anyone who was getting a divorce wanted to do was talk about all the shitty things their ex did.”

  “You have experience with this?”

  “Not personally. Well, I take it back. There was this one chick in Portland who—”

  “Stop! I don’t want to hear what she did.”

  I laughed at her. “That’s the point. We didn’t do anything because as soon as we got naked, she started to cry and told me how she was just doing it to get back at the ex for ditching her.”

  “That speaks highly of your prowess in the bedroom.”

  I growled, “Nothing wrong with my sock monkey.”

  She stared at me for a moment and then started laughing. A real laugh with a real smile that had her eyes lighting like sunlight even through the drunken haze, and my chest tightened because I’d been the one to make it happen.

  “Did you just call your penis a sock monkey?”

  I grinned at her and waggled my eyebrows, which had her laughing again. Not a drunken giggle, but a full out laugh. I was very sober all of a sudden because making her laugh was like scoring the winning touchdown.

  “The next morning, she told me I was a great listener and then gave me a blow job as a thank you present.”

  “Puhlease. I told you I didn’t want to hear about what she did.”

  “I didn’t say she was any good at it,” I pushed because I wanted to keep her smiling.

  “How can anyone be bad at a blow job?”

  I choked on my beer as those words came out of her mouth.

  “Believe me, there are plenty of ways to be bad at it.”

  “Maybe that’s why Grant left. Maybe I thought I was awesome at giving them, and he thought I sucked but didn’t have the heart to tell me how to get better, so he divorced me instead.”

  If she didn’t stop talking about blow jobs, I was going to have a hard time getting up without taking her with me, and so I risked the smile disappearing to change the subject.

  “I don’t think anyone would get divorced over that.”

  She shrugged, took another shot, and then spun the glass again.

  �
��What did he tell you?” I asked because now I was curious. What would make any idiot leave this sexy, tall red-head with a smile that could send you to the netherworld and an attitude that just screamed confidence?

  “He told me he was going to teach English in Thailand,” she responded.

  “Teaching in Thailand doesn’t mean divorce.”

  “I know!” she said, pounding the table like I’d just said something worthy of a Pulitzer. “That’s what I said. I was like, okay, for how long? And then he was like, I’m not sure there’s a time limit. I still wasn’t catching on, see. I just told him that I wasn’t sure the hospital was going to let me take a leave with no end date. And that’s when he said he wasn’t being really clear and handed me the divorce paperwork. He said he just didn’t think he could be married anymore.”

  Wynn twirled the shot glass. I removed the tequila bottle from in front of her, and she was drunk enough not to notice that I placed it at the floor at my feet. Shot queen or not, she was likely going to go comatose if she drank any more.

  “That’s pretty crappy,” I responded and meant it.

  She was quiet for a moment, then put her head down on her arms on the table as if all of a sudden the alcohol and the world had just caught up with her. She closed her eyes and spoke almost as if she didn’t realize she was still talking.

  “Yep. But the worst thing is that I let all my friends and family think he’s a schmuck for walking out with no real reason, but the truth is, there is a reason. A big reason.” She paused like she wasn’t sure she wanted to say anything to me. Like the secret was busting to get out of her, but she just wasn’t sure if she could let it escape.

  I just waited.

  “The real reason is that I’m defective.” She said it so matter-of-factly that it about killed me.

  I could tell she believed it. That she was defective, and that snagged at that hole she’d been making in my gut all evening.

  “No one knows this,” she said so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear it. “But we had two miscarriages in the year before he left.”

  Fuck! Two lifeless babies in a year. I was surprised she was still standing. And the asshole had left her? After two times she’d carried part of him inside her and lost them?

  “Shit,” I said. It was all I could get out as I watched her face. She was so unreadable. You couldn’t even tell if she had any emotions left after all that. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was still so numb that there wasn’t anything to feel.

  “Yeah. Pretty shitty,” she said. Like we’d just talked about losing a credit card or something. That was shitty. This was catastrophic.

  “That just makes him more of a bastard to me. You don’t walk out on the person you love after something like that,” I told her. She still wasn’t looking at me, though. She still had her eyes closed, face on an arm, the other hand twirling the damn glass.

  I wondered again how she was even functioning this much. With two lost babies, a husband that had left her, and having to work in the maternity ward all day, because I knew enough about her to know that was her job.

  “It must be real hard working with babies all day after you’ve lost your own,” I said quietly.

  She made a barely perceptible nod, but I saw the hand around the glass tighten. It was an emotion, at least, out of the void of nothingness she’d shown.

  “You’re not defective,” I told her.

  “It’s why he left, though.”

  “He left because he’s an asshole.”

  She sat up, eyes popping open as if she just realized she’d said all that out loud. To an almost stranger. To some guy she was drinking with in a bar.

  “You keep saying that. But truth is, I thought he was the yin to my yang, the bubbles to my soda, the cheese to my pizza, but really it ended up just being another joke on me.”

  It was the closest to sad I’d seen her since the tears in the garden. What I’d seen of her so far was that she was either showing no emotion, or she was happy and full of quick comebacks. I wanted to take her away from her dark mood. It was what I was good at after all. Lonnie the Goofball.

  “I think you take this whole thing too seriously.” I smiled at her when she looked up with some surprise in her eyes. Surprised that I was telling her that her ex leaving her because she’d had two miscarriages was a joke. I didn’t think that, but I wanted to see her eyes light up again.

  “What whole thing?”

  “Life,” I told her.

  “Um, you only get one.”

  “Exactly. That’s why you can’t let anyone else’s crap weigh you down,” I said with a bigger smile and a swig of my beer.

  “That’s a load of whale bits.”

  I choked on the beer for the second time. “Whale bits?”

  She smirked at me, and that relieved the knot in my stomach a smidge. “When Mia decided she was going to use interesting words instead of cuss words, that one came out once, and I liked it.”

  “You know whale bits wouldn’t really be bits, right?” I grinned back at her.

  “Exactly. It’s gonna be a shit ton of crap,” she said with that full smile that had a little quirk on the upper bow and had my chest tightening up in response.

  “A shit ton of crap. Whale bits. I think I’m gonna have to use that one,” I chuckled in response.

  We both smiled at each other a minute, and then she sighed, putting down the shot glass with a loud bang. “I think you better take me back, Monkey Boy.”

  I wanted to choke on my beer yet again because she’d brought back up the sock monkey thing, and I realized I was way over my head with this one.

  A Little Bit Stronger

  Hangovers & Kittens

  “I know my heart will never be the same,

  but I’m telling myself I’ll be okay

  even on my weakest days.”

  —Sara Evans

  The sunlight pierced Wynn’s eyes as they flickered open, and she winced. Her head hurt like it hadn’t hurt since her freshman year of college. Her mouth was so dry she might as well have stuck a maxi pad in it. She groaned and rolled over to look at the clock on the bedside table. It was ten.

  She sat up and regretted it as her stomach heaved. She was still dressed—no shoes—but she was still dressed. She’d never gone to bed in her clothes that she could remember. Ever.

  Her stomach turned with more than alcohol. It turned at the thought of her entire night. The night that had ended in a blur that she couldn’t remember. She shouldn’t have gone out last night. She had known that she wasn’t in a place to handle any of it well. And she hadn’t.

  But she hadn’t wanted to stay home either. She just would have fallen into tears again over the finalized divorce paperwork sitting in her bag like a beacon of her failure. It had been too much to bear alone. Sane. Sober. It was why she’d agreed to Lonnie’s suggestion, even though her conscious had told her not to.

  Now she felt miserable, but at least it was for a different reason. At least it was for something she did instead of something that had been forced upon her. Getting drunk had been all on her. She grimaced at the thought that she’d done it with Lonnie the Lumberjack. God, of all the people to get drunk with. Derek’s friend. The one that Mia called idiot. The one that she’d always found attractive, even when he’d only been Derek’s bandmate and she’d been married.

  Next to the clock was a glass of water and some aspirin. She couldn’t remember if she’d put them there. She couldn’t remember even walking in the door of Mia’s house. She flushed in embarrassment, even when there was no one there to see it. The last thing she could remember clearly was sitting at the bar, drinking tequila with Lonnie.

  At least her clothes were on, meaning she didn’t have to add a night of shame to her list of mistakes. It meant she hadn’t taken him into her bed like she remembered being tempted to when he’d watched her while she danced on the dance floor with Owen and Mitch.

  It wasn’t that she was interested in really getti
ng together with anyone. God. Not yet. Not ever. She’d only been tempted as a way to prove that she could do it: have sex with a guy that wasn’t Grant. She was single after all.

  Single. After barely two years of marriage. Grant had left a month after their anniversary. Almost to the day. She hadn’t seen it coming. He’d bought her a beautiful set of sapphire earrings for their anniversary. He’d bought a card that said, “I love you.” And then a month later, handed her the papers.

  Her stomach twisted with loss and pain as she thought of her husband. Of her ex-husband. Of that last day together. The day he’d left. The day her world as she knew it had stopped.

  When she reached for the water and aspirin, she saw that there was a note sitting there, and she cringed. The note was in a scrawl she could barely read, but it said, “Hope you don’t feel too shitty. Here’s some water and aspirin just in case. Lonnie”

  It was sweet. The note. The fact that he had obviously helped her to bed. It was so sweet that it almost hurt. Her heart lurched into her throat and got stuck there. She rubbed her forehead in frustration, at herself, for letting her sadness over Grant drive her into actions that were not normally her. Getting drunk with strange men. Letting them take her home.

  Jane the kitten jumped on the bed and started rubbing on her. Wynn petted her, absently wondering how she was going to say thank you to Lonnie for putting up with her. For not taking advantage of her drunken state like many other men would have.

  As she thought of the bar and Lonnie, she was filled with dread. How much had she told him about Grant and the divorce? She vaguely remembered admitting the divorce, but had she told him the real reason? Had she told him about the miscarriages?

  God, she was stupid. Her stupidity was almost as bad as her taste in men.

  The only guy who had been any good to her was her very first boyfriend, Zack. The one she’d lost because his parents moved to Louisiana and not because he wanted to leave her. She’d replaced him with Pete who’d callously screwed her and dumped her in high school. Her heart groaned at her younger self for ever being that naïve. For not listening to her instincts then. Just as she hadn’t listened to them last night, telling her to stay home.