Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  I look over my shoulder. Through the crowd passing me by, I barely make out my father’s salt-and-pepper hair as he speaks to Brian and the vixen in the red dress. Seeing Cher stand so closely to that pecker pisses me off in ways I can’t explain. It’s like I’m a kid and someone has taken my favorite toy. For himself.

  She glances in my direction. For a moment, our eyes meet. Something stabs me in the gut.

  So much for coolly winking and pretending I don’t really care about her.

  The next half hour doesn’t go much more smoothly. I find someone to talk to, but he immediately senses that there’s something “off” about me. I tell him I’m getting over a summer cold that knocked me on my ass. “Gotta watch out for those wildfires out there,” he tells me, as if I don’t know. “Just because you can’t see the smoke in the air, doesn’t mean there isn’t any there.” Thanks, buddy. I’ll keep that in mind.

  Like I’ll keep Cher’s presence in mind.

  I don’t see her much more after I leave the bar, but I feel her presence everywhere I stand. Rose-scented candles on the tables remind me of the red of her dress and the crimson of her lips. The peal of a woman’s laughter makes me remember when we got so high we barely knew where we were. The knowing chuckles of men about to get lucky tonight make me think of every time we shared a kiss that didn’t necessarily lead to sex.

  Of course, I also think of the damned sex. I don’t need a specific trigger for that.

  I have to decide, tonight, what I want to do. Should I march up to her and demand a moment to explain myself? To ask her to take me back? How much should I prostrate myself at the shrine of Cher, Professional Succubus? Or should I end it for good? Say my piece and kiss what we had goodbye, but on my terms?

  Am I seeking a second chance, or closure?

  Let’s be real. I already knew she’d be here tonight. She wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to hobnob, with or without a guy. Even without someone’s invitation, she would have found a way to get in, even if it meant bribing the doorman. Cher lives for this shit. The dresses. The tuxedos. The champagne.

  The drama.

  I haven’t seen her for fifteen minutes. Even now, as I look around the ballroom, I see no sign of Cher or Brian. Maybe this is my chance to simply leave. I’ll hire a ride back to my South Waterfront apartment. Be done with this. Be done with her. Who needs closure when…

  When…

  She’s standing in the foyer, where I have gone to decide whether I should leave. I was not expecting to see her here. Not sure what I expected, hanging out in one of the smallest areas of the whole venue. You know, that’s not the men’s room. Suppose I shouldn’t be shocked to see her there, too.

  Her back is to me. What is she doing? Reapplying makeup? Waiting for someone? Checking her phone? Do I say something now? Or do I walk by, hoping she’ll say something? How much of a man should I really be?

  Ugh. Fine.

  It’s now or never. It’s my chance to get closure. I owe myself – and her – that much.

  “Cher.”

  A compact snaps shut. Shoulder blades tighten. The fringe of the red dress grow taut across her back. A deep breath is inhaled and, slowly, Cher turns one critical eye toward me.

  It’s like cutting yourself on glass but continuing to dig through the shrapnel. That’s what it’s like to willingly enter these moments with Cher Lieberman.

  Although she says nothing in acknowledgment, she continues to gaze at me with one eye cast over her shoulder. It’s the same damned look she gave me whenever she dared me to go harder, faster, or more, more, more.

  I hate her for it. Damn it, I love her.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting your evening.” Where the hell did calm and polite Drew Benton come from? Because inside I’m a total wreck. Everything is shaking. My mouth and throat are dry. I swear to God, I wore too much cologne. Either that, or I’ve picked up the fragrances of every rich asshole in this venue. I don’t smell anything radiating off Ms. Chanel No. 5, though. No Victoria’s Secret body spray. No Ralph Lauren. No Britney Spears. None of the other scents she enticed me with earlier this year. I would know. I had my nose buried deep in those scents so many times that I can tell you what Britney Spears perfume smells like. It actually smells good! Like really high quality!

  It smells like Cher.

  “Wanted to say I’m sorry, that’s all.” My hands hang in my trouser pockets. It’s either that or twiddle my fingers like the nervous wreck I am. Cher’s demeanor hasn’t softened or otherwise changed since I started talking to her. For all I know, she’s plotting my demise. Or she’ll go stone-cold and completely ignore me after two more seconds. “I’m sorry for what I said the last time we saw each other.” We’re attracting a little attention. Probably because most of the people here know who I am, and if they don’t know who she is, they at least know she came here with another guy. That in itself is noteworthy. “That was wrong of me to say. I shouldn’t have thought it. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with who you are.”

  She looks away again. A few eyes are on us. I’m not sure they know what they’re witnessing.

  “Just wanted to say that. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or made you angry. I’m not asking for your forgiveness or anything.”

  Slowly, she turns her whole body, eyes widening as if I have utterly offended her with my presence. “Then why are you telling me this?”

  She’s not merely hurt, is she? She’s wounded. I wounded her. Maybe not now, but I’ve at least opened the fresh mark I left inside of her a few weeks ago. That glistening in her eyes is the remnant of the tears she cried when I offended her. That clench of her hand around her compact is her withholding the urge to slap me again. Although I’ve tried to avoid angering her here, I’ve done it anyway.

  “Because I had to,” I say, with a bit of a frog in my voice. “Maybe it’s selfish of me to corner you like this and say something, but I would’ve felt worse if I never apologized.”

  “You think this is an apology? Or about your feelings?”

  I clear my throat. This is very much not going how I played it out in my head.

  “I don’t think it’s about my feelings at all.” Where has my confidence gone? Oh, it’s right here in my pocket. Next to some lint and my dick. Yay. “It’s about yours.”

  “Come again?” she snaps.

  “Your feelings. I know that you have them.”

  Ah, shit, that was a little too snarky.

  “Look,” I continue, “I’m sorry. I mean that, too. I’m sorry for a lot of things. Not only what I said the last time we… yeah.” I try to be a gentleman in public. Really. “I’m sorry that I treated you like I did the whole time we were together. You’re not some anthropological specimen for me to dissect. Nor did you deserve the aggression I took out on you. You were always pretty open with me about who you were. I thought I was with you, too, but I guess… ah, never mind. You know what?” Here it comes. Words I had rehearsed, but they’re not coming out the way I rehearsed them. There’s some desperation deep down in my gut, ready to be unleashed upon the world. Upon her. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve a life that will make you content and fulfill you in every way possible. Maybe that’s with a guy who is your best match. Maybe that’s by yourself, doing your own thing and living life the way you see fit. I don’t know. How can anyone know? You deserve happiness. I’d be a bigger asshole than anyone originally thought if I begrudged you that.”

  A shadow moves behind me. Here comes Brian, sensing the confusion on his date’s face as she talks to me. Or takes my weird words, I suppose. Either way, he’s here, and he’s wrapping an arm around her like they’ve been lovers for an age. “Everything okay, hon?” he asks her, both eyes always on me. I offer a reassuring smile. He is not reassured.

  “Yeah…” Cher washes the bemusement from her visage and softens her gaze in my direction. “Was having a chat with someone I used to know.”

  Ouch. Guess I deserve that one, though.

 
; “Sorry for the interruption.” That one’s for Brian, who has gone from wanting to impress me in front of my father, to wondering how the hell I know his hot girlfriend. “I’m heading out. You two enjoy your night.” I stop beside Brian before I have a real chance to pass him. I can’t help myself. I’ve inherited something from my father, and it’s called pat the bloke on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. She’s a feisty one.”

  I show myself out and grab an Uber at the end of the block. My mother messages me to ask where I’m at. I tell her I’m going back to my apartment because I’m nauseated.

  She doesn’t ask any questions. Yet the car ride back to my place has all sorts of things swimming in my head.

  Chapter 33

  CHER

  Can we talk about what just happened?

  Did Drew Benton come up and apologize to me?

  Then walked out like he owns the place and can do as he pleases?

  Of course he did. Because he’s Drew Benton, and it’s in his damn blood. Ask me. I’ve learned much about his father since Brian finally got cozy with him. Fucking golf. Nonstop golf. I already knew what shit like “birdie” and “handicap” meant before, but now I’m learning lingo and buying golfing gear for the first time in seven years because Brian’s convinced this is gonna be our “thing.” Never mind this wasn’t his thing until he finally got that precious introduction at the country club.

  The things I do, I swear.

  Brian is flummoxed that I know Drew, although I’ve led him to think I’m not so worldly. At some point the truth would come out, though. How did I expect to hide how many people I really know in this small city? We would bump into one of my exes sooner rather than later. I simply didn’t expect Drew to be the first one.

  He apologized to me!

  He didn’t ask for my forgiveness. Didn’t ask me to get back with him. Didn’t even undress me with his eyes, the fucker. While he’s standing there looking like a billion dollars in his bespoke tuxedo, something I had never seen on him before. Mr. Trucker Hat and Flannel never wore a tux around me. Why would he? That wasn’t him.

  It looked damn good on him, though. I hate him for it, because now all I can think about is the so-called whirlwind romance we experienced. The kisses that felt like atomic punches to the heart. The caresses that ingrained themselves into my carnal memory. The damned fucking that gave me pleasure I had never seized before. Not like that.

  I almost forget what he had said to me the last time we saw each other, but I don’t forget. It’s always right there, taunting me. It replays in my head over and over, like a movie burned into my TV. I can still see the dawning realization on his face when he came up with the preposterous idea that I might be a… a…

  Maybe he didn’t mean it maliciously. Is that what I’m missing here? Was I so offended because I was used to men who would mean it maliciously? Because that’s the definition of most of the guys I’ve dated. Brian over here would definitely say the S word in the most derogatory way possible.

  What if Drew was just dumb as hell?

  Because if there’s one thing I’ve realized in turn, it’s that he’s right. I can’t deny it any longer. The biggest sexual thrill I get in life is doing what I’m not supposed to do. I’m a carnal contrarian. A woman who completely owns her body and doesn’t want any man laying claim to it. Or woman, for that matter. Who are they to say I belong to them? They don’t belong to me. Humans don’t work like that. The moment you think you own me, I’m out. This isn’t about being possessive, really. It’s about that most misunderstood aspect of monogamy.

  That, “This is it. No more sexy fun, ever again. I see you in a new light, my love. We can only make sweet, sensual love from here on out. It makes the best babies, I hear.”

  I work with what the world has given me, and we live in a world that says me flitting from guy to guy makes me a slut. So be it. Maybe I am a slut! Maybe I look at guys like Brian and think about all the ways I’m going to dump him when this is over. Do I do it to intentionally hurt them? Of course not. That’s an unfortunate side effect, but I can’t deny who I am or what I need from my life.

  Drew was different. He was the first man to completely get me. He understood what made me tick, even if he didn’t know he understood me. He showed me a possible future in which I was in a happy, long-term relationship with one man who gave me the kind of love and attention I fucking want.

  And he didn’t judge me for it. I only thought he did, because that same society that calls me a slut says I should be deeply ashamed by it.

  What if I left too soon? What if I now regret how things ended between us?

  “Hey, Cher.” Brian sits me down on a satin couch along the wall. He’s brought me water and gently taps my cheek to get my attention. I take the cup of water without much thought. What is there to think about? “You all right? What did that guy do to you, huh?”

  It’s kinda cute, really. Although Brian is in the business of kissing Drew’s dad’s ass, he’s still willing to hear me out. Maybe he’s not so bad, too. I mean, is Brian my type? Hell, no, but he might make some other woman very happy soon. A woman who isn’t lying to him from the moment they meet.

  Someone who isn’t me.

  “I’m sorry.” Eventually, my bearings return to me. I look up and realize that it’s Brian sitting before me, and not someone else. Someone I desperately want to see right now. “I… I think I’m with the wrong person.”

  Brian sits back. “Excuse me?”

  I hand back the cup of water. “That guy. Drew. He’s the one who got away.”

  “What?”

  I stand. Do I go after him? Do I sit here like a complacent idiot, doomed to make the same mistake over and over? Dare I go after the life that might make me happier than what I’m doing now ever could?

  “Ch… Cher!” Brian leaps up after me, but I’m too fast. I pick up the skirt of my dress and fly out of the venue. I don’t head to the coat check to pick up my jacket. I don’t need it. Oh, my God, I don’t need it! “Cher!” Brian’s voice continues to echo behind me, but who cares? I have my clutch. I have my wallet and my keys. I don’t need anything else. I’d argue I don’t really need those, either.

  I need Drew.

  I don’t bother calling a Lyft. Brian might catch up to me, and I need to hurry before I lose my nerve. No, I catch a damn taxi for the first time in years. When the driver asks me where to go, I tell him the intersection of Drew’s building. I don’t remember its name.

  All I remember is how I felt every time I entered it.

  Angry. Hot and bothered. Expectant. Humiliated. Desirous.

  The car turns toward the South Waterfront. I look down at my phone, wishing I hadn’t deleted Drew’s number from my address book. I do, however, have a voice mail from Brian. A few messages, too.

  I delete them all and hold my phone to my chest.

  The cost to get here is way too high, reaffirming why I always take a rideshare, but who has time to fret over money when I’m standing outside Drew’s apartment… and he might not be here tonight! I’m lucky the concierge recognizes me and Drew has apparently not told them to turn me away. I head straight up to his door and knock before I lose my nerve.

  He answers.

  Time stills. My breath is frozen in my lungs, like ice cubes clinking around with every breath.

  He isn’t completely undressed. He’s taken off the tuxedo jacket and undone the bowtie, but everything else, from the shirt to the cummerbund, remains on his person. If I didn’t want him before, I do now. I want him like the earth wants the sun to rise every day.

  Drew leans against the doorway and looks me up and down. Is he nervous? Surprised? Can he hear the erratic beating of my heart or how much it sings for him? He calls me a siren, but does he know what that means? Does he know that I’ve spent my whole life singing to him, hoping he’ll come to me?

  “Damn,” he says with that low, husky voice that has probably ripped off a thousand panties in its day. “That red is abs
olutely vivacious.”

  I try to speak, but my words won’t come out. Instead, I fist handfuls of my red dress, memorizing this moment so I’ll remember exactly what it was like fifty years from now.

  “By the way,” he continues. “I fucking love you.”

  Fifty men have told me that they love me, some in the most grandiose of ways. Tears have been shed. Songs have been sung. Violins played and choirs came together in unison. But not until now, when a half-dressed man leaning in his apartment doorway said a vulgarity, have I believed it.

  Nor have I ever wanted to hear it so badly.

  “I love you too,” I gush. The first words I’ve managed since I got in the taxi. Those are them. The truth. “I love you, Drew Benton.” I’ve said the L word a thousand times in my life. I’ve told a hundred men that I love them. When’s the last time I meant it, though? Must have been high school. Young, foolish, and naïve. I thought love was when a boy puts his face between your legs and doesn’t declare “Ew!” because you’re not porn-star hairless. Now I know.

  I think I know what real, adult love is.

  It’s when a man wishes you the best in your life and encourages you to go out there and find out what makes you happy. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear one moment and gives you everything else you want the next. Waking up with blood all over his bed and finding out it’s not the end of the world. Never feeling like you’re defective because you’re “the fairer sex” and carry yourself a certain way. Realizing that you don’t have to pretend or put on a show to keep him interested.

  It’s when he looks you in the eye, and all you see is the universe you create together.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Drew sits up, arm lowering from his doorway. “Come inside, hon.”

  Was I on the verge of tears? That explains the burning behind my eyes. Yet it doesn’t explain why I so easily wrap myself in his arms and press my cheek against his chest. The door shuts behind me. My nose meets one of the buttons of his shirt. Suppose I was crying a little. There’s this wet spot on the fabric that wasn’t there before.