The Other P-Word

by MK Schiller

  “Proud of me?”

  “Yeah, you finally decided to come out of the closet.”

  “Dillon!” Marley chided, punching his arm. “That’s not helping.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “That she looks hot,” Stevie said, as if I wasn’t in the room.

  “Fine. You look hot.”

  “Thanks,” I replied sharply.

  “For a lesbian living in the eighties,” he muttered under his breath. I threw the cap at him. He laughed and put it right back on my head again

  “I want to kill that Christoff and your boss,” Stevie said, her hands in fists, shaking wildly at the air.

  “I thought about it, but it’s my fault too. I told him to do what he wanted. I just had no idea he wanted to make me look like a female version of Joe Dirt. And as for my job, Corinne was right. It wasn’t a good fit. I can deal with this. I can salvage it… I think. You know I’m an optimist. A picker-upper kind of girl.”

  “You’re describing yourself like a paper towel,” Stevie said.

  I laughed, bumping her knee with mine. “Extra-absorbent and completely unobservant. At least I can admit my shortcomings.”

  “What can we do?” Marley asked.

  “I can’t go to dinner with Preston like this. I’m a mess.”

  Dillon smiled, shaking his head. I grimaced, waiting for the ‘I told you so’ moment, but instead he ruffled my damp head. “Relax kid, you have us. This can be fixed.”

  “I have to meet him in less than an hour. He can’t see me like this. Hell, I don’t even want you guys seeing me like this.”

  “Well then, I think I have the perfect short-term solution to your problem.”

  And he did. Dillon and Mom came back in less than a half hour with a large white box for me.

  “A wig?”

  “Just for tonight,” Mom explained. “You can get a proper haircut later.”

  The wig they’d purchased matched my hair, pre-mullet. It made me sad to put it on. Plus, it was itchy as hell.

  I did though, along with my vintage-looking black cocktail dress. If there was one thing I needed, it was for this day to end on a good note.

  To my family’s credit, they didn’t bring up their misgivings about Preston.

  “Here,” Stevie said, handing me a box.

  I did a double take, staring in awe at what I was holding—shiny black stilettos with signature red soles. “Are these your Louboutins?”

  “Yeah, they’re magic shoes, at least for the girls in our family.”

  “We have magic shoes? Why didn’t I know this?”

  Stevie shrugged. “Adam bought them for me. That’s when I knew that I loved him.”

  “Because he bought you an expensive gift?” Marley asked.

  She tilted her head. “It sounds vain when I say it like that, but that’s not how it was.”

  “Then how was it?” I asked.

  “When I was sixteen, I saw these shoes in the store window of a designer shop downtown. Adam and I were shopping for Christmas presents together. We were just friends back then. He grumbled when I insisted we go into the store. He lost it when I actually wanted to try them on. Of course, they were way too expensive to even contemplate, but I had to know what they felt like on my feet. Adam may have griped about it, but I noticed he got jealous when the man put them on my feet. But that was nothing compared to the way he stared at me when I walked around the store in them. He even held my hand because I was afraid of falling. We never spoke of it again. And then when he asked me to marry him, he asked for my foot not my hand. I was confused until he slipped the shoes on. Even seven years later, he remembered and he’d searched for them high and low. He said that the look on my face that day was special. He wanted me to look that way every day. He wanted to be responsible for that look.”

  We all sighed in unison. Adam was a joker, but he had this soft, tender side when it came to my sister.

  “That’s so sweet,” Mom said. “I didn’t know that story.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Stevie said, waving away our sentiment. “Don’t cry, Billie. You’ll ruin your makeup. Anyway, Marley wore these the first time she met Rick. Mom wore them when she met Damien. Special things happen to the girls in our family when we wear them.”

  “Thank you, sis,” I said, running my fingers down the supple, well-crafted leather. There was a time we’d all grumbled about being the same shoe size—it had meant lots of hand-me-downs—but now we all rejoiced in it. It meant lots of choices.

  “Too bad they don’t come in my size,” Dillon said as he adjusted my wig.

  * * * *

  Preston had texted me, asking me to meet him at the restaurant since he had a business meeting. Stevie gave me a ride. I strolled in, silently cursing the itching wig and the horrible style that lay beneath it.

  He waved me over, standing up. The soft lighting and candles played lovely shadows against the muted beige walls of the restaurant. The shoes gave me a false sense of bravery as I stepped toward him. He wore a navy blue suit and every strand of his slicked back, honey-colored hair lay perfectly. A pang of envy swept over me. He had better hair than me now.

  Preston didn’t make my heart flutter, but then again, I’d always thought there was too much emphasis on those things. I mean, I loved romances. I wrote them—or at least attempted to, but I was pragmatic too. In the end, a girl had to distinguish fiction from fact. Preston was everything I’d ever sought in a man. He was successful, charismatic and charming. He donated to charities and worked hard. He was perfect. So why wasn’t I floating on the air instead of grinding out each step?

  “You look amazing. Did you do something with your hair?” he asked me, kissing my cheek.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling like a fraudulent truth-teller.

  “That’s right, you had that appointment today.” He took the seat across from me and snapped his fingers toward a waiter.

  “I haven’t looked at the menu yet.”

  “I’m calling him over to pour the wine. He’s a sommelier, not a waiter.”

  “Oh.”

  Preston shook his head at me, playing off my lack of understanding as something adorable. It irked me a bit. He came from money, which was reflected in everything he did. Personally, I didn’t understand why we couldn’t pour our own wine, since it was already sitting at the table.

  “So how was your day?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me about yours?” I didn’t want to lie to him, but at the same time, I had no intention of muddling this evening by whining it away with my problems. Luckily, Preston filled all the gaps in conversation efficiently.

  After three glasses of good wine, he sat up in his chair, placing his hands in the center of the table.

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  I took a deep breath, waiting for it. We’d been together for six months and it seemed like the right time to move in together.

  “I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Just say it,” I whispered in encouragement. I’d never seen Preston nervous.

  “We’ve been together for a while, but I believe it’s time for the next step. I think I’m the right candidate for marriage material.”

  The fork fell right from my hand. “Oh.” I picked up my wine glass and swallowed down the contents, slugging it like a shot. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

  He bent down on one knee before me. I backed my chair away from him.

  “Preston, wait! Can we just talk?”

  He looked up at me. “Why are you yelling?”

  “I think this is too soon.”

  “I assure you, I’ve thought about it for a long time,” he said, holding out a shiny silver object toward me. “You dropped this.”

  I blinked, registering what I was staring at. “Thanks,” I mumbled, taking the fork from him.

  He sat back in his seat. “I hope you understand.” />
  “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  He took my hands in his. “I’m so sorry. I never intended to hurt you. You’re an amazing woman.”

  Wait…what? “What do you mean? Aren’t you proposing to me?”

  “Proposing?” he said slowly as if it was a foreign word. “What would give you that idea?” Thankfully, his features flickered with understanding before I had to respond. “Oh shit, I went about this all wrong.”

  “What did you mean when you said you were marriage material?”

  “You’ve never heard of Marriage Material? It’s the television show where they take an eligible bachelor and bring in a hundred girls for him to date until he finds his perfect match.”

  “You’re going on that show?”

  He tried to conceal his smirk, but his pride forbade such an act. “I didn’t plan on it. The producers approached me. Obviously, I can’t have a girlfriend while I’m doing something like that. Billie, try to understand that this is a career move for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He sighed deeply, as if I should easily comprehend his statement. “The publicity is going to skyrocket my business. You can’t buy advertising like this.”

  “I see. So you brought me to this fancy restaurant to break up with me?”

  “It’s not you—”

  “No, of course it’s not me. It’s you. You’re so fickle that you’re not just picking another girl, you’re picking one hundred random girls you don’t even know. It just makes everything crystal clear.”

  “I care about you. Try not to be upset. We don’t actually have to end things. That’s one of the things I wanted to tell you. The producers think it might be interesting if you applied for the show.”

  “What?” I asked, my voice fringing on hysteria.

  “You know, secret ex-girlfriend angle. It would add some drama. Just think of it like a hiatus—a break from our normal scheduled programming.” He chuckled. “Look, I’m already talking the lingo.”

  I stood, throwing my linen napkin at him. It fell on top of the candle centerpiece. For a brief moment, we both watched the flames until I threw the contents of my water glass to douse them. He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand to cut him off.

  “I have no interest in vying for your attention, not in real life and certainly not on television.” I flattened my palms against the table and leaned in. “Let me explain myself in a language you can understand. Our run lasted far too long. We’re officially cancelled.”

  I stomped out of the restaurant in a heel-clicking frenzy, stopping only to get my coat. Once I got outside, I shivered against the brisk air and the realization that he was my ride. Shit. He approached me, calling out my name, but I refused to stop. I don’t know how I managed to sprint in stilettos but that was what I did. Hailing a cab would have been sensible, except cabs on a Saturday night in downtown Chicago were as scarce as an early spring. A bus screeched to a halt a few feet from me. I made it just before he reached me. He wouldn’t get to see my hurt and humiliation—at least I had that.

  Only a few passengers were on the bus, but all of them gave me a double take as I made my way toward the back. I must have looked a mess—a stumbling, out-of-breath girl in a cocktail dress with a lopsided wig on her head.

  I saw Preston standing outside the window, his hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t deserve my tears. I hated that he even had this effect on me. How could I have been so wrong about us?

  I leaned my head against the window, replaying the events of the day.

  This morning I’d had a job, good hair and a boyfriend. Now I had none of those things.

  Worst. Day. Ever.

  What else could go wrong?

  Note to self—don’t ask ominous questions. As soon as I uttered the thought, I realized the bus was going in the opposite direction of home. I hadn’t even checked before I’d made my mad dash onto it.

  I rode it for a while anyway. I could call on anyone in my family to pick me up, but as much as I loved them, I really didn’t want to see them right now. Besides, I had to cry alone. Only when I was done with my pity party did I finally exit the bus.

  I dug into my purse for my cell. My fingers circled around a coin instead. I took it out, staring at it…the copper color of a penny but the size of a quarter. The light from the street lamp showed off the figure of an Indian Chief on one side and an Eagle on the other.

  I took out my phone and punched in the name, taking a deep breath, waiting for the address to Googalize. As it happened, The Lost Souls’ Club was close, and hell if I didn’t feel like a lost soul right about now. I needed a stiff drink and some friendly company. Surely this was a sign. The stoic expression on the chief’s face all but screamed at me to make a decision.

  “Okay, Chief, heads I go and tails I forget the whole thing.”

  I flipped the coin in the air. It glinted in the light before landing on my palm.

  Tails. The eagle, looking all proud and spiteful, mocked me.

  Two out of three.

  Chapter Four

  I thought of turning around about a dozen times and going straight home, but once I saw the lit-up sign spilling bright neon light on the dark street, it became a beacon for me. Then I heard the music, and I was a goner.

  The Lost Souls’ Club wasn’t what I’d expected. It had all the trappings of a good Chicago pub. A pool table with burgundy felt stood on one end. The walls weren’t covered with sports pendants, but black and white photographs of Wrigley, Solider field and even the now-closed Chicago Stadium. The walls were muted, the floor was black cement but it sparkled like it was embedded with glass, there were crystal chandeliers and the waitresses wore vintage halter-tops and jeans. It was modern—and classic too—as if someone had taken the glam of the 1940s and given it a modern spin. Somehow, all that fit into one place. Strange.

  There was a stage area framed with velvet curtains. Evan Wright sat in the center on a bar stool, strumming a guitar and singing Nirvana’s About a Girl. I’ll admit I gushed…in all the places a girl can gush. His voice was perfect for this song—rough and raspy, but soulful so that every word came out with angst. He reminded me of Kurt Cobain in both his looks and voice, except he was bigger—broader. He had that grunge thing about him—that scruffy, messy, edginess to everything he did that made girls do fucked-up things, like show up to a bar to see him right after they’d broken up with their boyfriends. At least I wasn’t alone. A gaggle of girls hung onto his every word, surrounding the stage.

  “What can I get you, honey?” the bartender, a gorgeous, African-American girl with long braids and an affable smile asked me.

  “A shot of Grey Goose, please.”

  “Can I see your ID?”

  I fished it out of my wallet.

  “Billie…that’s a unique name.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you here for the band?” she asked, pouring my drink.

  “I suppose. I’ve never been here before, but I love the look of this place.”

  Her smile widened. “Thank you. I designed it with my husband. He’s the drummer up there.” She gestured to the stage.

  This would be a great place to feature in the magazine. My mood soured, remembering I no longer worked there.

  “They’re good,” I said. “Why aren’t they on a billboard chart?”

  She nodded in agreement, wiping the counter. “Evan’s been offered contracts before and he’s played with some famous people, but he’d rather choose his own venues. I’m Tilla, by the way.”

  “Also a unique name.”

  “I hated it when I was younger, but I love it now.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Us chicks with cool names got to stick together.”

  A girl shrieked, drawing our attention back to the stage area. She yelled out that she wanted Evan to hold her babies. Apparently her babies were her boobs, because she lowered her tank top, exposing them. A huge guy wearing a shirt that said Security approached
her. Whatever he said must have worked because she slumped back down in her seat. That’s good, because a bar is no place for babies.

  Tilla rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong with her? I get it. He’s a fire-breathing double shot of hotness on the rocks, but have some self-respect. No reason to turn my nice bar into a freak show. I’m going to kick her scrawny ass out of here if she does that again.”

  “She really needs to girl up.”

  “Grow up is right.”

  “No, girl up. Some guys need to man up just as some girls need to girl up.”

  Tilla nodded, repeating the words. “I like that.”

  Someone called to her from the other side of the bar. I was content to sit and listen to the music. Although no one in my family was particularly musically inclined, we relied on it as an outlet for our emotions. Right now, Evan Wright was the kind of outlet that shot dangerous sparks straight up my arm.

  He wore ripped jeans and a black, short-sleeved T-shirt with a long-sleeved white one underneath it. They stretched over his muscular chest. He rocked mussed hair and stubble. Stubble…that perfect marker of masculinity—both aggressive and attractive.

  “Thank you,” he said, amidst the whistles and cheers of his fan club. “This next song, I wrote myself. It’s called My Favorite Part. Hope y’all enjoy it.”

  The guitar riff was low and lingering, giving a sense of sexuality to the song.

  “Your fingers are talented, but no match for my tongue.

  Open the vestibule… I’ll have you screaming out your lungs.

  Stop with the monologue

  And let’s start a dialogue.

  I’m hungry to taste your nectar.

  Spread your legs, shut your eyes

  Let me quench my thirst between your thighs.

  My favorite part

  My favorite part of you.”

  Oh wow. Was he singing about…? No…yes. Holy mackerel—that’s hot.

  I squirmed in my seat. His words had the same impact on all the girls lined up against the stage area. They whistled and hooted as if they were competing in an enthusiasm contest.

  “It’s time for a break,” he announced when the song was over. A good thing too, since the room might self-combust.