by Berry, B. L.
“Yeah…” He lingers just a beat too long in silence. “I, uh, need to get going, Ivy. Have fun tonight, okay?”
“Wait, Phoenix…”
“Yeah?”
I want to ask him about her, put my paranoia to rest. But instead, I sigh softly, feeling my heart sulk and start to crumble in a dark corner of my soul.
“Never mind. I’ll talk to you later.”
I end the call without giving him a chance to respond. The monsters in my head viciously taunt me. What goes around, comes around, Ivy. This is the universe paying you back for what you did to Genevieve all those years ago.
An internal war wages and logic tells me I’m simply jumping to conclusions because of the distance between us. I have to be. My past has no bearing on his present.
I must be reading into things. I am reading into things.
Fuck.
I can’t possibly be reading into things.
I choke back the tears to avoid ruining my mascara and my eyes focus in on the bottle of Gosset Grand Rose on ice in the corner. I quickly rip off the foil, pop the cork, bring my lips to the rim, and chug.
A PAIR OF GENEVIEVE’S SORORITY sisters are the first to arrive. They find me dry and fully clothed, lounging in the oversized bathtub, feet dangling over the side of the porcelain rim, and near-empty bottle in hand.
“Woah,” the red-haired girl drawls, looking at me bug-eyed. Her animated expression and subtle gap between her two front teeth remind me of Pippi Longstocking, minus the braids. “Are you okay, honey?” Her southern accent is as soothing as a hot mug of chamomile tea on a snowy afternoon.
As I sit up, the fizziness warming my chest shoots straight to my head. “S’alllllll good!”
The no-name blonde in tow with Pippi rolls her eyes. “Clean this up, will you? The others should be arriving soon.” She shakes her head and returns back to the living room of the suite.
Pippi puckers her lips in thought. “You’re the sister. Ivy, right?”
“Yep,” I state, popping the p. It’s hard not to wonder what terrible things Genevieve has told her friends about me. I’m certain I cannot make it through this evening with Little Miss Hailey running rampant in my mind while being judged by my sister’s friends for someone I once was.
Ugh. Hailey. The name lingers on my tongue like spoiled milk. With a name like that she probably came into his life bare-breasted and riding on a unicorn that shits rainbows. She’s probably lying naked underneath him right now. She’s probably perfect.
And beautiful.
And easy.
And everything I am not.
Except for easy. No use in denying that now.
Fucking asshole. Why did I even bother? I knew all along it would end in disaster and I’d get hurt. I just thought it would take longer to get to that point.
New York cannot get here fast enough.
“I’m Mimi. Can I get you anything? A nap? Some water, perhaps?” Ah, Pippi has a name! Mimi. It’s just as trite. I’m sure it’s short for something … Amelia or Mariah or something equally irritating. Pippi is a much better fit for this chick.
Her perfectly plucked eyebrow arches up at me, but I can see the amusement in her eyes. She isn’t judging me at all. She finds me funny. A welcomed change from the rest of the world.
What do I need? Other than a fork to stab Phoenix’s eye out for making me feel and then hurting me like this?
Breakfast food. I need breakfast food.
“Waffffffles!” I practically sing my request before the hiccups take over. Mimi’s giggles sound like wind chimes. It’s delightful and I can’t help but smile.
“You are certainly nothing like your sister.”
Thank goodness for that.
“Okay. Let’s get you up and outta this tub. You should really try to sober up before the bride gets here. Genevieve will blow a gasket if she sees you like this.”
She’s right about that. Genevieve would shit bricks knowing that I drank her bubbly before she ever arrived. Thunder stealer, she’d likely call me. And tonight of all nights it’s the Genevieve show, starring, produced, and directed by Genevieve Cotter with her name strung up in lights. No, really … it is. Her name is lit up on a welcome sign downstairs in the lobby. Everyone with us tonight is just an inconsequential extra in the performance.
Mimi tugs at my arms, pulling me to my feet, and I step out over the rim of the bathtub, but my legs give out from under me and I find my cheek kissing the hard, cool marble floor as I stare at the intricate scrolling on the oversized claw foot tub.
I flop onto my back and laughter boils over. Mimi can’t help but join in finding hilarity in my clumsiness. Eventually, I manage to sit myself up straight and rest the back of my head against the ledge of the bathtub.
“What’s the matter, darlin’?” Mimi fills a cup of water from the bathroom sink and sits down next to me on the floor. She offers a warm smile like an open invitation but doesn’t press me for details. I really don’t want to talk about it, especially with someone I just met. Plus, this isn’t exactly my finest moment.
“Guys suck.” I exhale in a huff.
And they do. Why is it that they always seem to have a hidden agenda and secrets? Damn them all! I thought I had found a good one. All of his sweet acts of kindness are meaningless. Null and void. And now he’s somewhere out there gallivanting with some trixie whore named Hailey.
“Oh, honey! I know they do.” Mimi passes me the water and I down it in one large gulp. She reaches out and smooths a few strands of hair behind me ear. Her touch is comforting. And even though I only met her a few minutes ago, it feels as if we’ve been lifelong friends. But that could just be the champagne talking.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
If I talk about him, I’m going to spiral into even more of a wreck than I am right now. But if I don’t talk about him, it’ll eat at my insides and then I’ll spiral into even more of a wreck. It’s a no-win situation. I’ll be far better off cutting my losses and moving on before I allow myself to actually feel something serious for a guy I’ve known all of five minutes.
Stop lying to yourself, Ivy. You already do feel something for him. Damn my nagging conscience.
Mimi offers a knowing nod and we sit there in silence. The buzz from the champagne is heavy and I feel as if my limbs are light.
My mind wanders to my sister and this ridiculous wedding. How the hell did she manage to find a guy? Her personality is as sweet as acid. Genevieve is so not deserving of love. She is a horrible person. My parents are horrible people. Nearly everyone in my life is horrible. And just when I think I find a nice guy, he turns out to be horrible too.
After a few minutes, Mimi begins to speak. “You know, all of us are shocked that Genevieve is the first to get married. I’ve always felt her relationship with CJ was synthetic. Hell, even her friendships feel forced. Amy had to practically drag me here today.”
She’d read my mind.
I offer her a consoling smile. “You should try living with her.”
Mimi scoffs. “I did. We roomed together for a semester at Chi Rho Gamma. Her nose was so high in the air I thought she would drown in a rainstorm. Her sense of self-entitlement was just unbelievable. Let’s just say it was short-lived and I moved out at the end of the fall semester. I like to claim artistic differences.”
“Mm-hmm.” I know exactly what she means. Genevieve has never been easy to be around. Her self-centeredness knows no bounds and she always found a way to play the victim. Although I assumed this was a side she reserved just for me and not her friends. Interesting that her friends have experienced this firsthand. She can be such a manipulative bitch.
“Why don’t we get you lying down? You can sleep off the heartache and the booze. I won’t tell Genevieve you kicked back one of the bottles by yourself and I’ll make sure Amy keeps her trap shut.”
Mimi pulls me to my feet again and leads me into the bedroom, tucking me under the overstuffed comforter ginger
ly. The last thing I remember is a blur of a fiery red hair closing the door before darkness took over.
I WAKE FROM MY NAP about two hours later with a splitting headache and a quiet suite. Mimi left a note on the nightstand letting me know that everyone was headed down to the spa for some much needed pampering and that she’d told Genevieve I’d eaten some bad maki rolls for lunch and wasn’t feeling well. I roll over to grab my phone off the nightstand and the urge to call Phoenix and give him a piece of my mind creeps into consideration. Instead, I force myself to put my phone away and make myself presentable for the afternoon’s festivities.
The living room is filled with gifts and the overnight bags of all of Genevieve’s alleged close friends. If they share the same attitude as Mimi, I can’t help but wonder if my sister ever feels truly lonely. Or truly loved. Or if she has any clue how much she is despised. Probably not, but I doubt she’d care much if she did know.
I quietly sneak into the spa, hoping to avoid a scene with Genevieve. Mimi spies my entrance from the end of the pedicure chairs and nods me over. I take a seat on the stool next to her chair.
“How are you feeling?”
“Slight headache and I think I may still be a little tipsy, but much better overall. Thanks again for helping me out earlier.”
“No problem, darlin’.” Her twang strangely makes me happy. “I know a broken heart when I see one.”
“So how pissed is she?”
“She seemed fine. Not really concerned that you were ill, but certainly not angry. Maybe she wanted to avoid a scene? Anyway, she’s getting her massage right now, so I bet she’ll be pretty mellow.”
I hope that Mimi is right. There is always a risk for whiplash with Genevieve’s mood swings and I definitely don’t want to deal with any of her potential extremes that could come out to play. The pedicure chair next to Mimi opens up and I hop onto it, slipping off my kitten heels.
By the time the nail technician applies a second coat of charcoal grey polish to my toes, Genevieve emerges from a massage suite all-aglow, looking blissfully relaxed. She kindly accepts the lemon water from her massage therapist before spotting me across the room.
“Oh, Ivy!” she exclaims, rushing to my side. “I heard you ate some bad sushi. Are you feeling better now?” I lean over the side of the chair as she pulls me tightly into a hug.
This is a surprise. Clearly she’s putting on a show for her so-called friends. Her fakeness knows no bounds. Thank goodness there’s still a bit of alcohol in my system or else this moment would be even more painfully awkward.
“Yes, I’m feeling quite a bit better. Thanks, Gen.” I give her a timid smile before she flits back to some of her other sorority sisters. On the other side of the room, Mimi bites back a giggle and shakes her head in disbelief.
“Genevieve makes it seem like you two have been best friends your entire lives. I don’t know how you put up with that nonsense,” she says once Genevieve is out of earshot. I’m appreciative of Mimi’s sympathies.
For as long as I can remember, Genevieve has always been two sides of the same coin. You never know who you’re going to get on any given day, but it usually depends on who surrounds her. Fortunately for me, her friends are providing a cushion so she is sweet as strawberry pie that is secretly laced with arsenic. Had she walked into the hotel room instead of Mimi and Amy, we would all be dealing with a raging bitch right now.
Upon returning to the grand suite, everyone frantically begins to get ready for the night. The bride-to-be has informed everyone to dress in black with bright pink highlights to coordinate with her official wedding colors. I’ve decided to pair my favorite fitted black jeans with a black leather corset top. I feel hot. And confident. But there is simply not enough makeup in the world to disguise my broken heart.
“Screw Phoenix,” I whisper to my reflection as I finish applying my mascara.
Oh, how I wish I could.
Genevieve stands out from our crowd—she is wearing a shockingly short white mini dress that barely covers the good china. And based on everyone else’s attire, I’m apparently the only one who believes your vagina should not be longer than your skirt. Hopefully Genevieve has no reason to bend over tonight or else everyone is in for a free show. Fortunately for all, there is not one sash or light-up neon penis in sight. Apparently the unspoken theme for our group is classy sluts as we look like a pack of high-end escorts.
Our gaggle of girls heads out toward the Viagra Triangle, a prominent area downtown on Rush Street. The stretch gets its name for the older, wealthy men who come to flash their worth to younger trixies like ourselves. It doesn’t matter if they’re married or not; these men aren’t looking for anything serious, just a quick lay, and the girls are just looking for attention. It’s an easy match for everyone involved.
After dinner at one of the most touted Italian joints in the city, we stumble down a dimly lit alley to a door hidden from view just off of the main strip. A built man sporting a sleek black suit and earpiece stands behind a plum velvet rope. As we approach, Genevieve begins to dance her way down the alley like it’s her own personal catwalk. The man says something into the lapel of his jacket and steps aside, allowing us access to what appears to be one of the most exclusive hot spots in all of the city.
“Welcome to Nuit Noir, ladies.”
The lights dimly glow a striking electric blue and the DJ, perched on a stage behind the bar, is blaring a loud techno re-mix of a Yelle song I heard all the time in Italy. Oversized concrete posts line the perimeter of the room. I imagine that the space may resemble something more along the lines of a bomb shelter than a dance club when the house lights are on. Long strips of plum fabric billow from the ceiling, softening the harsh, cold feeling from the cement.
Most of the tables are empty, but that is because the dance floor is a wall of human bodies gyrating in time with the heavy bass line. I see young, leggy socialites tempting wealthy businessmen, a couple rolling on E on the edge of stripping down naked, and in a booth behind another set of purple velvet ropes I spy Hollywood royalty in town for filming. I know for a fact they’re not of age, but as they throw back shot after shot, I realize that this club is above the law.
I motion my head over to the bar and our group follows. Mimi and I saddle up next to a salt and pepper forty-something in a three-piece suit. He eyes me up and down, spending a little too much time focusing on my ass. Yes, I know it looks exceptionally good tonight. No need to ogle. I offer a tight smile and turn my attention to the bartender.
“I need a round of cosmos and lemon drop shots for sixteen!” I shout over the din.
“Sixteen?” he asks, showing me one finger and then six, just to make sure he gets the order right.
I nod.
As the bartender begins flipping the shot glasses up onto the bar pouring the vodka, the salt and pepper three-piece leans into me. “Let me get that for you.” It’s confirmation of what I already know. When you look as hot as we do tonight, it will be fairly easy to score free drinks all night long.
“No, we couldn’t possibly …” I refute demurely, delicately batting my eyelashes.
“It’s not up for discussion.” Raising his hand to stop me from finishing my rejection, he slides his black American Express card onto the counter and pushes it toward the bartender.
All of the girls huddle around me as I begin to pass the shot glasses back to our party.
I raise my glass in the air and proclaim over the music, “May we never regret this night! Cheers, bitches!”
Everyone hollers in wild fanfare and simultaneously we all throw our heads back and drink. The tart vodka burns my insides and I instantly feel warm all over. I’m surprised by how smoothly it goes down. There’s only one shelf in this place and it doesn’t get much better than top shelf vodka.
Genevieve drapes her arm around my neck and shoves her empty shot glass in the air before shrieking a powerful, “WOO!” in my ear before addressing our little crowd. “I’d like to thank my
sister, Ivy, for planning such an awesome party for me tonight!”
I make a mental note to remember this moment in time, when my sister actually felt an iota of appreciation for my existence, fake or otherwise.
Placing my shot glass upon the bar, I begin to pass the cosmopolitans back to the rest of our group. The mystery man next to me gives me a knowing smile and signs the receipt. He leaves it face up, presumably for me to see his generosity.
Holy fuck. The tip alone is triple digits. For that price, I’d expect these drinks to give me a massage, an orgasm, and a victory lap.
Suddenly I feel obligated to keep him company for a little while. I hop onto the bar stool next to him and sip my drink. It tastes infinitely better than any other cosmo I’ve had before. I suppose top shelf liquor will do that.
I lean into his ear. “Thanks for doing that.” I look over his shoulder and see half of the girls ogling at us and starting to hit the dance floor.
“My pleasure.” A flirtatious smile plays at his mouth and his tongue traces along the bottom lip. I look down to his left hand which is holding a scotch and soda and see a wedding ring. What an asshole. I know I’m no angel, especially with other people’s relationships, but helping a married man carry out an affair is something I’m simply not capable of anymore. Even I have standards. Maybe once upon a time I would have, but not these days.
As I politely sip my cosmopolitan, the sugar from the rim of the glass sticks to my lips. He reaches out and wipes his thumb across my lower lip, then sucks the sugar off, looking at me with hooded eyes.
My mind drifts to Phoenix and I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing right now. If he’s still with what’s her name doing who knows what. For the first time since we’ve been out partying, my heart starts to ache. It physically throbs and I bite back the tears. I need to keep my mind off of Phoenix tonight. Cut my losses and move on. I refocus my energy on this handsome gentleman in front of me, even though there is surely nothing gentle about this man. Maybe I do have it in me to hook up with a married man if it gets my mind off of the hurt I’m feeling?