Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  By the end of Chloe’s birthday weekend, I had a gut feeling that my French obsession had blocked me, told my friends that she unexpectedly had to return to Paris to attend to a pressing matter, and convinced myself that she’d made a fair point about us failing to keep this casual. For all I knew, all of these could be accurate.

  I considered deleting my social media accounts altogether, but Alie’s clever advice had increased my visibility, my clientele, and my income in a short amount of time. It would have been foolish to throw everything away, and the same applied to my typical hookup app. I didn’t need it anymore and considered deleting it, but the thought of keeping the option, like I had before Alie, was far too tempting.

  After a while, when my friends would inquire about Alie, I became a broken record. Swearing that Alie and I didn’t have a fight. Repeating that Alie and I agreed to keep this relationship casual. Claiming that Alie and I knew it came with an expiration date.

  And after all, none of this was a lie, right? Skirting Chloe’s questions when she innocently asked if I’d heard from Alie was a dick move, but I couldn’t bring myself to confess how things ended between us. I’m still too upset to process it.

  I fucking miss her beautiful and eager body. I fucking miss her smart and talented mouth. I fucking miss her… Naturally, I refuse to bare that to anyone. I don’t need to witness their fleeting pity-filled glances. Not again. So I’m keeping busy.

  I owe it to myself to move on. Denying the impact that Alie had on my life would have been stupid, but dwelling on where I fucked up wouldn’t inspire me to become a better version of myself. Instead, I buried myself in work because that’s how I roll.

  “I’d have expected at least a lisp to make fun of, man.”

  “You wish, fucker!” I stick my recently pierced tongue out at Lucas and roll the barbell with my teeth. “Claire’s work is impeccable, and that guarantees no speech impediment.” Another Sunday night at Mike and Troy’s packed bar. Another seltzer-fueled night with my friends. Another swamped week at work easily gone by.

  “The ladies will enjoy his latest accessory, I’m sure.”

  “I hear you, Claire. Tig doesn’t have enough stamina to please women and needs enhancements to compete.”

  I smack Lucas’s bulging bicep, and he chuckles. “Oh, damn, it’s a sausage fest in here. I need some fresh air…”

  I lumber over to the bar to meet Troy while waiting for Marco and Leroy to arrive. We make small talk, and he soon informs Lucy, the other bartender, that he’s taking a break, so I follow him outside.

  When he asked me to be his best man, I was both surprised and touched. I can’t deny that his wedding brought us much closer. He’s been flashing depleted looks my way since I set foot in his bar. On the outside, he remains a cool and amiable guy to his patrons, but I know him well enough to see that something’s bothering him. I have no doubt that he misses his husband who’s in Florida with Eileen and her new love interest.

  Unease settles in as we stare at one another in silence for a long while. “I promised that I wouldn’t say anything, but…” His inability to finish his sentence, delivered in a strained voice, increases my sense of dread. My friend clears his throat. Tense face. Stiff body. Foot stamping the pavement.

  “Man, speak up! What’s the matter?” My hand lands on his shoulder. “I’m here to help, so spill the beans and tell me what’s wrong for fuck’s sake.”

  Very subtle, Tig. Good job!

  He mumbles some incoherent words. He shoots some frustrated glances. He mutters some chosen expletives. “I can’t keep my mouth shut!” He grabs his phone from his back pocket and fumbles with it, balancing his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Does this have to do with Mike?” I ask, alarmed.

  At last, he peers my way. “Yes, it has to do with Mike.”

  “Shit! Did you guys break up and that’s why he left?”

  He doesn’t answer and instead flashes the screen in front of my eyes, too close to see properly. “You know how Mike and Alie bonded right away?” I nod approvingly, tapping my foot on the side of the building. “Well, my stubborn husband couldn’t get a hold of her and she wouldn’t answer Eileen either, so he—”

  I cut him off and my shoulders instantly slump when I hear her name. “What about Alie?” My cock stirs when I acknowledge that I haven’t seen her in twenty-three days. Twenty-three excruciatingly lonely days. Twenty-three ridiculously meaningless days.

  “Mike made me swear not to tell you.” His nervousness increases as the rushed words tumble out of his mouth. “Well… since he’s not here!” He hands me his phone. In a flash, my surroundings vanish and there’s just Troy, me, and his damn phone.

  One. I stare at the screen. Two. I gawk at the screen. Three. I curse at the screen.

  Her blog. Her mission. Her words. “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World… But it wouldn’t be nothing, nothing without a woman or a girl…”

  A girl, who lured me in the name of proving a point. A girl, who used me as a scapegoat. A girl, who ran from me after I opened up to her. The sickening thing is that I’m not ashamed of uttering those words. The funny thing is that my assertion about my commitment phobia was all too real at the time. The odd thing is that I unknowingly crossed that line, and so did Alie, I believe.

  My rage seethes, and the back of my neck itches. I rub it with my free hand, failing to relax. I feel the weight of Troy’s stare, but he somehow disappeared from my line of sight. There’s just me and his fucking phone. There’s just me and her painful revelations. There’s just me and our pseudo relationship.

  Did you ditch me because you got caught in your own game or were you calculating and dishonest from the get-go? Fuck, I miss you. Tell me you miss me, too.

  “You told her that you loved her, and she split, is that it?” His question tears me from my inner conflict. I nod.

  As far as I’m concerned, I never thought I’d be granted a second-chance at love. No matter how brief. No matter how one-sided. No matter how fictitious. I enjoyed what I had with Alie, but I now feel deeply betrayed by her for toying with my broken heart. Still, she also revealed that it wasn’t dead. And I’m stupid enough to be thankful, even if it’s of no use anymore...

  Feelings are overrated, right?

  He crinkles his nose. “Listen, man, you’ve been pretending to be okay, but your anger’s clear as day. You’ve been telling us that she had to run back to Europe, instead of sharing the truth about how hurt you are. You’ve been convincing yourself that you’re the victim in the situation.”

  “What’re you trying to say? That I’m the bad guy?” My temper flares.

  “Look, you’re a good friend, even if you’re pigheaded, at times.” He sighs, his accusing eyes boring into mine. “There’s no right or wrong here. There’s just two people in love, digging their heels in instead of working through their issues.”

  “What a crock of bullshit!” I snap. “She used me. How can I ever forgive her? And, for the record, Alie doesn’t love me. I was a means to an end. Period.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Everyone saw how you two looked at each other. It’s obvious that Alie fell in love with you.”

  “You’re saying that she’s in love with me, but she dumped me anyway. That’s your brilliant logic, huh?”

  “It is. I’m shocked that nobody’s told you, considering that I’m the least romantic guy around…” Baffled, I can’t talk and he carries on. “Her ulterior motive has nothing to do with her feelings for you, no matter what she wants to prove. You need to go to her because you guys need to have a serious talk. You can’t throw everything down the drain without a fair fight.”

  I offer a small embarrassed grin in response, and his answer encourages me to call it quits for the evening. I thank Troy for what it’s worth, ask him to excuse me, and let my friends know about my change of plans. I’ve had enough for one night. I need to go home and tamp down my overwhelmingly negative mental state.

>   Pure anger.

  “Go away, Soraya!” I wish she’d stop pounding at the door already. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You haven’t answered your phone in days.”

  “One. Fucking. Day!” I shout from my bedroom. Wearing nothing but my PJ pants, I reluctantly trudge to the front door that hasn’t been opened since Friday night. Nor have I set foot outside of my bedroom, aside from running to the freezer for pints of pistachio ice cream.

  Because I’m an asshole, I don’t open the door and stand in place, with wayward hair, a parched mouth, a shit-eating grin plastered on my face, and bags under my eyes. “Even I know that it’s Sunday morning.” I have no clue what time it is, but the faint sun tells me that it’s way too early. I’ve barely slept since Friday night. Dwelling on my resentment. Pondering Troy’s assumptions. Questioning Alie’s words.

  “I’m not alone.” Who cares? I prefer to be left alone and repeat my injunction in a lower voice. Unfortunately, my best friend knows me too well and bribes me in the most unfair way. “Open up and you’ll be rewarded with Ethel’s rugelach for your early breakfast.” There’s a pause. I doubt that my eighty-something former neighbor tagged along, but Soraya’s resourceful and will stop at nothing once she puts her mind to something; much like Alie, if you ask me. “Or I’ll keep knocking and wake up your neighbors.”

  I let her stew for another minute.

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” My very pregnant friend doesn’t wait for my answer and saunters into to the kitchen to put the Jewish delicacy on the counter. I follow her there.

  “I turned it off to shut people out…” I heave a sigh. “But didn’t account for your persistence.”

  Making coffee, she explains that Troy called her when he couldn’t get a hold of me yesterday. The delicious smell of freshly brewed java permeates the apartment, and I finally concede that I’m glad she’s here.

  “There you go.” She hands me a full mug and slips onto the barstool next to me.

  I take a sip, burning the tip of my tongue, and wince. It’s a good reminder that I should move on to the next stage of my grieving process for Alie. Acceptance… although I don’t think I followed the stages to a T. Bitterness. Fury. Retribution… None of them will do me any good. I’m not the person that I was back when I lost Delia. I learned a lot from my time with Alie. Partying, booze and weed aren’t the keys to moving forward. Been there, done that.

  “So…” she pauses for effect and blows on the steaming coffee. “l read Alie’s post.” I grumble, feigning indifference. “No wonder it upset you.”

  I have no explanation for why my initial reaction to Alie’s post completely backfired on me. As soon as I got home on Friday night, I sprinted into the bathroom and emptied the contents of my stomach. It struck me that it seemed to have become my new habit whenever Alie was concerned. Consequently, I brushed my teeth and felt compelled to jerk off during a freezing shower because Albert was disappointed at missing out on the action.

  “What is it to you?” I grab the rugelach to soothe my aching taste buds with an overload of sugar and take a bite of the deliciously flaky pastry that Ethel’s perfected over the years. Delia wasn’t a fan of Jewish cooking, but I enjoy most of it.

  Soraya ignores my attitude, swallows her own mouthful of the sweet dessert, and bursts out laughing at my legitimate question. “You’re so infuriating.” She makes a throaty noise to express her irritation. “Will you ever learn?”

  “What do you mean?” I blurt out, my mouth full, and I wash it down with coffee. Still too hot, fuck! Why does the universe hate me today?

  “I love you, and I want you to be happy again. You realize that—”

  “I’m perfectly happy!” I protest a little too vehemently.

  “Eat your rugelach and stop interrupting me, you moron,” she warns, her eyes glaring at me as she shakes her head. That’s when my mushy brain connects with reality. The tips of her hair are red. She’s pissed at me. Dammit! “I left my family at the crack of dawn and drove all the way to Brooklyn to deliver your favorite homemade dessert. You didn’t leave me any choice since you wouldn’t answer any of my messages.” She proceeds to berate me for what seems like hours. For keeping my mouth shut. For pretending I was alright. For shutting her out. Again. The fact that I insist that it’s nothing like Delia.

  The bitter snort that escapes my mouth increases her annoyance.

  “She’s right, you know...” My heart stops for a second. “Women are called ugly names when men are worshipped for the same thing… It’s happened to me more than once, you know… before I met Graham. I was just trying to find the right person and went from one guy to the next. And people couldn’t mind their own business!”

  Should I place blame on her for wanting to make a statement because men and women aren’t on equal footing?

  “But I never disrespected her!” I retaliate, slamming the counter in protest.

  My Saturday was spent reflecting on Alie’s post, between spoonsful of ice cream. And I wavered between hating her for using me and agreeing with her claim. How ironic is it that she’s friends with the one woman that I bent my hookup rules for because she was about to leave the country, and I figured that it was harmless? How uncharacteristic is it that I turned down sex although I saw a notification on my soon-to-be-deleted app? How pathetic is it that I preferred wolfing down pints of ice cream for comfort like chicks do?

  Fuck, I sound exactly like Alie described. She’s right: stereotypes die hard.

  No wonder she fought against the double standard, regardless of the implications. I’m no better than the rest of them. We do live in a man’s man’s man’s world.

  “Here’s my take on things: she believes that you didn’t treat her friend properly, so you were perfect to set an example. A drop in an ocean of unfairness. She prides herself on staying true to her word… Well, she certainly didn’t stay true to her heart. She’s so in love with you. If not, why would she feel the need to hurt you and make such a clean, deep cut? Trust me, her denial is much too excessive to be real.”

  “Shrink much?”

  She giggles this time. “Must be the pregnancy hormones!”

  “She should’ve talked to me… I mean she did, but not regarding this.”

  “Sure, but both of you could have admitted that what was going on between you two was anything but casual.” Before I have time to recover from her accusation, she asks, “Have you read the comments on her post?”

  “Nope. I think I’ve read enough of her post and, for the record, don’t agree with you.”

  Without paying attention to my reply, she snags my phone from the coffee table and forces me to open it. I oblige and browse through the numerous comments until one in particular catches my attention. I read it aloud and Soraya nods.

  “Her father’s a real piece of work,” she quips.

  Of course, he’s responsible for the comment. The man that I saw in Alie’s pictures, who looked like the epitome of an alpha male. Leader of an aristocratic pack. Self-assured breadwinner. Honorable man with undying values.

  I chuckle at the thought. “And yet, he says that he wants her happy.”

  While she denies the happiness that we shared in the name of proving her point… Who’s pigheaded now?

  Soraya’s eyes widen as she lifts the mug to her lips, drinks, and asks, “What’s with the cowboy reference?”

  I’ll need more caffeine in my system before we delve into that. Without another word, I grab another pastry that I scarf down without preamble. My friend’s amused glance follows my every move as I reheat what’s left in the coffee pot after licking my sticky fingers.

  Going through my phone to take a breather from my inquisitive friend, I notice that I have more notifications from my hookup app. I’m about to press my finger on it to make it go away for good, but at the last second decide against it. I should probably check the messages first and answer that I’m no longer interested. Then, I’ll delete it.
I do the former until one of them floors me. It’s from a handle that I thought I’d never hear from again. A handle that agrees with Soraya’s theory about Alie’s feelings. A handle that regrets being the source of my current misfortune. A handle that brings me a solution on a silver platter.

  The person that Alie called Girl, who isn’t her friend, but—fuck me!—her sister.

  PrincessChanel

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Head over Feet

  Aliénor

  “Oversized sunglasses and long gloves… Aliénor, you’ve transformed into Jackie O!” My best friend is bouncing around me, detailing my outfit. “Fitted ink blue cocktail dress with a signature belt to accentuate your small waist. Long enough to be appropriate for your sister’s engagement party, but short enough to show off your shapely legs and enjoy the sunny late June weather. Oh, and let’s not forget about the neckline that draws the eye to your classic pearl necklace and keeps your gorgeous phoenix hidden to prevent stealing the thunder on your sister’s day. And your hairstyle...” Sophie trails off, her thumb and index finger rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “You’re Jackie O on the outside.” She’s too funny sometimes, and evidently on a first-name basis with the late former first lady.

  My head tilts so that I can meet Sophie’s eyes. “Joan Rivers, I implore you to vacate my friend’s body!”

  I’ve missed her. We’ve been playing catch-up since I got back, and I’m glad she’s here. I’m far from a people person, and there are so many of them here. Interacting online is one thing; having an awkward conversation with someone simply because they happen to be present is another story. Good thing our dads are friends as well, so her family of five tagged along. “Nah, scratch that, there’s no famous dead spouse in the picture, so you can’t be Jackie. Maybe Lana Del Rey?”