Maybe there’s really a story there. Maybe I’m just a masochist.
I drag my eyes from Liza’s office. “I give up. Fuck the raise. I’ll put out applications.”
“And go where?” Ramsay laughs, following me back to my desk. I sit in my chair and spin to face him. “What? Don’t look at me like that. This is the only legitimate paper for miles.” He seems to read the meaning in my face. “What,leave? What about your mom? The girls?”
I turn to my computer, gaze snagging on a photo of the five of us from last Thanksgiving, me with Lea and Meg on my lap, Mom holding Dana. We’re all explosively laughing, one of the few times I’ve seen my Mom smile, really smile, in years. “The girls would do well with some culture.”
“Is it…I mean…is it because of—”
“No.” I pin Ramsay with a pointed stare.Am I that transparent about Liam?“No, it’s not that. I mean, maybe, indirectly. I want to get away from my past. Go somewhere where I can start fresh.”
Only—that’s not really it. Ramsay’s right. I had this idea of what my life would be like if and when Liam returned, even if I didn’t admit it to myself. Now he’s back, and it’s clear that was all a stupid, misguided fantasy. And truth be told, after the other night, I don’t know if I can stop myself from running back to him.
What I need, I realize suddenly, is a distraction.
“Let’s go out tonight,”I say.
Ramsay’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “What—tonight? Really?”
He’s been trying to get me to go out for weeks, but I’ve been way too up in my head. I’malwaystoo up in my head. Maybe, as much as it pains me to admit it, Liza’s right—I need to take some risks. Maybe there’s a reward in there somewhere. Maybe I’ll just end up hurt again, and alone.
“Yeah,” I say, before I can think on it too long. “Mom is taking the girls to that craft group thing in the city for the weekend, remember?”
“Uh, yeah, I do, but…” Ramsay looks me over suspiciously. “You said you were going to stay in and drink wine and catch up onScandal.”
“How to Get Away With Murder,” I say, barely registering what he’s saying, because suddenly I’m picturing arealnight out, something I haven’t had since the girls were born. Booze, a tight dress—Ramsay. “Ramsay.”
“What?”
There’s a quaver of fear in his voice, but if I ignore it, if I ignore a lot of what I know about him—his lack of ambition, his total contentment with the way things are, his near inability to say what he really means—I can almost,almostsee myself with him. He’s good-looking, in a soft-edged sort of way. He’s tall, he’s funny, he knows me.
“Take me out.” I stand up, close to him, and though his shoulders stiffen slightly, to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “What do you say?”
“Fuck yeah,” he answers, which surprises me, as does the light in his eyes. “I’ll pick you up at 8.”
And despite everything, a little thrill goes through me, and for the first time in years, I imagine a night with someone other than Liam.
* * *
We’re in one of the trendier neighborhoods, where a little bit of money and youth has spruced up the place, thrown neon signs on the shopfronts and given rise to restaurants that serve more than pizza, burnt coffee or burgers.
When I’d opened the door to Ramsay, his eyes had gone wide, and all he managed was, ineloquently, “Jesus Christ.”
And I feel it. I feelgood. I never dress up. I had to dig out this number from deep in my closet, past sweats, yoga pants, hoodies, and work clothes. It’s sheath-like and deep purple, almost black, stitched with brilliant, glittery little pearl-like beads. I look like a shadow until I’m struck by light; then I shine.
I feel vital, wild. The root of it is anger, and nothing else. It’s like Liam’s had the key to my cage all these years and, without any ado, just handed it over and walked away.Fine. I’m not waiting for him anymore.
The bar we hit is appropriately calledViolet, and inside looks like a different world. Strobes streak the ceiling and music that is almost all bass vibrates up through the floor. Everyone is dancing, a tight-knit mob of people in the middle of the floor, undulating as one with drinks stretched over their heads.
“Do you want to sit?” Ramsay yells over the music. He looks nice. His curls have been addressed with product and the long-sleeve tee he’s wearing fits surprisingly well. In the vibrating half-dark, I can almost picture him as someone else. “Are you hungry?”
“Shots,” I say back, taking his hand and leading him to the bar. “Two double whiskeys.”
“Lexie, I don’t know if—”
I turn and put my finger to his lips. His eyes widen, and his hand, which has somehow fallen to my waist, tightens. That familiar hunger awakens inside me, a fist closed tight right beneath my navel.
“Shut up,” I say, leaning close and holding Ramsay’s eyes, “and take a shot.”
