Most of the time I can convince myself it’s not true. But the worst is when those voices turn out to be right. I picked up on the micro-expressions weeks ago. But I ignored them.
“Oh my god! You have the best hair!” The compliment derails my train of thought as it starts to pull into the Pity Party Station.
The redhead, Waverly, is standing next to me and has the biggest smile. “I love fashion colors, but everyone would freak out if I did it to my own hair.”
“You could get a wig.”
She blinks a few times. “That’s an option?”
“Amanda Chase used one for the Grammys last year.”
The redhead slams her hand on the bar. “I was too distracted by her dress. I didn’t even look at her hair.” As she goes to lift her hand up, she sees my phone. She squints her eyes and brings her head closer to the screen. “Oh my God, what a fucking bitch.”
“Thanks.” The validation doesn’t stop the triggering, but it does slow it down.
She looks at me and then at my drink. “Are you enjoying it?”
I shake my head. “I’m trying to be sophisticated.”
Waverly scrunches her nose. “Why?”
“The bitches who ditched me would like me more if I were.” Wow, I can’t believe that level of honesty spewed from my lips. I mean, random shit comes out all the time. But vulnerable facts about myself? That’s rare. It must be something about her.
“You’ve got good vibes, and there’s no reason for you to be sitting alone.” She surveys the sea of people past the bar and frowns. “Not a lot of guys worth your time here.”
She’s right. This whole place is filled with wasted girls and guys who give me the ick.
Waverly shakes her head. “Nope nope nope. We’ve got the VIP room, and you’re hanging out with us tonight.” She grabs my drink and hands it over to the bartender. “Get rid of this monstrosity and get this woman a good drink. Put it on our tab.”
I grab my phone as she locks her arm with mine and leads me through the bar. I have no time to think or argue. It’s just happening.
The back room is behind a black-painted door. The door itself is unremarkable, but beyond it, everything is lush and leather. Probably because it’s easier to clean. The seats are black, but the floor is a richly stained hardwood and little fairy lights dot the space. Hmmm, it's like a strip club champagne room with a new coat of paint.
There is a stage and a karaoke machine, which no one is using, but three other women are sitting around a booth built into the back wall of the room. The first woman I notice is wearing one of those sparkly tiaras like the girls who film reviews of The Knights of the Night books online. She’s probably around the same age as Waverly. Another woman is older, striking, but with more mousey brown hair. And the third woman is…
“Alana?”
She puts down her drink and throws up her arms. “JENNY!” she yells. The music isn’t loud, so I don’t know why she’s doing it. She pauses and whips her head at Waverly. “So, we’re grabbing randoms out of the bar now?” Alana looks me up and down. “I mean, you got lucky with this one, Wave. But let’s not make it a habit.”
Waverly shrugs. “I get to live life in a happy little protective bubble. After all, I’ve got a spy and whatever the fuck you are to protect me.”
I don’t know how to respond to any of this, so I stand quietly, waiting for the right opportunity to speak and not act like a total freak. I try to avert my eyes from Alana’s attention, zeroing in on the half-finished drinks covering the table. And then taking in the women themselves, they exude an element of cool. Why are these people taking pity on me?
Alana nudges the other women. “This is Nonna’s dogwalker… for the dog Joey didn’t know about.”
The woman with light brown hair grabs a glass of white wine. “How is that even possible? I’m new to the group, and I’ve met Kingston. He’s the best boy.”
Waverly squeezes my arm. “He has the most boopable snoot.”
Alana scoots over to make room for us. “So now you’ve met Waverly, and obviously you know me, these other two, who are equal parts fabulous and a pain in my ass, are Izzy and Katya.”
Waverly whispers, “Izzy’s Nonna’s granddaughter.”
Oh, wow. It seems weird she’s at a bar when she should be mourning her grandma. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, because unlike ‘Good, at least it was a quick death,’ it’s the appropriate social response. Sometimes I wonder why I’m allowed out in public.
Izzy gives me a half smile. “She was the best. Hence why we’re out tonight.” She must see the confusion on my face because she explains, “It’s Vice Night. The family indulges in our vices, and everyone else babysits.” She gestures to the other people in the room, then bats her eyes and puts her knuckles under her chin. “Because they love me so much.” Her eyes widen, and she mutters, “Oh shit,” as she pulls out her phone and sends off a quick text. “Sorry, Nonna left you a letter.” Izzy nudges Alana. “She left you one too.”
Alana’s eyebrows twitch and her neck muscles tense. I’m not sure if anyone else notices, and Izzy continues without acknowledging it, so probably not. “I’ll text Joey and tell him to leave Jenny’s out on the kitchen table, and I’ll pick up Alana’s on my way to work tomorrow.”
