Chapter One
Pippa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lR93L8sUMNg
-Hopelessly devoted to you-
Whoa! Mason’s Bar is buzzing tonight. The relentless pounding of bass from the loudspeakers is the type that gets into your bones and encourages even the shyest of people to nod along with it. But no sweat smell here. It’s classy aftershave, overpriced beer, and something sweet that reminds me of coconut body butter. The chic amber lights catch on the mirrors behind the bar and throw sparks of gold across the tables lining the edge of the dance floor.
Here's where I come in.
Perched on a stool with my two best friends. On the table is our next round of cocktails and about eight too many empty tequila shots neatly lined up.
“Ready, steady, go,” Sandra yells, hitting the edge of her fist on the table.
I lick a mini hill of salt off the back of my hand, knock back a shot, slam the glass onto the sticky wood, and suck on a lemon wedge.
Sandra whoops as I squeeze both eyes and wince at the sourness.
“Way to go, Pippa,” she approves. “Come on, Lucy, your turn.”
“Nah, nah, not me.” Lucy shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she nurses her pink gin. “You two are going to regret this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is a problem for Future Pippa,” I say, and do another shot, this time swiping a lime wedge and sinking my teeth into it. The acidity makes me shiver, but I grin anyway. “Tonight is all about Present Pippa, and that gal is on a mission.”
Sandra leans in closer, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of her lips. Her short blonde hair falls over one eye, and she pushes it back and whispers conspiratorially, “What kind of a mission?”
“A mission to have fun,” I declare, throwing my arms out like I’m making an announcement to the entire room. “Pure, unadulterated fun.”
Sandra giggles and clinks her glass against mine, and we both swallow down mouthfuls of our Mai Tais.
“Finally,” she says with a big sigh. “This is exactly the energy I want from you. No more moping, no more crying into your wine about George-bloody-Parker.”
Lucy glares at her as I freeze mid-sip of my cocktail. She said his name like it was a curse word, sharp and dismissive. My stomach flips. As always, the mere sound of his name still does things to me. Many times, I’ve wished it didn’t, but it does. It still does.
“Speaking of George,” I say, ignoring the fact that both of my friends are rolling their eyes derisively.
I know I talk about him too much, especially when I am having a drink, but I can’t help it. When someone is constantly on your mind, it’s hard not to talk about them. Especially when I think he might be here tonight. The thought makes me look around surreptitiously. At the far side of the bar, a tall man in a dark jacket leans against the wall, his posture relaxed and confident. He’s got the same bearing as George, standing there with one hand in his pocket, the other one cradling a pint.
I gasp. “Oh my God! Is that him?”
Lucy groans. “Pippa, you have got to stop doing this.”
Sandra squints and follows my gaze before bursting out in laughter. “No way. He’s not even close. That guy’s at least fifty. He’s got grey hair. And a beer belly. He’s probably still a better date than George, though.”
I blink, the room swimming a little from the tequila. She’s right. It’s not George. Of course it’s not. I guess he wouldn’t be caught dead in Mason’s on a Saturday night, not anymore. Not when he knows I frequent the place. Still, I can’t stop my heart from sinking when I see that she’s right. So much for the ‘having fun’ thing.
“False alarm,” I mutter, forcing a laugh that comes out thinner than I’d like it to.
Sandra slaps my arm playfully. “Girl, you’ve got George goggles. You’re seeing him everywhere. That man could be a lamppost, and you’d convince yourself it was him.”
Lucy sets her drink down with deliberate care, like she’s bracing herself to ruin the mood. “Pippa, we’ve talked about this. You need to move on. He’s not coming back.”
I stir my cocktail with the little black straw, watching the crushed ice swirl. “But we were good together. Weren’t we?”
“You tell us. You’re the one who dated him,” Lucy says unhelpfully.
“No,” Sandra says, looking at her witheringly.
