It’s shit. Actual shit if the smell is anything to go by.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
The sound of hyenas laughing from behind me gets louder as the door to the school opens up, and out walks Taylor with Tanner beside her.
“Carrie’s got nothing on what will happen to you if you ruin my prom by showing your shitty face. Not that you have a date.”
I open my mouth to respond, trying my hardest to keep some form of dignity here, while inside I want to scream and shout and punch Taylor’s pretty little face until she’s unrecognizable, but Ollie speaks first.
“I was totally joking. I don’t want to go to prom with the girl that was covered in shit.” He shrugs and looks to Taylor, who nods appreciatively, like she set this all up herself, then he walks away without another glance in my direction.
The whole time, Tanner’s glare has felt like icicles piercing my soul. The pure hatred in his eyes is heartbreaking and I wish I knew what changed him all those years ago. Then he snarls and walks away, Taylor following like a loyal pet, and I remember to steel myself until I get home.
“Don’t show your fucking face at prom, Berk.”
I shouldn’t have let my guard down.
This week feels like it’s been the longest in existence. Realistically, I’m aware that’s totally impossible, but I swear Tanner has ramped up his assholeness to eleven. Every single time I step out of my house, he’s there with that fucking fuck fuckface of his, grinning without a care in the world.
Today, though, he can swivel on a rusty nail for all I care because I’m going dancing. It’s one of my favorite things to do. Letting my body loose and having a good time, no expectations of me whatsoever, and I’m pretty damn good at it, if I do say so myself. More often than not, a man will come and join me on the dance floor, but they tend to ruin it. What I’d love is for one of them to know what they’re doing. Lead me or join me, but don’t dance all out of rhythm and fuck it up.
There have been some beautiful women who really show the men up. Their dancing is always on point, and if I was at all interested in vaginas like that, I’d have been in love years ago.
Tomorrow is my self-appointed pamper day, so tonight is dancing only. No men because when you bring a man home on a Saturday night, it’s difficult to get rid of them on the Sunday. They tend to hang around, have breakfast, want a conversationthat doesn’t involve the words, “your place or mine?”. It’s too much for me.
No thank you.
I’m drinking tonight, so I ordered an Uber to bring me to the club, and as I sit in the back seat checking my face out in my compact mirror, I smile. I feel amazing. It’s always the way. When I get ready to go out and meet guys, I feel like shit, but when I get ready for myself…I nail it almost every time.
My tight faux-leather pants paired with my black strappy stilettos gives me an ass to die for, the arch of my back on show with my burnt-orange bralette holding the girls in place. I styled my hair a little wild, giving the short blonde locks some beach waves and running my fingers through it a few times before spraying the hell out of it. My lipstick matches my top, and my eyes are lined with the best smokey look that I found on YouTube a couple of years ago. And I haven’t changed it since.
There’s no line when we pull up because I’m not one of the cool crew that turns up at midnight with their friends after pre-drinks at someone’s house. I also hate to stand among all the groups of friends. It only highlights the fact that I have none, so I’d rather just come early.
I pay my entrance fee and smile at the bouncer on the way in. The smell of stale alcohol that’s soaked into the carpets hitting me. The choice of clubs that aren’t over an hour away is minimal, but I’d love to treat myself to one of the fancier clubs in New York City one day.
For now, though, it’s back to the noughties with decor that hasn’t been touched since the millennium hit.
I order a couple of cocktails, because it’s two-for-one until ten, and find myself a small table by the dance floor. The two glasses of wine before I arrived are already heating my bloodstream, and once the first round of cocktails are gone, I order another.
The club fills up as it gets closer to midnight, the atmosphere changing along with it. The quiet, empty club is now full of happy bodies, laughing and drinking…
I know it’s not all real. I’m a psychologist, I have studied people and studied them over again. A fair few of them are trying to fill their own kind of void, push down emotions they don’t want to feel…hell, the red-head on the dance floor is clearly cheating on her partner with the man behind her. It’s all in the body language. That, and I saw and overheard her with her partner in here a few weeks ago.
The cocktails are flowing, the music is pumping, and I have no reasons to carry on sitting down. I don’t even know what songs are playing, I’m just moving to the constant beat. I close my eyes, really feeling the tune, and when I open them again, I make accidental eye contact with a man at the bar.
Damnit.
It must look awkward, but I turn sharply, my gaze unintentionally wide as I internally berate myself for making eye contact. I know better than that. Eye contact is like an invitation to a man in a place like this.
“Your ass looks great in those pants.”
Oh God, no. Turning away didn’t deter him.
Looking over my shoulder, I find the man from the bar attempting to dance behind me. He slides a hand around my waist and pulls me into him, much to my resistance.
“Thank you for the compliment, but I’m just here to dance.” I grasp his hand on my stomach with mine and pull it outward, stepping away from him at the same time.
As I let go of his hand, he flicks his wrist and grips my arm.
