Then I remember the amused glint in his eye as I realized he’d stripped out of his shirt. He knew exactly what he was doing by sending these to me. He was toying with me, asserting his rich, arrogantmanlinessover me.
Well, fuck you, coffee shop stranger. I don’t need your hand-outs and I’m nobody’s toy.
And with that, I grab my phone, bid a curt goodnight to my mother and daughter, then head straight up to bed.
Erin
I spot Mallorie the second I push through the doors of the café. It’s impossible not to.
My best friend is wearing a leopard-print fake fur coat—in May—over a burgundy skin-tight pant suit, her naturally curly long red hair spilling buoyantly down her back. She has enormous sunglasses perched on her head, a steaming cappuccino in one hand, her phone in the other.
Her loud cackle alerts the entire place to her presence. Though I suspect they already knew she was there.
Same old Mallorie. Forty-four years old and still allergic to subtlety.
Her eyes flick up on my approach and she almost drops her cup scrambling to her feet.
“You’re here! My darling! I’m so happy to see you!”
Her warm, fluffy arms wrap around me in a long-needed hug, and I snuggle into her.
“God, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” I murmur into her coat.
I eventually prize myself from her lovely grip and pull out the chair opposite.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”
She waves a hand about, setting a collection of wrist bangles clattering. “No. Just got here, five minutes ago. Here, look at this.”
She leans forward, turning her phone screen toward me.
“These reels are fucking hilarious. I swear to God, it’s a wonder I get anything done. I could scroll through these for hours.”
I watch what appears to be security footage of enormous dogs pulling over their owners with all manner of dangerous, eye-watering outcomes.
I sit back. “Well, if you’re going to mistake a horse for a dog, it’s the least you deserve, in my humble opinion.”
She swipes the phone away, laughing. “That’s my girl. Now, what can I get you?”
I smile gratefully. This is why I love Mallorie. I don’t even need to tell her that money is a delicate issue for me right now. Just one word—divorce—and she gets it. Having been through one of her own at the tender age of thirty, since which she has sworn to being eternally single, she knows the score and is all the wiser for it.
“A latte would be perfect, thanks.”
I check my phone for messages as I wait for Mallorie to come back.
There’s a message from Paige to say the shirts have been collected, thank God. Every time I looked at that box, shame and humiliation nicked at my spine.
It wasn’t just the way I flipped out in the coffee shop that sends a shiver through my bones at the recollection, it’s the idea that the man I flipped out on thinks I need help. That I’msome kind of charity case. It’s one thing to accept a latte from my best friend of thirty-something years, it’s a whole other thing to accept twenty-thousand bucks-worth of shirts from a presumptuous stranger.
The second message is from an unknown number. I swipe it open and my throat tightens. It’s the offer of a part time gig at a seedy bar downtown. I’d forgotten I’d even interviewed for it. Actually, lemme take that back. I’dblocked it out.
The place stank of stale beer, sticky floors and sweaty armpits. The clientele was made up largely of old, balding men who lacked nutrition, sleep and common decency. One even swiped at my ass on my way out.
The interview was short, the questions blunt. Can you open a bottle? Yes. Can you work evenings? Yes. Do you own any short skirts? No, but I’m sure my teenage daughter can help me out.
By the time Mallorie is back with my coffee, I’ve buried my face in my hands.
“Uh oh, that doesn’t look good. What happened?”
