These will have to do.
The dress I’m wearing wasn’t part of my original plan. I had your standard black cocktail dress all ready to go when I spotted this one tucked in the back of my closet. Total impulse buy, picked up years ago during a shopping trip with my aunt. It’s the kind of dress you swear you have to buy because one day you’ll have the perfect occasion to wear it.
The problem is that kind of occasion usually never shows up.
Until now, I guess.
It’s deep plum silk, the kind that catches the light when I move, skimming over my frame in a way that makes me look a little more voluptuous and a little less like I’ve been existing on caffeine and anxiety for the past few months. It also has a thigh-high slit along one leg that I’m not entirely sure I can pull off, but here we are.
My hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders, and my makeup seems to be holding steady.
Although… did I smudge my lipstick again? I lean toward the mirror and retouch my lip liner for what has to be the fifth time tonight.
I need to get a grip.
It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Eddie, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t wondering about his “not-really-a-date” date on Valentine’s Day.
Who it was with. Hopefully not Romy.
How it went. Hopefully not well.
And how it ended. Definitelynotwith them in bed together.
My brain and I are not on speaking terms, seeing as she refuses to focus on benign topics like world peace or caviar.
But I am looking forward to seeing Eddie tonight. After all, there’s a good chance neither of us will know anyone at this party besides each other, which gives us a reason to stick together, right?
Unless he spends the night hanging out with Romy after their “not-really-a-date” date.
Brain, shut up.
I grab my keys and start the car, letting it warm up while I finish gathering my things.
My phone rings on the counter, and every muscle in my body locks when I glance down at the screen.
Federal Detention Center.
Jesus. What the hell does Drake want now?
I could ignore it. Let it go to voicemail. Pretend I didn’t see the call come through.
But Drake has a vindictive streak a mile wide, and I’malready jumping at shadows. The last thing I need is to give him another reason to be angry.
I make the sign of the cross—even though I haven’t been a practicing Catholic in decades—and swipe to answer.
As usual, and I can’t believe I’m actuallyusedto this, the automated voice comes on the line, asking if I’ll accept a collect call from Drake.
I close my eyes and bite back a shudder. “Yes.”
After a moment, my estranged husband is on the other end of the line. “Wasn’t sure you were going to pick up.”
“What do you need, Drake?”
His soft chuckle hums through the phone. “There are a ton of things I need. Getting them is the problem.”
Yeah, I’m not listening to your rendition of Little Boy Lost right now.
I grab a glass and pour a splash of wine into the bottom. It’s barely a teaspoon, but it still counts as liquid courage, and I need all the help I can get. With a sigh, I toss it back before leaning against the counter, my lipstick long forgotten.
