“The worst part was that I thought he was so generous. Giving me gifts. Taking me on vacations. But he was using my money the whole time. Can you believe that?” She fixes my left eye now. Gabrielle is between me and the mirror, so I can’t see myself. She picks up a brush from her small table and swipes a bit of color from her eye shadow palette.
“Well, you deserve better,” I say. “I hope you know that. You should just dateyoufor a while.” I close one eye and then the other, as she gently swipes on eye shadow.
“Oh, Ihave,and I’ve been loving it so much, and I just wanted to thank you.” She backs away for a second to gauge her work, then she dips her brush into more silver shadow and goes back in. “You really helped me out. You… you even wrote back to me last week!”
“I did?”
“Yeah, I asked you about tips on staying strong, because I met this super cute guy and was so, so tempted to cheat.” She puts down the eye shadow and searches for blush. She swipes some on my cheeks.
“Oh? Really?” I feel a hot flash of guilt at the back of my neck. “What did I say?”
“You gave me this awesome pep talk about staying strong, and it really, really worked. You told me that working on myself was more important than some hookup with a guy who probably would’ve just ghosted me later.”
“Yeah.” I smile weakly, vaguely remembering replying to her message, one of probably hundreds I’ve gone through. What if I’d steered this poor woman away fromherJack? And what if Gabrielle ever found out that while I was busy giving her a pep talk, I wasnotliving by the same high standards? I felt so torn. Should I tell her the truth? Ugh. No. I can’t. But I should. I bite my lip.
“Are you… uh, okay?” Gabrielle asks me, because I have no poker face. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” I blink. “Just nervous.”
“Don’t be.” Gabrielle moves so that I can see myself in the mirror. I’m a new woman. I barely recognize myself.
“Wow,” I say. Turning my face one way and then the other, studying Gabrielle’s work in the mirror. “You’re… amazing.”
“It’s all you, honey,” she says. “And don’t worry, people have been talking about you being onall week. Everyone’s gonna love you. Like, there was a line out the door and around the block for the audience! And that never happens.”
I swallow as I meet her gaze in the mirror. “A line, really?”
“Yeah, they got hereearlyto see you.”
“Oh. Good.” Gulp.
“Okay, it’s time!” cries the producer, a middle-aged, balding man who pops his head into the makeup room. The butterflies in my stomach jolt awake as if they all landed at the same time in a bug zapper.Pop, pop, pop!I don’t want to do this. I want to run out of the studio. What am I doing going on television that’s in national syndication? I take a deep breath.
“You’re gonna do great!” Gabrielle promises me, as she gives my arm a squeeze. The on-air light flicks on near us. The roar of the applause from the studio audience makes talking now impossible.Thank you,I mouth to her as she fades back into the dressing room. When the applause dies down, I hear the hosts—Veronica and Eric—introducing me. From behind the small sound stage, I can see the big windows showing Michigan Avenue, which even this early in the morning is somehow already filled with tourists. From my position at the side, I can see Veronica and Eric sitting on the barstools around the glass table. I see the empty one at the edge, and realize I’m going to have to somehow climb up into it. How did I miss this part? I’m wearing a tight-as-hell dress with three layers of spandex beneath at max stretch, so taut its original black is now gray, and knee-high black stiletto boots. How is this going to work? At least I’m wearing clean underwear. Most of the country might be about to see that, too.
My heart pounds in my chest and I close my eyes and wish three times I was back in my condo with Larry when I hear my name called and the audience erupts in manic, almost psychotic, applause. Oh, God. It’s time. My feet go before I know what I’m doing, and I’m walking and waving at theaudience—which is 99 percent women—and they’re on theirfeet.I’m getting a standing O. I’ve never gotten this much approval from anyone before in my life. Gabrielle wasn’t kidding. These women areherefor it.
I’m temporarily stunned by the warmth of the applause. I get that there are flashing lights and a stage manager with his arms up and hands waggling to get them to cheer, but they don’t need much encouragement.
I wobble up to the stage without falling (thank God) and heave myself up on the barstools (are these seven feet tall?). And almost manage to keep my knees together. Veronica Martinez looks flawless beneath the hot studio lights with her perfect long, dark hair, her poreless skin, lashes for miles, and a perfect mauve lip gloss that I suddenly feel I must have in my makeup bag. Eric Littell, a former sports reporter, wears a T-shirt and a checked blazer, his blond, curly hair shorn short, and a big, fat chip on his shoulder I can see from here. Both have teeth so white they look radioactive.
“Welcome,” Veronica tells me. “I have to say that I amsoexcited to have you here. And so is our audience, right?” Another high-pitched screech goes up from the crowd. I glance outward to the audience once more, but the hot studio lights make it hard to discern faces. “Of course Eric here isn’t so excited.”
Eric looks like he wants to punch Veronica full in the face and then high-kick her into a corner, going complete MMA on her perfectly styled self, which means these two have slept together before. The desire for hate sex is burning between them like the first signs of a herpes outbreak.
“Well, I mean, we’re talking aboutSolo February,right? I can’t help but take that personally. Ifallwomen decide to gosolo or whatever, then what am I going to do with my Friday nights?”
The audience gives Eric some pityahs.Oh, poor Eric. He’s somewhere in his late thirties, a local celebrity and an avowed bachelor, and pretty much is a walking advertisement for male toxicity, which probably means his DMs are full of interested women.
“Not everything is aboutyou,Eric,” snipes Veronica, barely containing her disdain. “Now, Sora, you’ve become quite the online sensation. Tell us about what inspired you to startSolo February.”
“Have you met men?” I joke, and the entire audience erupts in tittering laughter. I glance tentatively at them, noticing all their excited faces. Are they really so excited to seeme? “But, seriously, I’d had a string of terrible relationships…” I tell them about Dan, and a little about Marley, and get a lot of sympatheticahs at all the right places. “And then one day I thought, why do I need a valentine? I mean, bacon is my first—and could be my only—love.”
Lots of cheers for that one. I also feel a pang of guilt. If Jack saw this… would he be offended? Would he think it’s funny? Ugh. And what about all these women in the audience? What wouldtheythink if they knew about Jack? They’d roast me alive. A bead of nervous sweat trickles down the small of my back.
Focus, Sora. Get your head in the game.
“So you’re seriously replacing men with bacon?” Eric scoffs.
