Page 32 of The Alibi Club

“What do you mean?” Lorna inquired.

“It’s a city made up and for the ambitious, the thin, and let’s not forget the young. Being forty here feels more like sixty-five. It’s hard to keep up with coffee trends, mascara trends, dog breed trends. People have hustles, side hustles, side quests, make content about cats and post it on TikTok, and then run 5Ks. And that’s just your average Saturday.”

“As if every minute has to be productive,” Lorna added.

“It’s psychotic. What I wouldn’t give to laze around and waste an afternoon with the smell of fried conch fritters wafting on a balmy Atlantic Ocean breeze, a faint twang of some Zac Brown cover band playing along the Intracoastal Waterway in Delray Beach.”

Shannon was right, of course, Lorna had just never heard it said so earnestly. Lorna could see she was trying to fit into a life that seemed thrust on her.

“What made you move out here?”

“You want the long version or the short one?” Shannon said as she took a big slurp of her cocktail.

Lorna took a sip, too. Salty. Strong. Perfect. “I’m a sucker for a good origin story.”

Shannon took a deep breath, just as a text came in. She held up a finger, read it, and then said, “This text encompasses my angst. It’s from my sister. It says, ‘Hey, how was hot yoga? In a few weeks when the benefits kick in, Matt wants to set you up with his work buddy. He’s got a boat!’” Shannon frowned and took another gulp of her Cosmo.

“You don’t like boats?”

“I love boats. But I’m not fit enough to be invited on one yet. What my well-meaning, CrossFit-obsessed sister means by ‘when the benefits kick in’ is when I lose a few pounds and tone up my flabby Florida ass. When I got here, you know how my sister welcomed me? With a hot yoga membership, the contact information for a girl who did hair extensions, and a fresh package of Nicorette gum. The message was clear: ‘Let’s blow the Florida stink off you.’”

“Ouch,” Lorna said. She gave Shannon a good once over. She had stylish, yellow-blond hair that was up in a messy but cute bun, a disarming smile, and a spray tan that was wearing off. She was a naturally bubbly person but railed against being so blatantly told she’d have to change. It was hard to change at any age, but it got exponentially harder after the age of forty. People are who they are.

Lorna offered, “I like your hair the way it is.”

Shannon begrudgingly accepted her compliment as she held the ice against her scraped arm. “When I moved here from Delray Beach, it was less about starting a new life and more about escaping my old one. My sweet, frail mom died after a short but brutal battle with skin cancer. Broke my heart. Lost my mind for a little while. Perhaps that explains why someone with my common sense could have made so many bad decisions in the days since. Take Mick, for example.”

“Mick?”

“Ah, Mick,” she said wistfully. “A brawny, blond-headed pool installer. He was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he had dimples, biceps the size of my thighs, and a Harley. He’d pick me up and we would ride toward Islamorada in the Florida Keys, visit beach bars and drink rum runners until it numbed all my pain.”

“Acceptable grieving method.”

Shannon wagged her eyebrows and called for another drink. “Which is why it took me a minute to figure out Mick was also screwing my roommate, Jackie. It is easy for me to believe men are mangy, horny, unscrupulous dogs. That’s not a stretch. Especially in Delray Beach. But for my friend to do this to me took solid, incontrovertible proof.”

“I sense a foreshadowing of events to come.” Lorna took a sip, riveted by the story.

“I came home early from entertaining a pharma client and saw Mick’s head buried between Jackie’s thighs on our washing machine—which—” Shannon tipped her drink at Lorna, “was on the spin cycle. My illusions vanished.”

“Oh, girrrl,” Lorna said as she drew it out.

Shannon sniffed and sat up a little straighter. “So, I took the last scrap of my self-respect, wrapped it around me like a Kevlar vest, picked up an aluminum softball bat on the way out of the house, and took out all my anger, pain, and feelings on Mick’s unsuspecting Harley.”

“Oh, dear God.” Lorna laughed and sat up straighter, rooting for Shannon and her motorcycle violence. God knew, she had wanted to bust some taillights in her own time. Not her style, but she definitely saw the efficacy of it.

“Yeah, I basically rage-quit my own life. With one last smash of the taillight, I threw the bat down, lit up a smoke, and climbed in my 300ZX convertible and drove all the way to California, my eyes as dry as the Mojave in July. That was over a six months ago. And here I sit.” Shannon raised her glass to toast to Lorna. Then she downed the rest of her Cosmo.

“Like I said, I love a good origin story.” Bartender Nick had already produced Shannon’s second Cosmo and walked away to tend to one of the Dodger fans.

Lorna thought she noticed something. “You guys have a thing?” Lorna asked on the down low and waved her finger toward Nick when he wasn’t looking.

“Us? No. He’s more like my psychological triage coach. I come here for drinks, emergency healing, and the soothing, mindless chatter one can only hear in a bar.”

Lorna let out a mental breath. She didn’t want to go back to the drawing board on her next dinner party, and if any woman deserved to find true love, it was this one. “Always good to have a neighborhood bar.”

“Couldn’t survive in this town without one.” They clinked glasses at that and Shannon drained her second drink dry.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Shannon,” Lorna said. “Let me buy you another drink.”