Page 40 of Dancing in the Dark

Outside. Like a stray mutt forced to wallow in the rain.

“Seraphina?” Anderson calls out to me, his tinny voice coming from my phone speaker. “Seraphina? Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“Madame?”

“I’ll go.” I whip the napkin from my lap and end my call with the man I have no desire to speak to, anyway. Emptying my glass and setting it down with a snap, I slip my phone into my clutch and pray that if my tears must come, they at least wait until I’m outside.

Couples stare as I stand. Conversations turn stilted and, in most cases, cease completely. There’s probably a dude here somewhere with a ring in his pocket and his beloved sitting across from him, but he hasn’t proposed yet, because she’s too busy watching my humiliation up close and personal.

Digging around inside my clutch and hoping against all hope I have enough cash to pay for my drink—and a tip, of course—I pluck a twenty for the wine, and another twenty like it could somehow buy my dignity back. Dropping both on the table, I fake a smile for the embarrassed server and do as I did a million times over the years after giving my all on a stage in front of hundreds, even thousands, of applauding people: I lift my head high and claw my way through what feels like a million splinters piercing my skin.

I pretend that the ache, the stares, the words that hurt so much, simply skim off my aloof exterior, and like I did back then, I act like the newest wounds I’m forced to carry aren’t really all that heavy.

It’s fine.

“Thank you for my drink. It was delicious.” I look at no one, I meet not a single set of eyes, I simply cut through the middle of the restaurant Charlie selected for tonight, and burst through the double glass doors until chilly night air slaps me in the face and replaces the warmth from inside.

“Taxi!” I charge toward a row of cabs awaiting their next fare, and yanking the closest back door open, I slide in and hastily swipe the irritating tears from my cheeks. “Drive, please.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Please, Sera. Please, please, don’t cry. “Quickly.”

“Yes’m.”

16

SERAPHINA

Charlie, 10:14pm:

I’M SO SORRY!

10:14pm:

Sera, please let me explain.

His name flashes on my screen with an incoming call, but I reject it and pray my speedy swipe could somehow save me from another scar marking my soul.

10:15pm:

PLEASE, Sera! Please talk to me. I swear, I was on my way to you, but then Lieutenant Fabian called me in and made me stay until it was done.

He tries to call again. Begging, demanding, pleading for my time.

Decline.

10:16pm:

Just give me two minutes and I’ll explain everything.

I pace the length of my living room and pray the anxious energy thudding in the back of my skull might soon ease. It’s not too much to hope that ten thousand steps in the space of twenty minutes could wrap my poor, abused heart in something gentler, something far less cruel than it’s known all its life… is it?

My phone buzzes again, but this time, it’s a twofer. Charlie’s name flashes for attention, while right next to it, Anderson tries his luck too.

The cheating, disloyal, brown-nosing bastard seems to think a few years and a sly smile could erase the sharp edges of the betrayals he served callously on a platter for me to feast like a good little lapdog.

I decline them both, and because I can’t stand to deal with either of them ever again, I turn my phone off and lob it onto my couch. It lands with a thud and wedges itself between two cushions, while a horrifying sob bounces along my throat and makes my pain a million times worse. Spinning on my toes, I stalk furiously into the hallway and tear the zipper of my dress down. I fantasized all day long about this fucking dress. About Charlie unzipping it for me. I tug the material away from my chest and over my hips, then I leave it on the floor and march into my room. I don’t bother flipping the lights on. It’s not like I can see through the sheen of tears in my eyes, anyway. Unsnapping my strapless push-up bra, the one Charlie was supposed to remove for me, I toss it onto my bed and stomp to my closet in my underwear.

He was supposed to enjoy those, too.

Bastard.