“Great meeting you,” I say smoothly, stepping past into the elevator. “See you around!”
“You too.” She takes a lick of ice cream, swirling her tongue around suggestively as the doors shut. And I don’t know why, but it triggers something in the darkest corner of my mind. A memory.
My tongue. Licking something sweet.
Or someone . . .
Oh shit.
6
Lizzie
Colin texts me his address, and I head over after work—after a quick change in the ladies’ restroom that would put Supergirl to shame. I’m all dolled up, and I look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. In the elevator, I smooth down the skirt of my short red dress, making sure I didn’t get wrinkled on the subway ride over, and try to forget Jake Weston’s infuriating cocky grin.
Forget this, I want to yell, but I keep it together. So he doesn’t even remember that night and all its humiliations? At least I’m making him pay now, holding it over his head.
But somehow, his voice whispers in my thoughts, and that knowing sneer when I mentioned my big romantic date with Colin tonight.
It’s not like he knows everything, I tell myself, walking down the hall to Colin’s apartment. The guy who passes out face down in my crotch waives all right to judge my love life.
I check my reflection in the hall mirror a final time, feeling my excitement rise. Colin promised he was pulling out all the stops tonight, so I ducked out on my lunch break to buy a new dress, and even invested in a pair of lacy panties, too. A good girl scout is always prepared. Maybe he’s cooked a candlelit meal for two, or is planning to whisk me off to a fancy restaurant and have me serenaded by a string quartet—
The door swings open. “Hey, it’s you.” Colin sees me and thrusts a bag of garbage into my hand. “Can you shove that in the chute? It’s right there. Yeah, just shove it in real good, the damn thing’s jammed.”
I blink. He’s wearing a beat-up pair of grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Maybe he just hasn’t had time to change yet, I tell myself, still harboring a tiny kernel of hope that for once, a guy might just up and surprise me.
“Sure.” I go deposit the stinking sack of trash in the hallway chute. “Umm, hi!”
“Hey,” he says, a broad smile on his face. “Glad you could make it.” He opens the door wider to let me step inside. I look around the room, taking in the piles of empty pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, the clothes strewn all over the living room, and a football game blaring from a flat-screen TV, the announcer’s nasal voice giving me an instant migraine.
OK. So we’re definitely heading out to eat.
“Want a beer?” he asks, holding up an open one already in his hand. I’m too speechless to answer, not that he notices. He just heads off to the kitchen and opens the fridge, grabs a can of Coors Light before sauntering back to press it into my hand.
“Thanks,” I reply weakly.
He offered you a drink. That’s . . . polite, isn’t it?
“So . . .” I ask cautiously, popping the tab on the can of beer, if only for something to do. “What are we doing tonight?”
“You can sit down, you know,” he says, pushing a pile of dirty clothes off the black leather couch and onto the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he adds. “I’ve been working a lot lately and I just haven’t had time to clean up.”
“That’s . . . OK.” I walk over and sit down gingerly. “I’ll just wait here then,” I say, trying not to touch anything. Or look at anything. Or maybe even breathe.
But instead of heading for what I hope is a thorough shower, Colin kicks back on the couch and pops the tab on his own beer. “Wait for what?”
“You to get ready?” I ask, clinging to desperate hope.
He laughs. “I’m all set. I thought I’d order a pizza and we could watch the game.”
Is he serious? “But . . . you said something about having a romantic evening . . .” My voice trails off as reality sinks in.
This can’t be real. This guy can’t possibly think that beer and football constitutes a romantic evening, can he?
Oh, he can. Colin looks at me with this proud expression, like he deserves a freaking gold star.
“This is romantic! I mean,” he says, “we’ve got the game on the tube, a little pizza, and maybe later a little . . .” He raises both eyebrows suggestively, looking right at my chest, and I feel nauseous. I’d rather eat my own shoes than a pizza right now. He’s grabbing his iPhone off the coffee table, ready to dial up Domino’s, when I snap out of my shock and jump to my feet.
How. Dare. He.
“You think this is romance?” I blurt out, putting my hands on my hips and glaring at him, willing him to burst into flames from the sheer force of my rage. “Football and pizza? Why don’t you just order some fucking wings while you’re at it!”
“Hey,” he says, holding up one hand. “Chill. I mean, you can get as many toppings as you want, okay? Except pepperoni. I hate pepperoni.”
“Goodbye, Colin,” I say, before I inflict grievous bodily harm with my purse. “Enjoy your romantic evening,” I yell out, slamming the door shut behind me.
When I get to Alibi, Della and Zach are draped all over each other at the bar. It turns out New Year’s Eve was just the beginning of a beautiful relationship for them. They got married last summer in the little courtyard out back, and now Zach owns the place. Funny how things work out. Fucking hilarious, even. But they’re perfect for each other, so it’s not like I can even be mad about it—plus Zach gives me a break on rent for my apartment right upstairs. I’ve never seen Della so happy, although she does take Zach for granted a little too much, in my opinion.
Not that anyone actually asked me for my opinion. Besides, I just spent a hundred bucks on lingerie to sit on a guy’s couch and watch the game.
“Lizzie!” Della yells out happily as I approach them, throw my purse down on the bar, and slump onto a barstool next to her. Zach’s leaning across the bar, holding her hand in his, and when he sees my face, he extricates himself to make me a gin fizz, no questions asked. Zach doesn’t really say much, but he doesn’t have to. He gets it.
Della, on other hand, is full of questions.
“You’re back early. How was your romantic date?” she chirps happily.
“Don’t ask,” I moan, and put my head down on the bar.
“That bad?” Zach asks, putting my drink down in front me.
“The worst.” I raise my head long enough to gulp half the glass down.
“Easy there, partner,” Zach says. “Keep that up and we’ll be scraping you off the floor.”
“Good thing I live upstairs.” I take another swallow, hoping that if I’m drunk enough, I’ll forget this night entirely.
Scratch that. Maybe if I keep drinking, I’ll forget the past five years.
“What happened?” Della asks, wrinkling her forehead.