Through the haze of my embarrassment and despair, I hear Jake’s voice speaking softly to the server, ordering drinks. When I finally look up, our plates have disappeared and a margarita with a shot of Cuervo is waiting in front of me.
“I thought a real drink was in order after that,” he says, gesturing to the martini in front of him, the vodka clear and cool as an ice floe. “Your infamous ex, I take it?”
“Gee, how did you guess?” I throw the shot back first before licking the salted rim of my glass.
“I’m quick that way,” he says, and I notice that there’s no sarcasm in his voice. He’s looking at me with sympathy, and that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
“I know I should be over him,” I sigh, gulping my margarita down in one before I come up for air. “And I am! But it still fucking hurts. I mean, look at him: he screwed me over, and he still got the fancy job and the perfect girlfriend. I thought karma would bitchslap him for me, but clearly, there’s no such thing as justice in this world. His life is even better than when he left me! But mine’s still a mess.”
The alcohol hits my bloodstream with a fiery burn. I reach over and pluck the olives out of his glass, and before he can protest, I pop them in my mouth. Mmm. Blue cheese stuffed. What can I say? You snooze, you lose. I call for the waiter again. “Another round,” I say, since Jake’s buying. “But I’ll have one of those,” I point to his glass. “Extra olives.”
The waiter scurries away, and Jake raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s one p.m.”
“You’re really going to pick this battle?” I ask. “He called me fat!” I drain the dregs of my wine glass for good measure.
“He didn’t—” Jake stops when I glare. “OK, he did, but he’s a fucking douchebag. You’ve known that for years. Why are you letting him get to you?”
“Because he WON.”
The waiter brings our drinks in double-quick time, so I knock mine back then start on Jake’s too. “Everyone knows there’s a winner and a loser to every breakup,” I explain. “The one who gets to live an awesome life, and the one who’s left crying in the dust. I figured maybe, in time, I could even the scales. You know, the hare and the tortoise, it’s a marathon not a sprint.” I know I’m mixing my metaphors here, but the booze is definitely hitting me now, and it feels good. Numb and hazy and better than feeling like an anvil just crashed into my chest, that’s for sure. “Sure, he used me and dumped me and stole the best, most pert years of my life, but it was early days! He could get fired, and Harmony could pass along a pesky STD, and he could get hooked on high-price dominatrices and spend his life savings and wind up living in a grotty shared apartment with annoying NYU students lamenting how his life went downhill ever since he left me. There was hope!” I bang the table for emphasis, and Jake tries not to laugh.
“So, keep hoping,” he grins, trying to pry his martini out of my hand. I snatch it away.
“No hope! I mean, look at him. At them. They’re perfect. He upgraded to the life he’s supposed to have, and I’m stuck here.”
“With a great job, and friends, having lunch with a charming, handsome man,” Jake says. “Sounds pretty good to me.”
“I know, I know,” I sigh. “I have a good thing going. But did you see the way he looked at her? I want someone to look at me like that.”
“With a squint?”
I snort. “He always did have a lazy eye.”
“There you go, think of it as a lucky escape.” Jake grins. “Between his squint, and her rabbit little teeth, their kids are going to need some serious health insurance.”
“And therapy,” I add, more cheerful. I finish his drink, and grab my purse. “I guess we should get back . . .”
“To the office?” Jake laughs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m fine!” I stand up abruptly—and then slump back down as the room starts to spin. “Shit, I’m drunk.” For some reason—probably two martinis, a margarita and a glass of wine—the thought seems hilarious. I break out in uncontrollable giggles.
“Real sober.” Jake gets the check, then gently helps lift me out of the booth.
“Shhh,” I whisper, trying to put one foot in front of the other. “It’s a secret!”
“Easy there.” He manages to guide me to the exit without any major mishaps, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist.
Mmmm. His arms. Does he work out, I wonder? He must, to get biceps like that. And rock-hard abs, and his ass—
Jake snaps his fingers. “Eyes up here,” he says, chuckling. Whoops! “I’ll call Skye,” he says. “Tell her you’ll be out at meetings for the afternoon.”
“It’s a plan, Stan.”
“Now let’s get you home.” He takes hold of me again, and for the sake of my libido, I shake him off.
“I can get an Uber.” I scrabble in my purse for my phone for two long minutes until Jake sighs.
“I can take you.”
“It’s fine!” I protest, searching. “It’s right here . . .” I kneel down and upend my purse on the sidewalk. Gum and keys and loose change and old lip glosses go spilling out in every direction. “Ahah!” I find my phone. “See?”
“Clearly.” Jake helps clean everything up. A rolled-up playbill for a show I went to in 2014 goes fluttering past. “Jesus, what don’t you have in there?”
“A woman’s purse is her secret kingdom,” I declare dramatically. “Know the purse, know the woman.”
“Oh yeah?” Jake holds up a condom. “Ribbed, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
I snatch it back, blushing furiously. “You know what? Keep it.” I change my mind and tuck it in his shirt pocket. “I won’t be needing it anytime soon.”
“The strike.” He smirks. “Good luck with that.”
“Thank you!”
I take off, sashaying away like I saw Harmony do earlier, but I’ve only made it a few steps when Jake grabs my elbow and gently turns me around. “This way, doll. C’mon, I’ll take you home.”
He hustles us across the street and stops in front of a car—and not just any car, either, but a silver Aston Martin parked in the loading zone. Because of course.
He walks around to the passenger side and unlocks the door, and meanwhile my jaw is on the sidewalk and I’m pretty sure I’ve begun sweating because this car is the very definition of perfection. I’m not even into cars that much and I have goosebumps, even though it’s seventy-five degrees and sunny.
“Are you going to get in? Or do you need a written invitation?”
I slide onto the butter-soft leather seat and moan. “How do you have this car? Fuck, I want to MARRY this car.”
Jake laughs, getting behind the wheel. “It was a gift.”
“From GOD?”
“Almost. A Saudi prince who wanted something very specific that I managed to find.”
“Hookers and blow?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He laughs again. “Actually, a limited-edition sneaker. Real gold thread in the laces, and diamonds in the tread. They only made three pairs.”
“Rich people are ridiculous.” I put the seat back and practically spread my legs right there. “But they have the best cars.”