I unzipped the back of my work dress, shimmying out of it as I padded barefoot to the bedroom, eventually kicking it into a pile of discarded clothing on the floor. My last meeting of the day had run nearly an hour and a half over schedule, and as such, I was seriously behind on getting ready. As in, my date would be arriving to pick me up in less than an hour. Which was hardly adequate time for a woman to get ready, while keeping her sanity intact.
My shower was a quick one. I’d opted to forgo washing my hair, as I’d done so last night and I could use the extra time pouting in front of my closet, as I was doing now.
Looking down at Beau’s text message, I frowned and mentally ran inventory on my selection of little black dresses.
Beau: I’ll pick you up at 7pm. Dress nice.
Men were often vague at best, but this message was incredibly unhelpful.
Dress nice.
I tossed my phone onto the bed and it landed with a bounce as I glared down the hanging contents of my walk-in closet.
I dressed nice every day. I didn’t want to dress nice for Beau. I wanted to dress to stop his heart.
I’d spent the better part of the evenings in my adult life dressing to impress a man, and yet, each and every time felt like the first time. Like I’d somehow become a novice in dressing myself.
I’d had a barrage of men at my fingertips for years, increasing my bravado of self-worth, but all the while, I found it actually promoted bouts of self-loathing and encouraging the onset of manic lows. For it was too often men fell in love with the idea of me, a fantasy they’d created, only to be let down by a mere whisper of the reality of me.
Like an illusion of the heart, I wasn’t real. I wasn’t obtainable. I was a fraud.
All men liked beautiful women. However, most men liked their beautiful women like they liked their golf clubs: expensive and shiny, and only taken out when they wanted to play or impress their friends.
And maybe if I was honest, over the years, I’d played that up.
And maybe that was on me.
Most of the time, I got what I needed from them and they got something they wanted from me. Like Doctor Colby had said, a mutual exchange and sometimes even a relationship, but even I was learning now that I was looking for something from them that they could never provide. Something not even the best high could overshadow.
I was looking for me.
Because what I really needed, more than a good fuck or someone to make me come, was to feel at home in my own skin.
To feel like I understood the person I’d become.
I’d spent nearly a decade throwing myself off cliffs, because I didn’t know how to simply look out the window. I only knew what it felt like to go all-in and ride the high until I fell.
I’d become so perfectly disguised, a masterpiece of life’s unjust suffering.
Like all masterpieces were, I was admired but feared all the same.
Women fell apart at the seams and lined up for a chance to bed some of the men I’d dated in my lifetime. It had never been enough. It had never been sustainable. Neither them nor I had benefitted in the long run from my joining the leagues of those women. Yet still, so frequently I found myself in that role, playing that part once again like a well-taught starlet.
In the last days, I’d found myself beginning to wonder if perhaps I didn’t want to act that way anymore, but how did you quit? How do you quit the lie you told yourself for nearly a decade?
Addicts don’t quit overnight, and I had an addict’s blood, through and through.
“We’re not the same, you and me. I was never as strong as you, Charlie bear.”
The memory of my dead brother scolded me.
He’d been wrong.
We were the same.
I settled on a black dress with a hem that ended past my knees and fit like a second skin. It was low cut in the front, enough to be sexy without being slutty, and it had three-quarter length sleeves, which in my mind made up for the display of cleavage.
When dressing, a lady should choose but one asset to expose, never two. Beau had seen my backside at the gala, and tonight, I planned on showcasing my generous front side.
I paired the outfit with an original style tan Burberry dress coat should it rain, and matte red stilettos. Twisting my hair into a messy yet elegant chignon, I pulled a few pieces out to frame my face and finished the look by applying a blood red lipstick to my full pout.
Just in the nick of time, as luck would have it.
The buzzer to my unit sounded as I was transferring my necessities from the large day-to-day boho purse I carried to the smaller black Chanel I’d selected for tonight.
I hit the answer button on the base unit of my home phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Beau.” His smooth voice came through the speaker.
Instead of answering, I pressed the number to buzz him in.
I checked myself over in the hallway mirror, adding one more spray of perfume to my neck and wrists while I waited.
The knock came and I smiled at my reflection.
Sliding the deadbolt, I pulled the door open to find Beau Callaway leaning against the wall in my apartment building, wearing a pale grey suit and holding nearly two dozen long-stemmed white roses in one arm.
Looked as though he’d dressed to stop a heart or two himself.
“Hi.” I rested the side of my head against the open door.
He stayed put. “You look beautiful.”
I blushed. “Thank you.”