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Because it would surely be the most telling.
I blinked, recovered, then took a long drink.
It had been well over a year since I'd seen him, and the things that had occurred since our last parting and now . . . I couldn't even stand to glance at him across a crowded room.
But some part of me, the lovesick, pathetic part that I'd have cut out of myself if it were possible, rejoiced at the sight of him.
And the way he looked then, it was something to behold.
There was a woman clinging to him, a beautiful black-haired woman, and as I studied her, I realized it was an actress. No one terribly famous, more of an up and comer who was talked about often in the industry of late. Her name was dropped in a lot of gossip rags for potential roles, but nothing she'd done had panned out in a big way yet.
Still, she was certainly more famous than I was. No contest. And he'd come here with her. It was clearly the most hurtful scenario he could dream up.
Well, close to. Tiffany would have been the most hurtful, obviously.
Always.
The actress was, of course, young and lovely, wearing a clingy, red Versace dress I could remember ogling in this month's Italian Vogue. She was fashionable and beautiful and would likely be the next 'it' girl, and Dante barely seemed to notice that one of her perky little tits was trying to permanently meld itself into his bicep.
Of course the too good-looking for his own good Durant heir could have any woman he set his sights on. I'd never had any doubts about that.
His eyes were on me, his body stiff, his fists clenched as he watched me like we were the only two people in the room, and just the sight of me had stopped him in his tracks.
I smiled. Maybe there was some fun yet to be had in this misery trip down our fucked up memory lane.
I could do this. I could suffer through this pain if it was for the sake of making him suffer with me.
Ah, love. Isn't it grand?
I finished my drink and tore my eyes from his, seeking my date for the night.
Justin was a screenwriter who had developed a pretty devoted crush on me when I'd first moved to town. He got me into all of the parties I hated to attend but could never say no to. In exchange I'd been stringing him along rather relentlessly.
I spotted him doing a line off the bar a scant ten feet away. He was still wiping his nose when I finally caught his eye. I called him over with a crook of my finger.
He blinked a few times, swallowed hard, and came to me looking hopeful enough to stir some pity in me.
Not enough. But some.
He was very cute, tallish and trim, but muscular, with nerdy glasses that only seemed to add to his boyish handsomeness.
"Darling, something's come up," I purred at him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and moving our faces close. "I've got to run."
He looked confused, but didn't ask questions and didn't try to stop me. He was my favorite kind of man, the kind that let me do whatever the hell I wanted without protesting. He was just happy to be along for the ride.
Until, of course, I left him on the side of the road, as I inevitably would.
I pressed my chest to his and gave him a brief, warm kiss. It stirred nothing in me.
Hardly anything did these days.
It was a show, no more, but I could tell as I pulled away that he'd taken something from it that he shouldn't have.
I'd given him hope.
"When will I see you again?" he asked me.
I wanted to pat him on the head, the poor guy, but I just pursed my lips and shrugged. "Who knows? I'll text you sometime. Or you can call me when there's another good party."
