Page 24 of Cruel Lies

Today, I declare that I no longer give a shit. I walk right in, head held high.

A salesgirl who can't be older than twenty-five glides over. "Hi, ma'am! Can I help you find something?"

"I want a dress," I say. "Something that makes me feel dangerous."

She grins. "Now, you're speaking my language. Right this way."

Five minutes later, I'm standing in front of a three-way mirror in a little black dress that makes "dangerous" look like a dramatic understatement. It doesn't bother to hideanything.It hugs my hips, my thighs, my boobs, the soft curve of my stomach that grew two human beings.

I look at myself, and for the first time in I don't know how long, I don't take inventory of what I want to lose, all the mental nips and tucks I'd do if I could.

I just think,I look good.

"I'll wear it out," I tell the salesgirl.

At the register, the total makes my eyebrows go up, even now. Then I swallow, double down, and hand over Todd's credit card. When I get the receipt back, I sign the slip with a flourish.

"Thank you so much," the salesgirl says. "Have a wonderful night. I hope you get into exactly the right amount of trouble."

"Oh," I assure her, "I intend to."

I pick a lounge a few blocks over. It's a dimly lit ocean of crushed plum velvet, pressed tin ceiling, dominated by a bar in the middle that's a single slab of black marble veined with gold. Edith Piaf murmurs from a speaker I can't locate. The bartenders move like they've never once been in a hurry. The air is rich with citrus peel, exotic smoke, dark, alluring, mysterious. It smells like the exact opposite of Todd's Every Man Jack body wash, for which I've never been more grateful.

In here, I can breathe.

And even though I do get the inevitable, jittery frisson that comes to any woman out in the city on her own with uncertain intentions, all it takes is one big inhale and exhale for that anxiety to get flushed away.

I belong here. Tonight, anyway.

Besides, it's not like I'm looking for a hookup. I have no plans for anything like that. For one, it could jeopardize the upcoming divorce if Todd somehow could prove that I was unfaithful, too. And for another, it's just not the point.

I'm here to feel alive. To choose something for myself, on my own terms.

Men? They're a thing of my past, not of my present or future. As far as I'm concerned, the whole damn gender can take a long walk off a short bridge. Preferably sooner rather than later.

I slink in and take a seat at the bar.

"Good evening, miss," the bartender says. "What can I get you?"

"The absolute filthiest martini you've ever made," I say. "And a charcuterie board."

He smiles. "Coming right up."

As I wait for the drink and food, I look around.

The crowd is exactly what I expected from a place like this. Beautiful people in a beautiful room. Good-looking men and women are draped all over each other, whispering flirtatious nothings in each other’s ears. It's exposed thighs and plunging necklines, sharp suits and glittering watches. They wear it all well and they lookgoodtogether. This space, this vibe, this moment. It's dark and sexy and undeniablyalive.

And again—I want to be crystal clear, mostly to myself—I am not here for that.I'm not scanning for prospects, not by any means. I'm just sitting in a room full of people who know what they want and reach out and take it.

It's nice. Really.

Aspirational, even.

My martini arrives in a frosted glass, set on a classy black napkin embossed with the name of the lounge, two olives bobbing on a gilded toothpick. The charcuterie board is on another pieceof marble cut from the same chunk of rock as the bar. Sliced cheeses, wafer-thin prosciutto, plump figs and a rich pot of oozing honey.

I didn't know snacks could be sexy. This place is proving me wrong.

I cut a slice of something soft and creamy and put it on a cracker and eat it slowly, and I sip the martini, and I sit there by myself, completely alone, and I feel like the most powerful woman in the entire city.