Page 25 of Cruel Lies

I'm learning that there's a kind of peace on the other side of the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

A clean, cold, gleaming peace.

I almost laugh out loud when I picture Todd at home, scratching his ass in his boxers, looking dumbfounded into the fluorescent depths of the refrigerator and using all of his brain cells to remember how to feed himself.

Am I being cruel? Probably. But it's not like he doesn't deserve it.

And even if he didn't, I don't care. I'm the Ice Queen tonight. Cold and gleeful, sitting on my throne, waiting for the kingdom to burn.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself."

I turn my head.

There's a man standing next to the empty stool beside me. Tall. Dark suit, no tie, top button open. He's got these eyes that don't quite smile when his mouth does.

"I am, actually," I reply.

"May I buy you a drink?"

I look at the martini in front of me, which is still almost full. "I've already got one."

"The next one, then."

I eye him. He's good-looking and clearly wealthy. I'm sure he's done this kind of thing before. Found a lone woman, bought her a drink, said what I'm positive will be several alluring and charming things, then taken her home to show her just how deep the rabbit hole goes.

But it's almost laughable how easy it is for me not to care about his attention. Young me might've longed for it, for the validation that I was pretty and skinny and worthwhile. And then for the last ten years, I've been happily married—or so I thought—and didn't pay any attention to men like this or the validation they give and withhold in order to get women out of their panties.

Now, when it'd be so easy and deserved to let myself get swept off my feet, I simply don't even care.

"You could buy me the next one," I agree. "But I should tell you, you'd be wasting your money. I'm not available."

He lets his left hand settle on the back of the empty stool. No wedding band, I notice, which I'm sure is the point of the gesture. "Married?"

I shrug. "Technically."

His mouth twitches at that. "That's not usually the sort of question that hinges on a technicality."

"Let's just say my husband is about to have a very bad year."

"Ah." He nods slowly. "So you're celebrating freedom."

"Something like that."

"Then it would be rude of me not to contribute." He raises two fingers at the bartender, who comes trotting over immediately. "Another of whatever she's having. And a whiskey, neat."

The bartender nods and hurries off.

In another world, I'm annoyed about his persistence. He didn't really take no for an answer. But there's something about the way he does it that isn't pushy, exactly. It's more like he's decided he enjoys talking to me and he'd like that to continue, and he's confident enough that he assumes I might enjoy it, too.

I don't hate that.

"You don't seem like the type to drink alone," I blurt suddenly.

He turns to face me fully. "What type do I seem like?"

"The type who has plenty of people who want to drink with him."

"I do," he confirms. "I find it exhausting."