Page 4 of Lucky 14

Picking up my phone, I scroll so it looks like I have a bunch of people I talk to. But I keep glancing down at my outfit. Is it too much? The heels were definitely too much. What do business friends who haven’t seen each other in over a year wear? Definitely not heels.

But I look good in them, goddamn it. I saw similar heels in a movie once, all silver, strappy, and covered in tiny jewels. Now that I have them on, I realize how impractical they are. Did I want them because I liked the shoes or because I wanted to be the woman wearing them?

Damn it. As a therapist, I should have caught that, but now here I am in uncomfortable shoes because I thought if I looked like a movie star, I’d be able to keep friends better.

Damn.

I war at my lip as a soft-spoken man brings me water and hands me a menu. I clock how his eye contact darts away, and he seems preoccupied. The poor man is stressed. Looking around the bar, I notice how busy it is and how everyone else has someone to sit with.

“Just one today?”

“One more.” I smile. “She may be a minute.”

“Okay, I’ll come back around.” He disappears.

As soon as he’s gone, I feel relief. His being stressed makes me stressed. Well, more stressed, which usually isn’t a huge problem. Clients come to me stressed all the time. Today is just not a good day for me. I can’t get that little voice out of my head that’s screaming I’m making a mistake.

I check my phone again. I’m on time. Early, actually.

I wait for about fifteen minutes. The last thing Emily texted was that she was excited to see me, so when the waiter comes around again, I order a cotton candy margarita. It’s sweet, but fuck it. I’m out, I may as well enjoy it.

After twenty minutes, I break and send Emily a text, asking if she was able to find parking.

No response.

My gut twists. Goddamn it. On top of that voice, I’m hearing all the noise of the bar, the music, the loud conversations, the smell of fried food, and the sticky table. I hate it. This is why I haven’t come out in over a year.

After another ten minutes, I send another text. This time, she replies.

Emily: Hey! So sorry, girl. I lost track of time, and something came up. Can we reschedule?

I stare at the screen. Something came up.

It takes a second to process that, the condensation dripping down the stem of my margarita.

Then, the anger kicks in. Reschedule my ass. Sure. I’ll reschedule her on the same calendar I use with my dad. The 31st of April, June, September, and November. Around the corner and up my ass.

No, that’s not very regulated of me, and I don’t fucking care.

Abruptly, I stand up, my toes squeezing down into the tiny straps of my heels. Marching over to the checkout, I pay my bill, where the flustered server looks like he feels bad for me, which makes things worse.

But still, I march out of the doors with my head high. This is fine. I didn’t want to come anyway.

But as I’m rounding the corner right by where people are seated outside, my foot slips again. This time, there’s no catching it. I go down hard, falling to my right side, my knee and purse-filled hand catching me before my face does.

My face burns, and I scramble to get up. People at the tables noticed, some looking away, embarrassed, and some wincing. And then, I notice someone being seated at the table I was just at. It’s a client of mine.

Cool. No, this is totally one hundred percent cool. Sign me up for five more nights like this. I brush myself off and head toward my car, refusing to look anywhere but at where I’m going.

But I can feel them watching. I’ve felt this before. Back when…everything happened. Everyone watching the disaster unfold, and no one doing anything.

My throat gets tight, and I feel the memories starting to overtake me. I want to run, but I don’t. I just hold my head higher and refuse to let the tears come. My knee and hand are throbbing, but I don’t look. I just get to my car and drive home as fast as I can, letting the numbness fall over me.

Should I be processing these feelings? Absolutely.

Will I be?

My throat tries to close again. I don’t want to process them. I want, just for one goddamn day, to be a normal person. To run from my problems like everyone else and not think about them in terms of trauma and healing and blah, blah, blah. I just want cotton candy margaritas, hot strappy heels, and someone to talk shit with. Not therapy. Just for today.