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“So have you,” I say. “We both deserve good things.”
He smiles for real this time. “I’ll drink to that.”
“You need a refill.” I grab the bottle out of the bucket of ice on the kitchen counter and perform my duties as host of this very small party. A wedding wake, if you will. A marriage memoriam. There’s even cheesecake in the fridge for later, because a party is nothing without cake.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asks, giving me a curious glance.
“We may be onto our second bottle, here,” I answer. “Briar and I FaceTimed a couple of glasses’ worth earlier. A bid-adieu-to-the-cheating-bastard kind of thing. Will you dance with me?”
“I’d be honored.”
The music changes to Leon Bridges and he slides his arms around my waist. I set one hand on his shoulder, the other still holding onto my drink. We sway in time to the music. It’s so easy with him. So comfortable. Also, Leif is tall and firm and smells nice. The perfect companion for this sort of thing. He’s ridiculously handsome up close like this. Lady-part-tingling male beauty. And I get to put my hands on him in a purely friendly manner. Lucky me.
“No man-hating angry music,” he notes.
“Nope.” I smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I went through an intense period of despising your gender. But that kind of emotion isn’t sustainable long term. Not for me, at least. Especially not with Celine involved in it up to her pretty little neck. Two people alone are responsible for this situation. No point throwing away the whole world over their misdeeds.”
A grunt.
“I guess I still have my moments of rage,” I say. “I mean, of course I do. It was a deeply shitty thing to have happen. But being pissed off for the rest of all time seems like it’ll do me more harm than good.”
He nods.
“I want to move on to bigger and better things. Be happy. And I can’t do that if I’m letting this stuff drag me down.”
“Sounds wise.”
“You think so?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I nod. “Not that I think I’ll ever marry again.”
He raises a brow. “No?”
“Nope. That is not on the agenda. Been there, done that, getting the divorce certificate.”
“Why not?” he asks. “You might meet someone who makes your ex look like a sad excuse of a man. Someone who makes you deliriously happy.”
“I might. One day . . .” I sigh. “But weddings are so big and expensive and stressful. And it’s not like the vows necessarily mean a whole lot. I mean, why bother?”
“It’s true. Words are cheap. That’s why I recommend tattoos, because ink is forever.”
“Hm.” I think about this. “But can’t you get tattoos erased now? Or at least redone?”
He shakes his head. “Not entirely. There’s always a mark. No one gets to walk away free and clear.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Of course.” He seems surprised by the question. “That’s why we all do it. To have it carved into us in blood and skin and ink. To mark out something that’s important enough to stay with us to the end. Something we can’t change our mind about. Not like promises or wedding vows.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Not that I wasn’t a stunning bride. I wore this white strapless ball gown that was like a dream. The skirt was all done in box pleats,” I say. “I looked like a walking, talking cake. It was glorious.”
“I bet you were beautiful.”
“Thank you.” My smile is all things dreamy with a side order of tipsy. “I’d show you some photos, but I actually burnt most of them in Mom and Dad’s barbeque a few months back. Another cathartic healing moment on the road to singledom.”
“That’s okay. You can draw me a picture sometime.”
“Will do,” I say. “But even if I met someone amazing who against all odds was actually trustworthy, I don’t really see any benefit to having a wedding. Marriage clearly can’t make up for qualities that aren’t there to begin with. Love. Loyalty. Little things like that.”
His hand presses lightly against my lower back. A comforting presence. “One day, I’m going to convince you that some relationships are in fact worthwhile and some people can be trusted. But right now, drunky Anna, I’m just going to let you babble.”
“In vino veritas,” I say. “Thank you for indulging my deep thoughts. And I wasn’t ruling out relationships in their entirety.”
“No?”
“No. Just being more realistic about future possibilities,” I explain. “I think this is actually quite healthy of me, casting aside the childhood fairy tales of the perfect Prince Charming and so on.”
Leif snorts. “The dude couldn’t recognize the love of his life without her makeup on and a fancy dress. I mean, how great was Charming really?”
“You’re talking about Cinderella, I take it?” I laugh.
“Yes. It’s a stupid story. Shoe size is a poor indicator for choosing a life partner. Ask anyone.”
