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“Listen, Mia, at least wash your hands. You’ve just paid a lot of money to have this place cleaned and fixed up. Don’t ruin Mark’s apartment by dripping blood on the new carpet.”
Even though I feel as if only a part of me is present in the bathroom, those words penetrate my haziness. She’s right. I can’t do that to Mark. So, I behave. I wash my hands and study the minor cuts, which don’t look all that bad.
“It doesn’t look deep enough for stitches, but you should wrap up your hand.” Lila echoes my thoughts, and since I feel like I can’t form any coherent words, I nod and sit down on the toilet so I can watch her work.
Lila pulls out Mark’s first aid kit and places a band-aid on the cuts before wrapping the roller bandage around my injured hand. At least this way, the cuts won’t spot the white bandage. Shit, there’s no way to keep this hidden, which means there will be questions. Questions I won’t want to answer but that I can’t avoid.
“There you go, all done. You can go make your call now.”
Lifting my gaze, I look into Lila’s brown eyes. Wait, Lila doesn’t have brown eyes. Right now, I can’t recall if they’re usually blue or green, but it’s definitely not brown.
“Are you wearing contact lenses?” I ask in confusion.
Lila grimaces and gets a haunted look in her eyes. “No, brown is my original eye color, but umm… Because of circumstances, I wore colored contact lenses.”
“What?”
“Mia, you and I have the same eye and hair color. Is it any wonder that I did my best to have as little in common with you as possible?” Even though her tone isn’t as kind as it was a moment ago, it’s not annoyed, it’s more frustrated.
I ruminate on what she’s just said, and I guess I get it. “But why? I mean, when I first met you, you already looked like… Well, like your former self.”
Lila takes a deep breath, like she’s buying time to figure out how to explain something, or maybe she’s debating whether to answer me. “The night my husband met you, he became enamored. When he came home, he wouldn’t stop talking about you. Then, as the weeks went by, I noticed he praised my hair and eyes even more than usual. You and I hadn’t met yet because I was off work after undergoing plastic surgery, but he showed me a picture of you. The day before I returned to work, I got contact lenses and had my hair done.”
Wow…
I’m unable to form words as I really look at the woman kneeling in front of me. The woman I have loathed for so long, who’s been treating me like I was beneath her. And now I’m learning that she’s felt like she was living in my shadow for all these years.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, and I’m surprised that I actually feel sorry. “I had no idea.”
Lila clasps my good hand and moves a tendril of my hair behind my ear. “It’s not your fault. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for how I’ve behaved toward you. I was blinded by jealousy and… Well, and threats from my dear husband.” The last part is nothing but a sneer, not that I blame her.
“What do you want to happen to him?” I ask, now that he has already made his way into our conversation.
Standing up, Lila looks down at me. Only, it doesn’t feel like she’s looking down upon me like she used to. “I don’t quite know. I was going to leave it up to you and your guys.”
Even though the timing is horrible, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Are you reopening Serendipity?”
“I am,” she says warily. “But there won’t ever be a job there for you again, even though Luis is doing his damndest to make me bring you back. I am truly sorry for what Neil and I did to you, and I have nothing against you. I will help you in any way I can, but I don’t think it will be good for us to be around each other in that place. Maybe another place, but definitely not there.”
I shudder at the mention of Luis. There’s a man I never wish to see again. Guilt is still clutching my heart and gnawing at my stomach at the mere thought of what I did. Even if Lila wanted me back at Serendipity—and even if I accepted—I wouldn’t want to dance for him. Ever.
Forcing myself to focus on Lila not welcoming me back to the club, I expect to feel slighted by her words. I press my lips tightly together, so I say nothing stupid, though it turns out I didn’t have to. I feel relief and an overwhelming level of agreement and understanding. Although we may be okay and be able to act friendly toward each other, we’re both carrying internal wounds of the kind we both want to forget—but where we would be a constant reminder for the other.
“I don’t think I’ll ever go back to stripping,” I say, as if that’s the real crux of the matter. Feeling bad, I rush to add, “But if I do, you’re right—Serendipity won’t be the place for me.”
