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“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m afraid my parents weren’t that cultured.”
“You could never disappoint me.”
“I beg to differ,” she says, like it’s a challenge.
I’m about to offer her my business card when I sense movement just over my shoulder. I see it in her eyes first.
“There you are,” she calls. She stands, finessing herself around me. I watch as she places her hand on her guest’s forearm, and when she leans in to kiss his cheek, I understand—the game point goes to her.
It takes a million years, but finally, she turns her attention back to me. “It was a pleasure…”
She’s already forgotten my name. “Elliot.”
“Sorry.” She plays it off. “I don’t know what’s come over me…must be the wine.”
What a perfect liar. The glass hasn’t touched her perfect lips.
“Well,” I say, stepping back to make room for her guest. His eyes never leave mine. Men are skilled when it comes to perceiving threats, far more so than women. “It was very nice to meet you, Amanda.”
I watch her expression shift from the corner of my eye. She chews at her bottom lip. Most of my attention is focused on him. Either she’s telling the truth about who she is—or she’s lying to everyone.
I order the Beef Wellington, even though it’s late, and I’ve already eaten, and I hate mushrooms. It takes the longest to prepare. Maybe I’m interested in proving a point, and maybe I’m just avoiding the inevitability of getting my mistake out of my apartment. Whatever the case, I’m intrigued by the woman at the bar and her date. I don’t bother straining to hear their conversation. I don’t gawk. I observe from a discreet vantage point, which is what I do best.
They leave together without dining. It’s preposterous, but I have to know. I’ve built a career around making judgment calls based upon simple observations. Something doesn’t add up.
I ask the bartender if he’s seen her before. He hasn’t.
I tip him well and offer to throw in another twenty bucks if he’ll tell me how she paid for the glass of red. For another dime, he offers the name on her credit card.
It isn’t Amanda.
Chapter Three
Vanessa
I always find the most interesting secrets are the ones you keep from yourself. If properly inventoried, I might find I have a fair amount of those. But today is not the day for the kind of self-reflection required to right my life. And in any case, I must stay drunk on hope. Of course, it helps if I remind myself—and it certainly doesn’t hurt—that Sean is out of town playing with his mistress. Golf.
I don’t mind so much. Gives me room to breathe.
Or so I thought. Somehow, I’ve managed to fool myself into thinking that everything is less hectic with him away.
It never is.
It is, however, loads more peaceful.
That all changes in forty-eight hours or so.
You take what you can get, I guess.
And now I’m taking a moment to remind myself of everything I’m grateful for. Not only because it’s mandated by the church but also because…well, I can’t remember the rest.
Someone can hold false promises and still land on truth from time to time. This reminds me. I have to ask Matty if he misses Daddy. Sean will want to know that I have. He will want to hear it. I make a mental note to send a text, and then it dawns on me—this is why I’m rummaging around the kitchen. I was looking for my phone. Not only do I have to check in on the Instalook thread about the gratitude thing, I need to double-check my calendar. I pause and lean my hip against the counter. What am I grateful for? Ah. It hits me. Rest. That’s what I’ll post about. Life’s little pauses. They’ll like that.
In fact, it’s true. I really must slow down. Running on autopilot only works in certain situations, and this isn’t one of them.
Who am I kidding? I can’t slow down.
Not today, and certainly not this week.
