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“Of course not. Because let’s face it, the other two supposed rumors you shared in the past were unfounded and just a bunch of gossip running its course.”
Tracy gives me a sad smile. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I nod my head and watch her retreating form as she departs.
“That was intense,” I exhale, turning my attention to Claire.
“What an attention whore,” she groans. “I’m all about girl code and such, but that woman has been trying to relive her high school cheerleader years where she was the most popular. And I was a cheerleader, so I can spot one without any effort. Starting over again in college has to be hard for some people who don’t have the reputation preceding them. And gah, why do her breasts have to be perfect?”
I shift in my seat and smooth down my skirt. “What if she is right? What if some of the girls are being blackmailed into doing things they do not want to do? Perhaps sexual acts and such?”
“Why would these filthy-rich men need to even use blackmail techniques, when they can easily find willing participants if they just look?”
Claire waves over a waiter carrying a tray containing a variety of fancy-looking cocktail drinks. She snatches two up.
“These are special order drinks for some other guests,” he says in a hurry.
“Oops,” she says in exasperation, slurping one down in an obnoxious manner. She passes the other one to me, and I cannot hide my embarrassment.
“Sorry,” I mouth. But damn, the drink is delicious. Way better than the martini.
“Ready to call it a night?” Claire asks. “Things seem to be slowing down. And the liquor is starting to taste like water.”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I get up from the couch and stumble in my heels. “I’m not equipped to drive,” I admit. “Neither are you.”
“Taxi it is,” she agrees. She opens the app and orders us a ride home.
We walk outside and wait for our ride to show. The stars are visible here this far from the city limits with the light pollution. I stare up at them and savor these last few moments before the stress of the semester really takes over my life.
When we arrive home, I retreat to my room and change into pajamas. I fall onto the mattress and drift off to sleep.
* * *
“Tell me why I ever agreed to this?” I whine. My voice is staccato as I try to catch my breath. Sweat pours from my face as I pump the weights to the beat of the music. “In fact,”—I pause—“I never agreed to this!”
“Oh hush, Angie,” Claire snorts. “You most definitely said you would accompany me.”
“When?” I snap. “When did I say that?”
“Last night on the way home.”
“I was drunk.”
“Well, maybe next time you should be more responsible. There are consequences to your actions, ya know?”
I laugh. I feel like crying though. This body pump class was falsely advertised. In the description, it said beginners welcome. Lies.
For a Sunday morning, the gym is busy with the diehards. I look like a fool.
When the song ends, I rush over to the wall of mirrors and grab my water bottle and towel from the mat on the floor. I take a mini break. I am not overweight by any means. But I also am not the athletic type. My right rotator cuff throbs from my previous injury, and I cannot wait to get back to the locker room to take some much-needed Motrin. This type of workout is life for Claire. And if this was high school gym class, I would expect to be chosen last every time.
I move back to my spot and pick up the weights again. “I’m never agreeing to this again.”
“Whatever,” Claire sighs. “Maybe there is some room in the geriatrics water aerobics class.”
I give her a big smile. “Now we’re talking.”
When the class finishes, we move to the locker rooms to shower and blow our hair dry. It does feel good to release the stress from my body through an intense workout, but I am pretty sure I will be sore for days.
