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Tears warm my eyes and I close them briefly. “That’s wonderful, Serena.” I sniffle, then laugh. “And, ew, what aremommy blogs?”
“Ugh, you don’t even want to know.”
Facts.
“Hey, you know I’ll do whatever I can to help you out too. Libby keeps asking about you, so she might even babysit once or twice.” I try to end with a joke, but I don’t think it lands right.
“Thanks.” She sniffles. “Lilly’s been such a big help. I think she’s happy she’ll have another boy mom around.”
Jealousy stabs through me, followed by shame. I don’t want to share my bestie with anyone else, even Lilly who I actually like. Also,boy mom? There’s going to be a lot more of this mom-speak stuff in Serena’s future, isn’t there?
“Well, I can’t wait to meet baby Lincoln.”And promptly hand him back to you. Nothing. Absolutely nothing she’s shared about her pregnancy has made me want to experience it for myself.
“So, when are you seeing him again?” Serena asks in a lighter singsong voice that reminds me of Libby’s teasing.
“Tonight, I think. Libby doesn’t get home until late tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ll expect a full report.” She laughs then yawns. “I’m about to take my second nap of the day.”
“Nap while you can.”
“That’s what I hear.”
We say our goodbyes. While I still have my phone in my hands, I send Libby a text asking about her trip. Not that I expect her to be staring at her phone at all times, but when she doesn’t answer right away, worry taps a frantic beat in my chest.
I never should’ve let her go on this trip.
Ping.
Libby: Having a blast. Miss you.
She follows up with several kissy face emojis.
Me: Be safe.
Not wanting to wait for the inevitable eyeroll emoji, I set down my phone and pick up my laptop.
What the hell did Dex say the name of his nightclub was? He calls it CB…Crystal Ball! That’s it.
I type it into Google. Dozens of pictures and entries come up. Some for actual crystal balls and fortune tellers. Who knew there was a psychic right on Central Ave.?
I try again. “Crystal Ball” + “Nightclub” + Empire, NY.
Several colorful images appear.
“Oh my God.” I sit and stare at the screen.
Young, pretty women, in revealing outfits in seductive poses. A stage with poles. Cozy looking “VIP” rooms.
Crystal Ball isn’t anightclub. It’s a “gentleman’s” club. A strip joint. A fully nude strip club that doesn’t serve alcohol and has huge, menacing bouncers at the front door, according to hundreds of Yelp reviews.
Why did Dex lie?
No, I guess technically he didn’t lie. Crystal Ball operates from early afternoon until late in the night. And it’s a club.
Son of a box of biscuits.
Anger burns through me, followed by a heavy sadness. I thought Dex was better than this. But it turns out he’s just another man making money off of selling women’s bodies?
