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Though he hadn’t clearly labeled it a date, I was going to assume it was one until he started grilling me for information on my father’s campaign or business holdings. The longer I thought about the invitation, the more my stomach knotted and my fingers itched to text him and cancel.
Out of habit, I reached for my locket. I’d cried for an hour in my car when I realized it was gone, and retracing my steps had led me nowhere but back to my empty office to finish paperwork and emails.
I peered down at my phone screen and opened up one of the three social media apps I scrolled through to dull my senses and pass the next forty-five minutes. New posts from friends in the UK appeared first. Three of them were together on a walkabout in London. Mads’ handle was tagged in one of the corners as the photographer, but several thumb pushes later, I saw his own version of events on the outing. He was sitting on a park bench, holding the largest sausage roll I’d ever seen in his lap that he was gesturing to crudely.
Penis jokes.
Did I really miss penis jokes?
When I clicked on his page, there were several new posts that I hadn’t allowed myself to see from the past weekend. In one of them, he was shirtless at the gym; he was fitter than when I’d left. Probably because any time he mentioned going, I would suggest a walk together instead. Those walks always led us to a restaurant or pub. I cringed inwardly. It wasn’t that I didn’t like exercise or feeling accomplished after a good workout. I just found a pint and chips more satisfying.
I closed the app, stopping myself from the spiral that would surely come if I let myself dive too deep. I’d wasted just enough time; it was a few minutes to ten o’clock.
I sent a text to Rhomi and got out of my car to wait.
Me:
I’m walking up now.
Her reply came through almost immediately.
Rhomi:
Be there in 2.
I rounded the corner and saw a tall bouncer leading a group of four people into a door that I hadn’t noticed before. Two cars pulled up to the curb and another group piled out with squeals of excitement. They were escorted into the building, and the two cars drove off as I crossed the street.
I was alone again in a part of town that felt as if it shouldn’t have been empty. It was rare to find any street in Los Angeles without a car or person lingering, but here I was, standing in front of some super-exclusive club in the dark.
This was how my episode of a true-crime podcast would start. I could already hear the voices of two middle-aged women telling my story and joking about the purple cat sweatpants and matching sweatshirt I had stashed in my car. They would probably call it a tragedy for my father, just like the rest of my family. I wondered if he’d be president by the time they released their take on my life.
Before the exit music started in my head, a car pulled up and Rhomi stepped out first with two other people close behind her.
“Evie!” Rhomi’s shoes stampeded over, and she wrapped her arms around me. “You look so hot.”
She loosened her grip around my neck and turned to her company. The taller of the two who’d emerged from the car tipped their driver then gave out a loud hoot of excitement.
“Is this her?” she said, looking from me to Rhomi. “She’s gorgeous. I thought you said I would be the only hot and single one here tonight.”
She crossed her arms and pushed out her bottom lip in a mocking pout. There was nothing she had to worry about. Aside from the fact I was obsessing over a man I’d only met twice, she was flawless. She fit every beauty standard on social media. With long legs, a cinched waist, busty chest, and undeniably beautiful face, she would have men on their knees, begging for her to step on their balls, no matter who she was with.
“Oh, stop. Self-deprecation is your only bad quality.” Rhomi rolled her eyes but grabbed her arm to pull her closer to us.
“This is Tiffany. She’s going to be the next Oscar-winning actress.” Rhomi reached a hand out to the second friend she brought and pulled them to her other side.
“And this is Jordan, my NB darling who works three jobs and never sleeps. They’re also the hookup for all the hottest clubs in Los Angeles, including The Deacon.”
Jordan smiled, wrapped their arm around Rhomi, and landed a kiss on her cheek. “Quit bragging about us and let’s go in before we get rejected for loitering.”
I felt out of place among Rhomi and her friends. Tiffany’s dress looked more expensive than my car, and Jordan effortlessly pulled off the casual goth-hippie look in all black with a leather jacket and boots. Out of all of us, Jordan would be the only one comfortable after an hour of dancing.
The dress I’d found after returning my discarded Rebecca-chosen ones was nice. It was black and strapless. The essence of the “little black dress” was in its simplistic nature. I hadn’t bothered with a jacket since it was close to seventy degrees at dusk. The most troubling element of my outfit was the choice of heels. My red-bottom stilettos would have me crying in the morning for sure. I wore heels to work often, but not nearly this high and thin.
Rhomi was dressed more casually than I expected but still looked glamorous. Her short skirt was layered over a pair of black stockings, and her tank top bodysuit hugged her curves and pushed her chest up and out on display.
“All right, all right, but we have to go over ground rules first.” Rhomi untangled herself and fluffed her hair. “Tiffany and Jordan already know, but they need a reminder because they break them all the time.”
She scolded her friends with a scrunch of her nose. “Rule number one, keep your drink number to three or less. We don’t get sloppy. Rule number two, don’t leave your drinks with anyone but us. Rule number three is the most important: we come together; we leave together.”
