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So she's not Frederick's perfect woman. Just another woman who can't meet his ridiculous standards.
Or maybe that's all women and all men. They think we should wear heels all night to impress their friends and happily fuck them afterward, in only our pumps.
I'd like to see Frederick don stilettos. After fifteen minutes, he'd run off crying, and he'd trip and sprain an ankle in the process.
For a moment, I feel triumphant. Hah. His girlfriend isn't the trophy he wants. She hates dressing up more than I do.
But I don't savor the victory. I don't feel good that he has someone different, someone lesser.
I just feel for her.
She's not the evil witch she is in my head. She's been totally and completely nice at every turn.
Still. She's my competition, as a lyricist.
As a woman—
She can have the asshole.
I return her smile. A big I'm so happy to see you smile, as if I am so evolved slash so disinterested in my ex-boyfriend, I totally adore the woman he was fucking behind my back.
"Tinsel, hey. I didn't notice you." I nod hello to my ex-boyfriend. "Is that the tie your dad bought for graduation?"
He frowns. Not because I studied his outfit. Because I noticed he wore the same "power suit" he always wears. Because I called out his lack of originality.
I don't care. But I care he cares.
"I know, he wears it everywhere." Tinsel laughs. "But he looks so good in it. Who can blame him?" She looks at us. "You two clean up nice."
"Mostly her." Damon presses his palm into my lower back and leads me to the table.
The firm touch steadies me enough I hold my smile.
"You do look great," Tinsel says. "Doesn't she, Frederick?"
He arches a brow really but he nods. "Beautiful."
"Sexy." She laughs. "Sorry. These are strong." She finishes the last sip of her martini. "I know this is beyond weird."
Beyond and, well, beyond.
"Maybe we should sit down," Frederick says.
"No. You talk. I'll get more drinks for everyone." Tinsel smiles at me. "What's your poison?"
I don't drink much. I don't know what to order. Only that I hated the martinis Frederick always drank. Vodka and vermouth and olive juice. Blech. I need something very much not that.
"Gin and tonic," Damon answers for me. "That's her favorite."
How the hell does he know that?
Maybe people who love alcohol notice what other people drink the way I notice what other people listen to.
Or maybe he pays attention to me. Maybe, all this time, he's hated me and wanted me.
I do like gin and tonics. They're a great mix of sweet and bitter with that kick of citrus. And I'm pretty sure he's teased me about that too. An entire lime. That's the only thing as sour as you, Cass.
Was it mean or playful?
Or did I hear it as mean, even though he meant it another way?
That's the tough thing with relationships. Once one thing goes wrong, everything else looks different. Every step in the wrong direction is bigger than the last, and every step puts you further from friendship.
"And what about you, Damon? What's your poison?" Tinsel asks.
"Sweetie, I don't know if that's a good idea," Frederick says.
It's patronizing as fuck, but I can't blame him. She's swaying. And she's small. Another martini will send her over the edge.
"A club soda," Damon says. "I'm the designated driver."
"Not even one?" Tinsel frowns. "Are you sure?"
I feel every ounce of her confusion. Damon isn't drinking. It means something. I just don't know if it means something good or something bad.
Damon nods. "How about I help you with those, huh?" He looks to me is that okay?
Sure. It's okay. It gives him a chance to incept her with some sort of jealousy-causing, song-ruining information.
Even if she is nice, even if I forgive her for fucking my boyfriend, even if he sold her some lie about an open relationship—
I'm not letting her win this contract.
"Go for it." I give my fake boyfriend a real goodbye kiss, then I turn to my ex. "Are you driving her to drink?"
"She's nervous about the pitch," he says.
"You know," I say. "You could put her first. Drop out of the competition so she has space."
"Cass, don't." He shoots me a cutting look. He doesn't, for a second, believe I'm willing to consider his girlfriend's best interests.
I am, though. That's the weird thing. I mean, yes, absolutely, I want them to drop out so I'm closer to the gig, but I think he should do it too. She's struggling. I remember that.
"Let's honor the terms we agreed to," he says.
"Sure." I'm happy to beat him fair and square. "How's the song going?"
"Good. You?"
"Great," I say.
He drains the last sip of his martini. "Can I give you some advice?"
"Excuse me?" It's growth for him to actually ask before he gives unsolicited advice, but he can go fuck himself if he thinks he has any right to pretend he has my best interests at heart.
