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“Finally someone respectable with his own means!”
Means enough to pay me twenty thousand dollars to be his girlfriend.
It was a perfect segue into me needing to go to the bathroom.
I sunk into the oversized armchair, fighting the urge to check the time. I didn't really want to know what time it was. No matter how long I'd been in here, I doubted anyone would notice until closing time. I was really checking to see if Xander had texted me—and just like the countless times I'd gone to my messages in vain, I knew the answer was no.
He's a fake boyfriend, dummy.
I could barely get my very real ex boyfriend to text me. I was always the one that reached out, the one who sent 'I miss you' and song lyrics. But something felt different with Xander.
I wasn't completely naive, I could feel the desire radiating from him like some hypnotic cologne. Pulling me in, making me count all the ways our bodies could fit together. The sexual tension between us was palpable yet when he looked at me, he didn't ogle my breasts. He didn't leer—he took his time as those emerald eyes stroked their way up and down my body. When he really looked at me, looked into my eyes, it wasn't lust that I saw. I saw genuine interest. Like he wanted to get to know me, inside out.
I crossed my ankles, looking at my phone sitting on the teakwood tabletop. Appetizers hadn't even been served, so the fun was just beginning. I wanted to text my best friend Thalia, but considering she got to see her family that lived back east once a year, I figured the last thing she wanted was to listen to me whine about wanting to escape mine.
There was someone that got it, that understood what it was like to feel a rift so great that it seemed impossible to bridge. Someone that got my angst about my family. But I didn't know the rules of our arrangement—and there was a part of me that felt like I was already swimming in unchartered waters, and I wasn't a good swimmer. In fact, I kind of excelled at drowning.
“...so that's when I told the idiot sales girl not to even bother if the shoes didn't have red bottoms.” Lara's signature lilt was an alarm bell going off, five seconds too late to avoid tragedy. There was no time to dash into a stall or fly to the window for a quick escape. The annoying guffaw that followed the tail end of her story of pretending that she was a queen and everyone else was at her beck and call had to be Janice. She was a bottle blonde, but she made up for it with a permanent ditzy grin that seemed glued to her face and a little chihuahua that she carried in her purse and called her 'baby'. Her little bundle of growling joy would have been attached to her hip now if my sister hadn't insisted on Janice finding a pet sitter for all wedding related functions.
I swiped my phone and dumped it back inside my purse, hopping to my feet as I paused, hoping they were headed into the stalls to take care of business, but the chatter hung at the vanity.
Makeup touch up. Just my luck.
There was a floor length mirror perched on the wall beside me and I caught my reflection. I wore my usual school day uniform, an ordinary white blouse and black pants that skimmed down my legs, stopping at the ankle. They were the kind of pants that popped with stilettos, but I felt most comfortable in flats. My black, slightly scuffed flats with one of the bows hanging on by a few stitches and prayer were the closest thing I had to a security blanket. I'd pulled my brown strands into a side plait that surprisingly looked messy in a fashionable way.
“Sticks and stones,” I murmured as I got it over with, walking toward them with my eye on the exit.
Lara sprung in my path, lips splitting into a grin. Her nostrils flared like she got a whiff of a fresh opportunity to put me back in my place.
“We were wondering where you ran off to.” Her voice didn't match her smile. Her tone told me she wouldn't shed a tear if I fell off the face of the earth. I saw Janice out the corner of my eye, sliding along the seam of the counter, crossing her arms with a truncated giggle, when she stopped beside us.
“Yeah, we came in here to find you actually,” she grinned. “ To make sure everything came out okay.”
I couldn't suppress my scowl. “Really? A #2 joke?”
“Anyway,” Lara fanned the air, diffusing some invisible odor. “Everyone's dying to know more about your mystery man. Personally, I find it very interesting that he popped up at The Red Door Club and now, you're allegedly dating?”
I found it interesting that Lara's husband was the lawyer but she felt like she had grounds to grill me like I was on the stand. “I'm gonna head back to the table.”
She gave me a final, chilling glare, then stepped to the side to let me pass. I felt the fight flare in my cheeks and the familiar sting of tears. If it looked like a duck, quacked like a duck...did I really expect that all I had to do was regurgitate Xander's story, show them a couple of pictures we snapped, and they'd all grin and congratulate me?
I paused in the hall, the same blow to the gut returning to me, knocking all the air from my lungs. They were all thinking, what's the catch? If they ever found out about the money, I'd never hear the end of it. Being paid to be someone's girlfriend was way more pathetic than being single.
I was hiding again. Letting people that meant nothing determine my mood. I couldn't control the way they treated me, but I could control how I let it affect me.
I raised my chin and vaulted myself forward, back into the lion's den. My parents had rented out the entire restaurant, even though there was less than ten of us in attendance: the bridesmaids, my mother, and my sister's future mother in law. My sister's husband to be, a J-crew cut out who worked in Silicon Valley, was from New Orleans, so she picked The Farmhouse. They were known for their southern fare and down to earth motif, but the wedding planner had turned the space into something worthy of a Michelin star restaurant. From white linen tablecloths to servers in tuxedos, the only thing about The Farmhouse that they left unmutilated was the sign above the front door.
My sister and her gaggle of friends were sipping mimosas off to the side and I aimed for the table, my stomach grumbling hungrily.
“I'd steer clear of the fried shrimp, Penelope.” My mother's voice was a whip that cracked, stopping my hand midair. Just to spite her, and because I was freaking starving, I picked one up with my fingers and chewed it long and hard. I knew the look that would be waiting for me, so I took my time turning to face her. She had doll-like features, all perfectly aligned from her round blue eyes to her button nose, to her full cheeks paired with striking cheekbones. The ensemble was completed with bee stung lips. All those dainty, plastic features melted with a righteous fury as her eyes narrowed and her red lips dipped into a frown. It wasn't enough that I ignored her; from the moment I reached until my fingers brushed the shrimp, I was disrespecting her.
Don't be fooled by the blush pink sheath dress and ivory cardigan, and the pearls around her neck. She was in army fatigues as she marched toward me. She hooked my arm, a flash of pain echoing from the point of contact and rushing up my bicep like wildfire. “Penelope Denise Robertson.” Her voice was at a lowered volume, even though she'd taken me for my court martial far from prying eyes. She'd pulled me down the hall that led to the kitchen, out of sight to minimize her degree of embarrassment. There was an insane and bitter part of me that smiled inwardly at the thought of coming clean about Xander and the money and picturing her friend’s reactions. The looks of horror would ripple down the line, and my mother’s social capital would dip a couple of points. For her, that was a fate worse than death.
I wrenched my arm free, managing to keep my voice level despite the frustration screeching in my head. “I get that food is just a prop for you, but I'm hungry. And I'm going to eat, whether you guilt me about carbs or gym memberships or whatever you have saved up.”
It was a miracle that I hadn't spent my teens and early adult years battling an eating disorder. I knew that her obsession with thinness said more about her than it did about me. Thinness was the one thing my genes gifted me that I had to do very little to maintain. It was her obsession with perfection that scarred me. A life filled with teaching me there was only one path to happiness: finding a wealthy man, and marrying him. If I toed the line, I'd be just fine. I'd be worthy.
The minute I strayed from that path and chose a career with no glitz and glamour, I was shooting myself in the foot. I didn't choose teaching with an eye on my future mate. I chose teaching because I wanted to help kids. In my mother's eyes, that made me an idiot.
