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Four
Oh God, I shouldn't be here.
Emilia clutched her open car door, the parking lot of Maynard's Tavern disproportionately quiet despite the number of other cars in the area. Her Pinto cast a pitiful image beside her, the vehicle’s faded red paint and spots of rust failing any attempt at prestige or even any semblance of being an average car.
At this point though, she should have been thankful for the Pinto, and appearance shouldn’t have mattered. This car had gotten her out of LA. It had saved her sanity and her life. Saved her from ever having to relive her final night with Anthony ever again. Hopefully. She’d paid for it in cash the morning of her escape, from a used car lot a few blocks from the apartment. She even handed over more than she should have on the proviso she could take the Pinto straight away.
There’d been a method to her madness too. No one in her elite circle would think to look for her in a run-down and worthless heap. By all accounts, her somewhat impromptu plan had worked.
A huge neon sign flashed bright, vying for her attention. She cringed at the glaring colors atop the small-town bar, a heckling chant playing over in her head. I don’t belong here. I really don’t belong here.
She had nothing in common with these people. No shared life experience. Maynard’s looked like a typical country establishment. Stools and tables scattered all over a wrap-around porch, and people sat with drinks half-finished, laughing in waves of boisterous conversation.
They seemed so light. So well adjusted. Everything seemed so simple.
A clammy sweat broke out on her forehead at the prospect of walking through those doors, and a queasy churning took over her tummy. She’d made a promise to Ally and herself. As much as she wished it, she couldn’t keep living in the same controlled bubble. Heck, that bubble had well and truly burst already. She would have to learn to be normal. To blend in with society. To survive.
She nudged her car door closed using her hip, then shuffled toward the veranda’s edge. A group of five men flanked the venue doors, huddled together at a high table. She averted her gaze and gave them space. But despite her attempt to hide, the group fell silent, all eyes turning to her.
I should go.
She peered down at her clingy, cream-colored dress, a ruffle around the low collar breaking up the whole figure-hugging look. It had been her one indulgent purchase amongst all the cleaning products and non-perishable food she’d bought during her trip to town early that afternoon. That and the white lace gloves she’d found at a secondhand shop.
She tugged at the cuff of those gloves now.
To anyone else here, they probably looked like a quirky fashion statement. To her, they were a shield between these people and the truth hidden beneath the white lace.
She kept her chin low but turned her gaze up to the men, all in flannel shirts and bootcut denim. In her former life, what she wore was considered casual, but it seemed here she’d somehow overshot “casual” by about ten miles.
“Now, aren’t you the prettiest woman ever to set foot in Harlow?” Maynard’s doors swung open and closed behind Ally, and she breezed past the men, hooking her arm through Emilia’s like they’d been close friends their entire lives. “Jack, honey, close your mouth before you swallow a fly.”
Emilia’s face burned, and she tried hard not to stare as the man she presumed to be Jack snapped his mouth shut. The rest of the group returned to drinking their beers, a few indecipherable mumbles passing between them.
Meanwhile, Ally walked behind Emilia, taking her by the shoulders and guiding her through Maynard’s doors. “Don’t worry about that lot. They’re just a bit clueless when it comes to a pretty face.” She stopped her pushing once they got to the bar and pointed at Emilia’s outfit. “Oh, fer cute! I tried that one on last week. What with your lovely warm skin tone, the white suits you a whole lot more.”
Emilia blinked in silence for a few beats, the bar’s clash of chatter and rock music somewhat overstimulating. “Ahh… thank you and, umm, thanks for saving me just then.”
For someone who’d felt out of place her whole life, she should have been used to the emotion. In fact, the only time she hadn’t felt out of place was those brief few months when she’d been with…
No. Nope. Don’t do it. Don’t think of him.
Besides, Ally here did a fine job of putting her at ease, so she would not wallow in self-pity tonight.
Ally took a seat on one of the high bar stools and patted the stool beside her. “Come on. Let’s get a drink, and then we’ll get to meeting people.”
Emilia sat just as a bartender strolled over. Ally ordered on both their behalf’s, not giving Emilia a chance to say what she wanted. As a person who rarely drank, she would have been content with simple soda water, white wine at most; but when an oversized beer landed in front of her, she balked at how she’d ever finish it.
Over the next couple of hours, curious locals took turns wandering over, each stopping to chat. During this time, she learned all about the “Minnesotan Goodbye,” which really just described a ritual of saying goodbye about twenty times, in countless different ways, before anyone actually moved on. All this while she struggled to keep track of names, roles, and relationships, though Ally carried the conversation so naturally that Emilia barely noticed she hadn’t said much. Maybe no one else did, either.
During a quiet break, Ally nudged her gently in the ribs with an elbow. “You’re sure getting a lot of attention. You know, I could set you up with someone here if you’re interested. You’re single, right?”
“I… ahh.” In all her rush and panic to leave LA, she hadn’t given this part of her story much thought. “I mean, I guess you could say I’m separated.”
One thing she had found time for in her days before arriving in Harlow was a call to her lawyer to start divorce proceedings. It had felt so good to finally say those words, to put in motion the end of a marriage that never should have happened in the first place.
“Well then”—Ally held up her glass in a kind of toasting gesture—“here’s to new beginnings.”
Emilia raised her glass in a rare moment of unabashed agreement, only to scrunch her face at the next sip of bitter beer, still not used to the taste, the scent something akin to foot odor. Why did she keep torturing herself with this drink? Did she want to maintain the pretense she was just like everyone here? Clearly, she wasn’t. Then again, she’d never been out in the world alone, so she couldn’t even say who she was.
