years, the mere thought of being in public without a disguise has caused my heart to race so fast sometimes it feels like it’s trying to outrun the world. Now, the same overheated, nauseous fear looms, but it’s not the world that scares me.
“I can’t,” I say, before I mean to.
“You can’t?” There’s a strange note in his voice, but whether it’s frustration or disappointment is something I won’t even dare to guess at anymore.
“No, I—I can’t see a movie,” I manage, ducking my head when the smiling man passes by, watching me. “I don’t like...them.”
“Okay, well, that’s fine. Why don’t I grab takeout and bring it to your place?”
Fuck no, I think.
“How does Thai sound?” he continues. “Or Indian? Or maybe more tacos? Those worked out pretty well the last time.”
The mention of the tacos—and what followed—brings my galloping heart to a screeching stop. I’ve slept with men I barely knew. Men I didn’t care about. Men who were probably lying about their names or their jobs or their marital status. But I didn’t care about that, because I didn’t care about anything; certainly not myself. And now, somewhat ironically, spending time with a man who’s with me for some mysterious, nefarious reason, reminds me that I do care. That there’s still a spark of the old Reese Carlisle hiding in these shadows, too stubborn to be extinguished. And she feels decidedly ill at the thought of sleeping with a man who’s lying about far more than a wedding ring.
“Are you there?” Chris’s voice jars me from my thoughts.
“Yes,” I manage.
“Great. Tacos, then?”
“No. No takeout. We’ll get drinks.”
“I—”
“Do you know Barre None? It’s near your place.”
Now he doesn’t bother to hide his dissatisfaction with the arrangement. Before this, I’d feel bad putting him off. Like it was hurting his feelings. Now I think I’m just hindering his plans.
He sighs. “Yeah. I know it.”
“I’ll meet you there at eight.”
“Fine,” he says. “See you then.”
I end the call and watch the gray silhouette fade from the screen, disappearing into the unknown ether. That stupid, lying fuckhead.
I step up to the smiling barista. “Good morning,” she says. “What would you like?”
“Green tea, please. Extra hot.”
“Sure thing.” She picks up a cup and a marker, scribbling my order on the side. “Your name?”
I hesitate, just for a second. “Denise,” I say.
I CHOSE BARRE NONE because it’s dark and smug, the kind of place where people go to shun other people, not pick them up. There’s no dance floor, no crowd waiting at the bar hunting for drinks and phone numbers. You show up, find a table, order overpriced alcohol, and no one disturbs you.
Except the man you’re dating.
Precisely because of the anonymity promised by the bar, I detour from my usual, forgettable dress code and opt for tight pants, stilettos, and a low-cut top. Dressing like myself would get me noticed. I cover the ensemble with a leather jacket and duck through the cold parking garages at a minute to eight, emerging above-ground across the street from the bar fashionably late.
Chris is already inside. I can see him from the doorway, dressed in a gray Henley, hair mussed, nursing a beer. There’s not another man in the place with a Henley or a beer, but I don’t care about them. I don’t care about Chris, either, but it’s time we even up our getting-to-know-you scorecards. For the past several weeks, I’ve mistakenly believed I had the most points, but I think Chris showed up with a full card, and I’m the idiot who’s been playing catch up.
I’ve always been a sore loser.
Three years of hiding haven’t improved my manners, and I stroll past the protesting hostess with the same haughty air I always did. But unlike years prior, no heads turn to follow my progress, no phones come out of pockets to secretly film in case I do something scandalous. That’s because I’m not dressed to be noticed, pausing for photographs, greeting everyone I want to be seen with and ignoring those I don’t. Now I aim straight for the small booth on the left. Leather seats, veneer tabletop polished to a high shine. An overpriced light fixture dangles precariously overhead, casting shadows on Chris’s face when he looks up.
He doesn’t stand.
“You made it,” he says, voice neutral.
It’s 8:20.
I slide into my seat. “Of course I did.”
“I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You—”
I unzip the jacket and he stops talking. He’s seen me naked before, too many times, but the unaccustomed cleavage