“My band is playing Salamander tmoro night @ nine. Hope u can be there.”
She stared at her phone, shocked. Britt didn’t know what to do. She wanted to agree to anything, just to get him to let her back in, just to have a chance to make it up to him. She wanted to be part of his life, back in his arms, back in his bed, back on his speed dial. But what if he sent the invite to everyone at the office? What if it wasn’t for her specifically? What if she went there with her hopes up and everyone else from the office came and brought a date and she was the sad sack groupie hoping to hook up with the front man? It was too much anxiety for her, she decided, and laid the phone aside without replying.
All that night she imagined walking into Salamander, a retro seventies bar she’d been to a few times. In her fantasy, she rocked her skinniest jeans, her highest heels, her eyeliner was perfect and her hair had a fresh blowout. She breezed into Salamander, saw him take the stage, and turned to the bar where men clamored to buy her a drink. She chose a whiskey sour because it was Jack’s favorite. She fought through to the front of the crowd and when she was right in front of the stage, at his feet, she fished the cherry out of her drink and bit into it. The music stopped and his eyes were fixed on her mouth. He slung the guitar strap off of his shoulders and climbed down beside her. He lifted the glass from her hand, took a drink and set it on the stage. Then he swept her hair back from her face and kissed her. It was, in her imagination, just like a movie. The fantasy may have even wrapped up with Jack lifting her in his arms to carry her out of the bar, somewhat reminiscent of An Officer and a Gentleman, which she had watched the night before after Marj had left.
Scolding herself for obsessing, she went to bed early, again.
Chapter 17
Friday was a blur of indecision. Britt changed her mind every hour. She was going to go and look her best, but just to show him how unaffected she was by their breakup. She was going to be supportive of a coworker. She’d have a drink, listen to the music for a while and then leave with the air of a woman who dropped in before going someplace far more fabulous. No, she couldn’t go, she decided. She wasn’t a good enough actress to pull off the nonchalance. But she had to go or he’d realize losing him devastated her and that she didn’t have the nerve to face him. Still, she couldn’t show up there and hear him sing and watch his hands on the neck of his guitar without remembering the way his hands had felt on her body. It would be too heartbreaking, too confusing to try to attend his band’s gig as if they were merely work acquaintances.
After an entire day of accomplishing very little, she packed up some files to take home and resolved to go to Salamander. She messaged Marj and asked to borrow a top because she was going to Jack’s gig.
“What are you talking about? Was this posted in the break room or something?”
“I just heard about it around,” Britt hedged, inwardly doing a happy dance that he at least hadn’t invited the entire office. Hope leapt in her that he had messaged her specifically. Only her.
“I have a date with the toner guy. Come on over and pick out what you want out of my closet.”
“Great, be right over,” Britt said.
Excitedly, she hurried to Marj’s apartment. Marj was wearing a charcoal gray bandage dress.
“Knockout!” Britt said. “Who’s this copy guy?”
“It’s not the copy guy. It’s Luke. He wanted to give it a real try. I’m—”
“Breaking out the heavy artillery, I see. You look gorgeous. I hope he realizes how lucky he is,” Britt said. Marj hugged her.
“Thanks. Now let’s get you dressed up. You’re going out. Out of the apartment, into a club where there will be people, some of whom will buy you drinks. Let’s see.”
Marj rifled through her closet and a few drawers, littering the bed with possibilities.
“Here. This one.”
“It’s purple.”
“Yes. You’re very observant. Full marks on your color blindness test. Now put it on.”
“I’m not sure how. Too many straps. Where do my arms go?”
“Here, like this,” Marj demonstrated.
With her friend’s help, Britt wriggled into the form-fitting top with its asymmetrical collection of skinny straps. Once it was settled and straightened, she had to admit it looked fabulous.
“Here, give me your bra.”
“What? I need that. Get your hands off! You haven’t even bought me dinner!” Britt giggled, smacking at Marj’s attempts to remove her bra.
“The straps show. It has to go.”
“That rhymes.
“Take off your bra,” Marj ordered.
Britt sighed and removed the offending garment, tossing it on the bed with the discarded clothes. In the mirror, the top looked better without the interference of extra straps. She had to admit Marj had been right.
“You’re my style guru,” she said, hugging her again.