“There you go, you oxygen-wasting piece of crap. Now make sure you skip town, because this town sure is going to skip you after I fill in all my club-owner friends about what you did!”
I didn’t stop there. I also sent his employee picture to local newspapers and told them what he did.
Too harsh? Too bad. Next time, he shouldn’t get handsy with the staff.
“It’s all forgotten now.” I waved my hand in the air dismissively. I didn’t have time to talk about Frank. I needed to check and see if my eggs were doing their goddamn job.
“We’ll need to fill his spot.” Ross was still perched on my desk. I resumed my stride toward the bathroom.
“Yeah, well, just make sure they’re fully vetted.”
I got into the bathroom, crouched down, and peed on the ovulation stick. Rather than put it aside and wait for the results like an actual adult, I glowered at the stick, praying to see two strong pink lines rather than one dull one.
When two lines indeed appeared on the stick, I snapped a picture of it with my phone and sent it to Devon with the caption: it’s a go.
I went outside, sat at my desk, and tried concentrating on the Excel sheets in front of me. My eyes kept darting sideways, to my phone, waiting for Devon to reply. When he didn’t send anything back for an entire hour, I flipped the phone over so the screen wasn’t visible.
Time to calm your tits, I scolded myself internally. The man had a career. Every hour of his working day was billable. Of course he couldn’t just drop everything and run to Madame Mayhem to put a baby in me.
About two hours after I sent the text message, Ross strode into my office again. He slammed an expensive-looking bottle of champagne on my desk. It had a little golden card dangling from its neck.
“Dom Perignon?” I raised a skeptic eyebrow. This specific edition went for about a grand a pop. “We don’t carry it here. Where’d you get it?”
“Ah, that’s the question of the hour. Open the damn envelope and we’ll find out.” Ross jerked his chin toward the card, which, upon a second examination, looked like a miniature envelope. Dread filled my guts. This looked a lot like romance, and I didn’t do romance. I liked it better when Devon was comparing us to monkeys.
“How do you know it’s for me?” I eyed him suspiciously.
“Bitch, please. The only drink my dates buy for me is a fountain soda. Go on. Who’s it from?”
My fingers worked quickly to unwrap the mysterious envelope. Two tickets spilled out of its mouth. I picked one up, noticing my fingers were trembling.
“Tickets to the opera?” Ross’s voice asked in wonder. “What kind of lies are you feeding these poor men on Tinder? This dude obviously doesn’t know you.”
This is taunting my ass. He knows damn well I don’t do dates.
“I said I loved Oprah, not opera. He obviously misheard.” I let a provocative yawn loose. There was no way I was telling Ross about Devon. It was soul-crushing enough to admit my infertility to my girlfriends. I was a woman of great pride.
“How come men never take me anywhere nice?” Ross pouted.
“You give away the goods too quickly,” I murmured, still staring at the ticket in my hand like it was a dead body I needed to get rid of.
“You do too. And you don’t even one-date them.”
“You can have my ticket, if you want it.”
I was not going to watch an opera today. I had work to do. We were one bartender short.
I reminded myself that Devon did this for the same reason he did everything else—to manipulate, play, and throw people off-kilter. He probably thought it was hilarious to make me feel like we were dating. I had to set the record straight.
Belle: hello, you snail-eating, gilet-wearing, regatta-attending posh bloke, you. I won’t be able to join you at the opera today, but you may stop at my apartment any time after midnight and I promise to hit those high notes. – B.
That message, too, remained unanswered.
I worked into the evening, manning the bar along with six more bartenders, clad in a ruffled lace overbust corset dress. The scent of my own sweat had become so familiar to me over the years I’d built my career, I relished it.
I served drinks, cut limes, and hurried to the storage room to fetch more cocktail umbrellas. I danced on the bar, flirted with men and women, and rang the bell several times, signaling a tip-a-thon.
The burgundy curtain had ascended over the front stage, revealing a live band in tuxes. Their jazzy tune soaked into the tall walls. The burlesque dancers prowled slowly across the stage in high heels and sage-colored sequined dresses. People hooted, clapped, and whistled. I stopped, a crate of cocktail umbrellas in my arms, sweat dripping from my forehead, and watched them with a grin.