All of this could’ve sounded patronizing and cheesy very easily. But it didn’t. It sounded genuine.
Which was why a tear trickled down my cheek. Then another. I quickly wiped them away, mortified I was crying in front of this relative stranger—someone who had said some of the nicest things to me I’d ever heard.
Gwen reached to grasp my hand. “You’re allowed to cry, you know. This is some shit. Whoever said that big girls don’t cry was either Fergie or a man. We need to let it out or else we drown. It takes a strong woman to handle this kind of stuff. It takes an even stronger one to feel it.” She wiped my face. “You’ll survive this. I promise.”
Even though all evidence was pointing to the fact something like my survival couldn’t be promised, I believed her.
Arriving at the bar was a circus, to say the least.
Not for any reasons concerning me, for once in my life. No reporters, paparazzi, or even fans asking to stop for a photo. It could’ve just been because I was lost in the crowd of beautiful, impeccably dressed women who I’d arrived at the bar with. We’d needed four cars.
I was introduced to many women, each as beautiful as the last. Each was completely freaking different. And as Gwen had promised, each of them was welcoming in their own way. There was none of that irritating female hesitation and judgment that was almost bred into us. There was something inside of us trained to be dubious of new women, especially if those women had qualities we lacked and coveted. Now, each of these women had qualities I coveted. Each of them was extraordinary, that was just on first impression.
So I had that urge to hate them, to keep my distance, to act cold.
What was that urge? Did it somehow come from men realizing that women who united were more dangerous?
And all of these women were dangerous, in their own way. Each of them survived things many men—most men—wouldn’t have gotten through.
I was impressed. And happy after being served our first drink by a bartender who was yet another beautiful woman. She had more of a country glam going on though, with hair as big as I’d seen in a while, face covered expertly with makeup. She was wearing a fringed leather jacket and matching pants, and somehow made it look classic and timeless instead of the tacky way it might’ve looked on anyone else.
She gave me a drink and a warm smile. “I think you’re gonna need this, honey,” she said, a soft twang to her voice.
I learned that her name was Laura Maye, the owner of the bar, the maker of some strong drinks and who the women at the table regarded as their own personal Yoda.
The urge to give in to my baser instincts went away. I sunk into the conversation and the rhythm of the women easily. I appreciated that they didn’t focus all the attention on me. Even being used to it, I wouldn’t have been able to handle it with these women. They didn’t ignore me either.
“I thought Lizzie was coming,” Gwen said.
Each of the women’s smiles died from Mia’s earlier story about her sons who seemed absolutely insane.
“I thought she was too,” Amy replied. “But she texted me just before we got here to cancel.”
Rosie’s brows furrowed and sadness crept into her eyes, anger too. “Fuck,” she muttered. “You’ve seen her lately?” she asked Gwen.
Gwen bit her lip. “Yeah, I take the kids over to her place. They play. We drink coffee or wine depending on the time, depending on the day, studiously avoid the obvious topic. She seems…okay. As okay as anyone could be.” Pain leeched into the woman’s words.
“She needs an intervention,” Rosie decided.
“She lost her husband,” Lily—a beautiful quiet woman interjected. “She needs time.”
I didn’t even know this woman, but the pain for her permeated the air. She was loved. That much was clear. She was hurting in a way that even these extraordinary women couldn’t help.
It hung over the conversation for a while—that sadness, that helplessness.
Until attention was finally focused on me. I had a feeling they were waiting for me to become acclimated with them, and to suck down a couple of drinks—which were strong.
And they were right.
“You gotta spill,” Amy demanded. “The Duke thing. The murder thing. Come on, girl, tell us your story. We’ve all been there. One way or another at least.”
She grinned at the group.
It felt pivotal, this moment. I didn’t know why. It likely could’ve been the strong drinks, or the situation, or my mind trying to preserve its sanity by attaching something to these women so I wouldn’t fall to pieces when Duke was taken away from me—even if I was the one to push him away in the first place.