I pause again, and we all do another shot before I continue.
“Six years of that shit, and I’d like to tell you that I walked out on his ass, but I didn’t. By that point, he’d convinced me he was the best I’d ever get, and I believed him. Then one day, he walked through the door of our shitty little apartment and told me he’d finally done it. He’d finally been hired to work on a cruise ship as an activities director. I was ecstatic. He was finally getting off his ass, and he was finally going to contribute, and maybe things would change. We could travel the world together and it would be amazing. And then he told me he was leaving me. That he didn’t love me anymore, and he needed his freedom. He packed up his things and was gone within the hour. I spent weeks crying and feeling sorry for myself, and then I just got mad. I wasted six years of my life with a man who had something beautiful he didn’t appreciate.”
My eyes well up with tears and I quickly blink them back, knowing if I start crying again right now I’ll never stop.
“Anyway, I told you he was gay and took off on a cruise ship because it was less embarrassing than admitting the truth. That he broke me. With each snide comment and put-down, I lost a piece of myself until there was nothing left but a cynical bitch who hates everyone and trusts no one. That’s when I became the bitch on wheels man-hater you know and love today,” I tell them with a bitter smile. “I kept working my three jobs, and I saved every penny I earned, and I eventually opened up my antique store and was able to buy my first home. Then that motherfucker found out how well the store was doing, and since he of course got fired from his cruise ship job when he couldn’t pass a random drug test, he sued me for alimony. And here I am today, a bitch on wheels man-hater who gets a call from her ex-husband out of the blue a few weeks ago because he wants to meet up and talk. And suddenly I can’t get his goddamn voice out of my head telling me I’m not skinny enough, not pretty enough, and just not fucking good enough.”
I let out a deep sigh, finally glad to get all of this out in the open and not hold it inside anymore.
Belle disappears behind the bar and pops right back up with a bottle of top-shelf tequila in her hand, pouring a double shot into each of our empty glasses. Cindy and I look at her questioningly when she leaves the top off and the bottle within reach.
“Every year, six thousand people get away with murder,” she says. “Despite drastic improvements in DNA analysis and forensic science, police fail to make an arrest in more than one-third of all homicides. I think plotting the murder of a bag-of-dicks Frenchman where we can be certain we won’t get caught calls for tequila. Any objections?” she asks.
Cindy and I shake our heads, and Belle raises her glass. Both of us follow suit.
“Drink up, bitches. Since studies show it’s difficult to bleed to death from a severed penis without taking anticoagulants, we need to get creative,” she adds with a smile.
I changed my mind. I’m kind of happy I rubbed off on Belle a little bit, even if I am a little afraid of her right now.
* * *
“Now you know why I can’t have anything to do with Eric. He likes boats. And freedom. Freedom. Freeeeeeeeedom. Free. Dumb. Freedom is a weird word,” I giggle, trying to bring my glass of tequila to my mouth and missing it completely because I’m lying on my back on the living room floor.
When the fuck did I get down on the floor?
The cold liquid splashes against my cheek and slides down the side of my face and into my ear.
“Shut your mouth right now,” Cindy scolds, smacking my arm so hard I let out a yelp of pain as she leans over my body. “Eric is nothing like Fuck Face Frenchy. He’s sweet, and he’s hot as balls, and he gave you a place to stay. He’s not an unemployed loser. He barely knows you and he wanted to take care of you.”
“IT’S LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT!” Belle screams at the top of her lungs, suddenly popping up to a sitting position where she had been previously lying on her back right next to me.
“Jesus, we’re right here. You don’t have to shout,” I scold her. “And it wasn’t love at first sight. It was annoyed at first sight. And second sight. And B sight. And the square-root-of-pi sight. Math is hard.”