Page 9

The dull pounding in my head increases and I realize I need more than food and caffeine to ward off this inevitable hangover. I tiptoe across the shag rug toward the arched doorway that I assume leads to the bathroom. I find a light switch and flick it on, sucking in a breath at the sight before me.
Sprawled in front of me are marbled gray and white floors leading to a large clawfoot tub with a gold faucet and fixtures. Just beyond it is a rain shower encased in glass walls that could easily house ten people. Above me hangs a gold and crystalchandelier, casting prisms of light across the taupe walls. I turn to see a sprawling white, quartz countertop with two sinks and an expansive mirror hanging above it.
I rummage through the cabinets and find exactly what I’m looking for. I open the bottle of painkillers and pop two in my mouth, taking a sip of water from the sink. I decide to clean up a bit before he gets back. I look from the pristine tub to the luxurious shower, and opt for the shower. A little steam might help my headache and that rain faucet looks too good to pass up. I pull a soft, large towel from the cabinet I had searched earlier and step inside the shower. I turn the faucet and wait for the water to grow warm. It doesn’t take long until the steam begins to rise toward the ceiling.
The water feels so good rushing over me. I inhale the steam and the smell of him that still lingers on me before it washes away. I use his expensive shampoo and body soap that I’ve used at my parents’ mansion, so I know it’s luxurious. When I’m scrubbed clean and smelling like a mixture of sandalwood and violet, I step out and wrap myself in the soft towel.
I stand in front of the large mirror and finger-comb my hair, twisting it into a braid that falls down my damp back. I stare at my reflection and at this version of myself. She is so different from last night’s made-up face and curled hair. She is moreme.I feel my confidence waver slightly before I step out into the bedroom, clutching my towel.
It’s still empty, and that emptiness is starting to form a pit in my stomach. I glance at the clock on the nightstand again and see that it’s just after ten. I had spent a while in his fancy bathroom,hoping he would be here when I emerged. But I’m still alone. I chew on the inner part of my cheek before grabbing my dress and panties from the floor. I slip them on quickly, feeling foolish that this is all I have to wear.
I stand in the middle of the room, and run my hands down my dress as I wonder what I should do. He’s still not back and I’m growing more and more anxious wondering if he is coming back. I mean, I know he will have to eventually. He lives here. Maybe he’s waiting for me to leave before he comes back. It’s not like I can stay here all day.
I spot a small desk in the corner of the room, adorned neatly with paper and pens. I pull a piece of paper from a small pad and grab a pen. I write my phone number on it, hoping it’s not too desperate. I place the note on his pillow with more hope than I’m willing to admit.
Then I walk down the hallway to the living room and find my small beaded clutch on the entryway table. I pick it up and give his place one more look for a clue of where he might have gone to before slipping out the door. I close it behind me and make my way to the elevator.
When the doors open a moment later and pour me out into the lobby wearing last night’s dress that’s damp in the back from my freshly-washed hair, I feel like I may as well be naked. The doorman gives me a polite nod, and I ignore the fact that this outfit screams “walk of shame.” I push past through the doors into the warm summer air and quickly hail a cab, not wanting to be on display any longer. Thankfully, a yellow refuge pulls up quickly and I clamber inside.
As the car pulls away from the curb and the towering stone building, I lean my head back against the seat in defeat. I internally scold myself for getting myself into this situation. How silly of me to think that going home with a complete stranger would turn into something. I must have been more drunk than I thought or he really is that good of a charmer to make me think this would go further than a night together.
Still, I remember the way he looked at me. The way he listened to me. Touched me. I try my best to give him the benefit of the doubt. He will prove my insecure thoughts wrong. He has to.
But he doesn’t call. I waited three days before I began to panic. I waited a week before I let myself cry about it.
As I sit on my couch the following Saturday evening, my phone sits next to me, dark with inactivity. My eyes blur with salty tears that fall down my cheeks. I wipe them away, feeling stupid. I’m not this girl. I don’t cry over guys.
I reach for my phone and text my best friend, Sadie.
Me:Can we go out?
Sadie:Now?
Me:I know it’s last minute, but I need a girls’ night.
Sadie:Say no more. I’ll text Beth too.
Me:Thank you
An hour later, the three of us are in the backseat of a cab on our way to one of our favorite bars in the West Village. As we drive, Sadie talks about her week at her accounting firm and Beth tells us the horror story of yesterday’s wedding she was hired to make floral arrangements for. I can feel my mood already lightening and am thankful for my two best friends.
“So, Erica…” says Sadie somewhat warily. “Did mystery man call?”
“Nope,” I reply curtly.
“Asshole,” mutters Beth.
I nod solemnly.
“I just feel so stupid. I just thought maybe what happened was special. That he was different.”
“From what you told us, I would too,” offered Sadie.
“I’m just annoyed with myself. I should have known better. I should have known that all guys are the same…”
“They’re dogs,” says Beth.
“A dog that knows how to lick,” I say with a sly smile.