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Dick Blind
I settleon wearing my version of Sunday casual—jeans, suede booties, floral tank, and a cute olive-green jacket to ward off what’s left of the morning chill. When the sun gets higher in the sky, I can take off the jacket and still be comfortable and brunch appropriate.
At least, I hope so. Not that I had much to choose from. I’d packed heavy for just a one-night stay, but I still had limited options. It’s better than white pants with pollen on the butt or a way-too-sexy black dress. I honestly don’t even know how the dress got in there. Maybe I thought it was another one that covered more as I was ripping clothes from hangers and tossing them into the suitcase.
Or maybe it was subconscious.
But it definitely isn’t appropriate for today.
Jake is still in the bathroom by the time I have my outfit picked out, so I head to the hall bathroom to shower and dress without bothering to let him know where I’m going. I guess that’s our thing—disappearing. It’s kind of always been our thing.
Over a year ago, after we had our morning fill of each other, I hopped in the shower. He was gone by the time I came back out. No note. No exchanging of numbers. No, ‘See you later. I’ve gotta run!’ Just…gone.
Which is fine, I guess. It is. Because we knew what it was—a one-night thing. But a bye, thanks for the sex would have been nice, at least. Call me old-fashioned. I knew how to get ahold of him if I wanted, though, so I can’t pin the ghosting all on him. And I almost did—contact him. Before the hospital trip with Daphne. Didn’t figure there was much of a point to it after. If he had intentions of seeing me again, he would have asked how to. Or at least asked my last name.
True to form, he’s nowhere to be found when I come back to the room, so I close myself into the bathroom to do my makeup and hair. When I’m an acceptable version of myself, I head back out to the bedroom and take a moment to myself before I join the chaos at the other end of the house. It’s ten thirty-five, so I’m already a little late, but I need to center myself before throwing myself into a bunch of women I don’t know.
I lock the door and do my Superwoman stance against the wall. Recite my affirmations and take calming breaths in and out. In and out.
When I feel like I’m ready-ish, I make my way toward the direction of the party.
I pass a shirtless butler in the living room, a guard manning his post, but he sees I’m dressed and headed in the right direction so he must figure I don’t need anything. My eyes flick through the front windows to see rows and rows of cars already lined up, as well as another butler on the lawn waiting to greet them and tell them where to go. I then wonder what all these women think about them, Magnolia’s Chippendale guys. Probably what most women would think: They’re hot as hell. But I’m a little surprised she didn’t have them wear shirts today for the less openminded ones, especially since she’s making her big announcement.
The kitchen is a flurry of yummy smells, people shouting directions over each other, and at least a dozen shirtless waiters arming themselves with trays of quiche-looking hors d’oeuvres and mimosas.
No one pays me any mind as I wind my way through and grab a long stem flute filled with orange juice and champagne, then make my way through the back door and onto the curved brick patio.
Below, white linen tables dot the lawn teeming with women, the older ones dressed to the hilt in flowy dresses and delicate wraps. Precious stones ice their necks and wrists and fingers. They fit right in with Magnolia.
The ones my age and younger are wearing espadrilles or heels, their skirts a touch shorter. Some have their breasts heaved up and nearly spilling out.
They came to catch a butler, perhaps.
A few men are sprinkled throughout, some with their arms hooked with their dates’, some desperately seeking other clothed men to talk to. All the estrogen and shirtless butlers must be intimidating.
I take a slow sip and search for a familiar dark bob. My eyes narrow when they latch onto her. She’s wearing a calf-length wrap dress, iridescent gold. Matching strappy Louboutins.
Cow.
Casual my ass.
As I debate scurrying back to the room and coming up with something else to wear, my butt buzzes with a phone call. I fish the phone out and see Stephen’s name. Press the Answer icon, so I can delay my descent into the chaos. “Hey, love,” I say and pace along the patio.
“But do you, though?” he teases.
I smile. “Do I what?”
“Love me. Because you never texted me yesterday for lunch.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a groan. “The meeting with Jake yesterday was a bust. All I wanted to do was go home and drink tea on my couch.”
“Tell me all about it, then.” A knocking sound echoes in the background. “I’m here with a massive new vase. I want to add it to your table and take some pictures.”
My feet halt. “You’re…where?”
He grunts as he shifts something around. “Your condo,” he says impatiently, like I should know what he means. I’m always home on Saturdays.
