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Emma
Why am I doing this to myself?
I tug down the hem of my too-short black dress and sigh. I’m too old for this shit. My idea of an exciting night is listening to true crime podcasts or watching Bake Off. Squeezing my body into a dress that shows far more than it hides is not my idea of fun.
“Come on, Emma. You have five minutes, or I’m coming in there and dragging you out!” Stacey yells through the door.
Stacey, my coworker at Huck’s Bar and Grill, is eighteen years my junior. At twenty-one, she has more pep in her step than I’ve had in my entire life. Honestly, sometimes just standing next to her is exhausting. She’s like bottled sunshine to my doom and gloom. I’m envious, though I hate to admit it, that she’s living the life I missed out on. Not that I’m mad at her for it. Stacey is as sweet as she is bubbly. As a mom with a daughter older than she is, I hope she never loses that inner light, though if life has taught me anything, it’s that this world can be a shitty and unfair place.
Standing up tall, I take in my reflection and try to focus on the positives for a change. I might be a glass-half-empty kind of girl, but that means there’s more space for vodka.
The dress I’m wearing is a classic little black number that clings to me like a second skin. Objectively, I know I look okay—good even—but I can still hear my ex-husband’s voice in my head telling me I need to lose weight if I want to look sexy.
I swallow, shaking my head, refusing to let Daniel ruin the night for me. The dress is fine. The Spanx underneath are doing what they need to do. Breathing might be optional, but at least I’m not gonna jiggle out of my dress.
I fluff my hair, happy that the curls are holding well. They add a nice bounce to my usually pin-straight hair. The chocolate colour looks good, even if it did come out of a box, and it adds warmth to my skin. I slick on some red lipstick and blot, making sure I don’t have any on my teeth, before I slip on my black lace-up wedges that twist around my calves, giving them a sexy vibe. As pretty as stilettos are, they’re not for me. I look like I’m trying to pass a breathalyser test any time I wear them, because I’m so focused on how I’m walking. I’m stressed enough tonight without adding those to the equation.
“You have to be ready now,” Stacey complains, pushing the door open.
“I’m ready.” As I’ll ever be anyway.
“Whoa, you look hot.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “You think?”
“Heck yeah. If I didn’t have a girlfriend, I’d do you.”
I snicker. She’s forgetting I’ve met Jessie, her very successful underwear model girlfriend. “Let’s just get this over with. Where are we going again?”
“Shooters. Jessie is gonna meet us there later with some friends.”
Yay. More gorgeous underwear models. “Sounds good. Let me just grab a jacket.”
“No need. The Uber’s here, and then we’ll be going straight in. Not sure if this place has a coat room, and the last thing you want is to have to carry one around with you all night.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m not immune to the cold like women in their twenties.”
She grins and grabs my hand, not letting me argue with her as she walks me to the kitchen.
“Wait, I need to grab my phone and—”
“Already done. I’ve added them to this.” She picks up the world’s smallest bag from the counter. “It’s a wristlet. I’ve put in your phone, key, bank card—in case your phone dies—and a tampon, just in case. Oh, I forgot to grab your lipstick. Be right back.”
She jogs back through my flat to the bedroom in her heels, then returns with my lipstick, which she slips into what is apparently the Poundland version of a Mary Poppins bag. She slips it over my wrist and pulls the little toggle, so it doesn’t fall off. “There, perfect.” She glances down at her watch when it chimes. “Okay, Uber is here. Let’s get this show on the road.”
I let her lead me outside, then pull the door closed behind me. It locks automatically. It’s handy unless you’re like me and usually forget that your keys are on the countertop until the door is closed. As she tugs my hand, I take a deep breath and follow her down the steps and outside into the cool evening air.
A wolf whistle has me whipping my head around to the two guys walking past with a bag of chips in their hands. “Looking good, ladies,” one of them calls out, but I only have eyes for the food. You know you’re getting old when you’d choose starchy carbs over dick.
We ignore them as we climb into the back of the Uber, which I know makes us sound like bitches. But in this day and age, being nice to a guy can often be as bad as telling one to fuck off. Men have fragile egos when it comes to rejection, taking it like a personal attack when—more often than not—it’s not about them at all. Sometimes, we just want to be left alone. Lord knows I tried to make it work with a man before. In the end, all I did was give him my youth while I buried my hopes and dreams so he could reach his. And how did he repay me? By turning into a cliche and fucking his secretary while I was at home raising his children.
I rub my chest when I think about my kids. Danny Jr. and Sophie, both just turned twenty-four. They had a lavish party thrown by their father at one of the city’s swankiest hotels. I wasn’t invited, of course, but his mother was more than happy to keep me informed. I love my kids. I truly do, but sometimes it’s hard to like them. And that makes me feel like the shittiest mom in the world.
I fell pregnant at fifteen, with twins no less, because I can’t do anything by halves. When Daniel decided to stick with me and that we’d make a go of things, I was elated. My mother and I have always had a tempestuous relationship, so getting out from under her thumb was my priority. Of course, life doesn’t work like that when you’re still a kid yourself. Daniel moved in with us, and we stayed at my mom’s place until I turned eighteen. By then, the kids were three, and Daniel was starting uni.
The council found us a two-bedroom flat in a dodgy part of town, but I was determined to make it work. And I thought we had. I so badly wanted to beat the odds that I closed my eyes to all the red flags until it was too late.
