Except my thumbs hang poised over the keyboard without a clue of what to say. I start with the obvious, Hey. But then what? Can’t wait to see you, or you rocked my world last night, or maybe a simpler, hope your day is going well. Ha, ha, that last one sounds like something out of a Hallmark card. I’m backspacing furiously when I accidentally hit send. Oh shit. I stare down at it and laugh.
Ellie: Hey.
Short and sweet. I consider adding more in another message, but ultimately leave it as is. If he’s busy, then he won’t feel obligated to answer.
While the food bakes, I jump in the shower. When I get out, I frown slightly at the lack of a response. I really thought he’d answer, but then I chide myself. It’s not a big deal.
I get dressed in my favorite jeans and an off the shoulder blouse. Last night, he’d clearly liked the exposed skin and I want a repeat of the experience. When the timer on the stove goes off and it’s only twenty to seven, I decide to take the straightening iron to my hair to pass the time.
By seven, my apartment smells amazing and I look great. I’m unreasonably nervous and excited. I can’t wait to see him.
By seven fifteen, I’m more nervous than excited. He’s never been late before.
At seven twenty-five, my phone dings and I snatch it up. But it’s my sister responding to the picture I sent earlier.
By eight fifteen, I know something is wrong, and I do my best to scrub images of car accidents from my mind.
I text him.
Ellie: I hope everything is ok.
He doesn’t respond. By nine thirty, I’m climbing the walls. Is it wrong that I’m hoping that something happened? Some kind of family emergency maybe. Because the thought of him blowing me off for no reason is painful in ways I don’t want to even contemplate.
I jump up from my place on the couch when I feel the sting of tears. No, no, no, no. Not happening. I don’t cry over men anymore.
By ten thirty, the walls are officially closing in on me and I’m desperate. I text Vanessa.
Ellie: Hey, you guys still going out tonight? Can I tag along?
Though I fully plan on giving Scott the benefit of the doubt, there’s no way I can continue to sit here all night, waiting and wondering and worrying.
Vanessa: Why? I thought you had big plans.
Ellie: They fell through.
It’s a relief when she texts me the address of a local salsa club that I’ve been to plenty of times in the past. Well, Piper’s been there, but I have confidence in Ellie now. She’s much stronger than she was even a month ago. I certainly won’t be drinking. I’ll take my car so if Scott needs me, I can be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
As I’m putting my driver’s license and my money into my phone case, I’m hit with a very unsettling case of déjà vu. Maybe this isn’t the best of ideas. But the thought of staying here is suffocating. I just can’t.
Arriving at the club near midnight, I balk at the lineup outside. Piper has never, in her life, waited in a lineup. I make my way up to the front.
“Hey, Chico,” I say to the bouncer.
“I know you, honey?” he drawls, his giant arms crossing over his equally giant chest as he scans me from head to toe without a trace of recognition. Do I really look that different as Ellie?
“¿Cómo que no te acuerdas de mi?” I say, thickly laying on my lisping Spanish accent that so many Latinos here in California find amusing. How can you not remember me?
Chico’s eyes bug out and I laugh.
“Piper?”
I throw my arms up and spin for him. “In the flesh.”
His face lights up. “¿Dónde andabas? Tenía mucho que no te veía.” Where have you been? It’s been a long time.
“Around, Chico, I’ve been around. How’ve you been?”
“Without seeing your beautiful face on the regular, bored.”
“You’re too sweet.”
He lifts his chin at the door. “You going in?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“You’ve got an open invitation to any club I work, mami, you know that.”
“Thanks,” I say, getting up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
Though I could hear the music from outside, it’s not until I’m inside the doors that the rush hits me; the thumping beat, the smell, the hum of voices, the lights, the press of the bodies – it’s all like coming home and falling into welcoming arms. It feels amazing.
Somewhere in the back of my mind alarm bells are ringing, but as I make my way through the crowd, my hips bouncing to the rhythm, they’re muffled at best.
“Piper!” Vanessa screeches when I make it to her table, drawing everyone’s attention and setting off a wave of exclamations of welcome. These aren’t exactly the people I used to hang out with, but I know all of Vanessa’s friends from over the years, and they’re eager to talk to me – or to Piper. All the attention is gratifying and for the first good hour or so I’m inundated with girls who want to catch up, and guys who want to flirt – and the reverse; guys who want to catch up and girls who want to flirt. After eleven months of self-imposed isolation, it’s a heady experience. I can’t fathom why I ever left.
After the initial excitement, though, the lustre slowly starts to wear off. The same old conversations surface: Remember the time we were so wasted that we . . . ? Did you hear that so-and-so cheated on so-and-so? Omg, did you see what she’s wearing? And the selfies. Should I post this one? Yet I still chatter on with them like a dam has broken inside of me and I can’t stop words from pouring out.
To distract myself from the ever-growing squirming sensation in my gut, I invite guys to dance. The first couple of songs are great. Just like the socializing, the immediate high is a welcome rush. I’ve missed dancing like you wouldn’t believe. But it’s salsa and some of the guys are a bit too . . . overenthusiastic. Having strange guys’ semi-hard junk pressed up against me isn’t as sexy as I used to think it was. It might even be a bit nauseating.
The disquiet grows.
By the end of the second hour, everyone around me is having a blast . . . and I’m feeling brittle and left out, because when you’re not drinking, things aren’t as funny or interesting or acceptable as when you’ve had a few.
Maybe just one. To take the edge off, to help get me back to the magic I felt when I first got here. It can’t hurt, right? After all, it’s not the booze that’s my problem, it’s the choices I make under its influence. And one drink is not going to get me drunk.
Once the decision is made, the tension eases from between my shoulder blades. I immediately start scoping the place out for the lucky guy who’s going to buy me a drink – and freeze. Forget that. If Ellie wants a drink, Ellie can buy her own. Ellie is not Piper.
I push my way up to the bar and throw my best smile at the bartender. It reels him in and, again, I’m hit with the heady sensation of being in my element, one I know how to navigate and manipulate to my own ends.
“What’ll you have, baby girl?”
Tilting my head and gently biting my lip, I pretend to consider my options. Alarm bells sound a little louder this time. Why am I flirting? I shut it down and very calmly order a dirty martini like a normal person.