“I…” Marla scrunches her brow, and I don’t have to be telepathic to know what thoughts are running through her head. Her life is splashed on her Instagram page, and even though I haven’t looked at it lately, I clearly remember the vibe. (The first time she tried to take a selfie with me and the kid, I ducked out of view, claiming an intense phobia to having my image on the Internet.) Aside from our little lunch dates, where she photographs meals like they’re art rather than greasy diner food served on cheap ceramic plates, everything she does is for her daughter. Dance classes, gymnastic classes, play dates and toy stores and story time at the local library. The kid is like a parasite, always attached to her, day after day, month after month, year after year… siphoning her energy, her very life force.
It’s fucking sick, is what it is.
Marla looks me square in the eye. “No,” she says, her voice firm. “I don’t.”
I can’t help but grin. “Well, then. Let’s get you one.”
Marla is hammered.
Tee-hee! And maybe, maybe I might be a little ducking frunk, too.
We moved on from our neighborhood bar hours ago, taking an Uber to a hot dance club across town. I mean, I think it was hours ago; it kinda feels like we just got here. But there are too many empty glasses at our table – shot and full-sized – to support that theory.
Yeah, noooo. I’m fairly certain we’ve been here for hours.
At my suggestion, Marla’s blouse is tied around her waist, and the only thing she’s wearing is the tiny little tankini she had on underneath along with a worn pair of army green shorts and clunky ankle boots. She looks cute rather than beautiful, almost like a college girl on break, and the guys at the little round cocktail table next to ours keep throwing glances in her direction.
And mine, of course. Though, that’s to be expected. I’m wearing skintight pants and a shiny red halter top that leaves very little to the imagination. I’m used to this kind of attention.
Marla? Not so much.
I give her a look before tilting my head slightly in their direction. “Don’t look now, but those guys are staring at you.”
She giggles, her face flushed. “What? No, no they aren’t.” And then, ignoring my words, she turns and looks right at them.
They perk up, giving the guy version of a wave: three lift their chins and one gives a two-finger salute.
“Subtle,” I say, and then laugh.
Marla is far more fun when she’s drunk.
If she wasn’t married to the love of my life, my fucking soul mate, I might even like her. You know, as a friend.
I’ve never had a real friend before. Even back in grade school, I failed to connect with the girls in my class. They seemed to be aware of some secret code that I wasn’t privy to, and no matter how much I tried to fit in, I never could.
And then Hollis came into my life. He blew in like a sweet breath of fresh air and told me how much better I was than those small-town tramps, and I never thought about those bitches again.
“They’re looking at you, Becky. Not me.” She points a finger at me, leans forward, and almost falls off her stool. “You’re sexy hot. I’m just a frumpy mom.”
“You are not just a frumpy mom,” I say, surprised to find that I mean it.
But Marla shakes her head. “Nope. I have stretch marks and, you know,” she lowers her voice, as if what she’s about to say is too foul even for this bump and grind meat market, “mom tits.”
“Mom tits?”
Marla cups her breasts and pushes them together. “Saggy. Used and abused.”
“Honey, every woman our age who hasn’t had a boob job has saggy tits. Kids or no kids.” I motion to my chest, indicating my designer backless bra. “It’s all in the hardware. And these ladies are held up by the best.” I make a funny face and, wiggling my shoulders, perform a little shimmy. My tits sway and bob with the movement, looking a lot riper than they really are.
Marla laughs, and then snorts, and proceeds to laugh harder.
Which makes me laugh. Again. For, like, the millionth time tonight.
“This is so fucked up,” I say, cackling so hard a snort pops out.
Marla and I lock eyes and burst into giggles.
And perhaps that’s the most fucked up thing. Rebecca Cabot Crane, aka Becca Cabot, aka Beautiful Savage, is giggling. Uncontrollably. With another woman.
And it feels fucking amazing.
“Oh, I’ve missed this.” Marla gulps at her empty glass and then looks at it, confused.
“You already finished that one,” I snort (again).
Marla looks crestfallen until she remembers that she can just order another. She throws her arm in the air, waving her hand at the waitress, and accidently smacks a dude walking by. “Ope! Sorry, sorry!”
Then she turns back to me, and we laugh some more.
This is surreal.
After putting in our orders, I bring up something she said that stuck with me. “When you said that you missed this, what did you mean?”
She waves between us. “This. Girl time. Getting out and having fun. No kids, no husbands, no responsibilities. Losing every single one of my fucking inhibitions.”
She practically shouts this last part, and the guys next to us shift in their seats.
“When we first met, you said that it’s been awhile since you’ve hung out with friends.” I know she lived in Minneapolis for a time, and before that Austin, but I’m interested in learning more about her life. Like, for instance, when and how did she and Hollis meet?
“Yeah. Like forever and ever ago.” She waves her hand drunkenly, almost knocking another guy in the head. “And ever ago. You’re the only friend I have up here. You know, in Duluth.”
“I bet your sisters down in Austin miss you.”
Chisel, chisel.
Her eyes grow glassy, though I can’t tell if it’s from drink or emotion. “It sucks being so far away from them.”
“So, how long have you and your husband been together?”
“Hollis?”
I give her a look. “Um, yeah. Unless you have another husband that I’m not aware of.”
Marla sighs, cringes, and drunkenly blurts, “I kinda sorta do.”
And my eyes just about fly out of my fucking head.
Marla, you little dev—
“Ex-husband,” she clarifies, when she sees my shock. “We were high school sweethearts. Totally in love.”
I lean in closer. This is news worth lapping up with a spoon. “What happened?”
The waitress brings our drinks, and the conversation pauses as I hand over a couple of twenties. “Keep the change,” I say, hoping the large tip will get her to skedaddle. Turning back to Marla, I lift my brows.
She takes a drink of her martini and puffs out a breath. “We grew apart, I guess? It’s like, one day we just woke up and decided we didn’t want to be married anymore. We were young, though. So young. Too young, really. I guess we just grew apart.”
“Wow.” This doesn’t give me a ton to work with, but I shoot from the hip anyway. “First loves are hard to let go of. Do you still think about him?”
Marla shakes her head adamantly. “No, not at all.” But then she presses her lips together, like she’s holding something in.