I follow his rituals, and he shuts the fuck up.
Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, I drop my head between my shoulders and close my eyes against the slight spin poise left behind when it ditched me.
“You can suck it up for an hour, Lydia,” I tell myself. “You’ll be home before you know it.”
Inhaling a deep breath, I push away from the sink and head out the front door to the car. With the largest pair of sunglasses I own over my eyes, I keep my purse tucked under my arm and watch every step I take from my door to the dark Suburban. My driver today doesn’t stare at me like the others do. He gives me a wide berth, like he can sense the sickness on me and is afraid I’m contagious.
I roll the window down as we drive toward the other side of the city. Ocean air is refreshing against my clammy face, and the early afternoon sun injects me with much-needed vitamin D. It seems brighter than it normally is, intensifying the throbbing behind my eyes. The drive across town isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, until we hit traffic halfway there and my driver’s heavy on the brakes.
My stomach rolls as we lurch forward and jerk to a stop, moving a car length at a time. As my mouth fills with thick saliva, I hold the back of my fingers to my mouth and plan my escape route in case the contents of my stomach reappear. I’d have to sprint across the three-lane highway to get to the shoulder. Maybe a car will take me out and end this misery.
“It looks like the traffic is going to clear up ahead, ma’am,” says the driver. He watches me from the rearview mirror. It would be a nightmare he’d have to clean up if I get sick in his vehicle. “Do you normally get car sick? I once heard that chewing cinnamon gum can help settle your stomach.”
Squeezing my eyes closed, I shake my head sharply. We both know I’m not car sick, but I appreciate his willingness to spare me added embarrassment. Cinnamon flavored anything ties too closely with the liquor I drank too much of at the bar, and my stomach somersaults. I can count the number of times I’ve been hungover in my life on one hand. When I feel this badly, it’s hard not to wonder if this was how Cricket felt every single day. What I can’t imagine myself doing is picking up another bottle of whisky to postpone a hangover this bad.
Cricket had a permanent stench of alcohol that followed her around. It was there after she showered and brushed her teeth, and it was present under whatever cheap body spray she poured on herself before she danced. The odor became stronger as the night got later, and to this day, the scent of vodka is a direct link to my mother’s affection. The stinging chemical smell reminds me of her sloppy kisses and broken promises.
“This life isn’t for us, Lydia,” she’d lie at the end of a particularly hard day or after another night spent in the car. Cricket sat behind the steering wheel, drinking mini bottles of the liquor store’s cheapest vodka. “One day we’ll have a house with a little backyard. Maybe we can get a pet. Would you like that, baby? Would you like to have your own room?”
While she told drunken stories about a life we’d never have together, I tried to sleep in the back, curled up in a ball. By the time I was too tall to stretch my legs out across the back seat, I was old enough to realize Cricket was full of shit. I didn’t have any friends because no one at school wanted to talk to the girl who only showed up some of the time, and a strip club is a terrible place for someone my age to meet anyone. I was the only underage girl in the dressing room because it’s not a place for kids. Cricket was a terrible mom. She loved me as much as she could, but she was horrible. She never tried.
And then she had the audacity to die.
Now I feel like I’ve embodied her, stepping directly into Cricket Montgomery’s footsteps—the rightful successor to the kingdom of low-down debauchery. No one who knew us back then would be surprised to see me hungover and on my way to fuck some old man for cash. I’d fit in with the sleaze.
Pretenses can fuck off.
Doubling over, I hide my face between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut, wrangling with the memory of my mom and the chance she never gave me for a life better than this.
“Do you need me to pull over, Miss?” the driver asks.
“No,” I say, sitting back up. I push my hair out of my face and practically stick my head out the window to escape the scent of alcoholism.
I’ll never drink again.
Talent Ridge can shove his charm up his ass. I’m tired of him trying to ruin my life.
Instead of heading to Gary’s office once I arrive to the studio, I make a beeline for the women’s restroom and lock myself inside. He likes me to keep my hair down, but it’s sticking to the back of my neck and is more frizzy than straight after having the wind blown through it on the drive over. I find a hair tie in my purse and use my fingers to slick it back into a ponytail. It seconds as a facelift, tightening the circles under my eyes and reducing the puffiness in my lids. Red lipstick that usually looks seductive looks trashy and I wipe it off, applying a clear gloss over the pinkish stain the rouge left behind.
Gary Brooker sells fine art to fine people, and the restrooms in his gallery cater to the rich. Thank God. Spinning off the top to the mouthwash, I pour it into my mouth and swish it around until the tip of my tongue feels like it’s on fire and my eyes water. He doesn’t like me to smell like anything artificial, but I squirt the body spray he’s supplied for his guests on myself and don’t bother to look at my reflection before getting this shit over with.
Like with Cristian’s architectural models, I love to browse Gary’s art collection. He buys and sells them so often, the pieces are different every time I visit. The movements and styles of each painting are mostly as lost to me as the names of the artists who created them, but they’re beautiful to look at and I’ve learned a little in the time I’ve known Gary.
“It’s just a white square on top of a black square,” I said to Gary once.
He chuckled over my shoulder and explained, “That’s minimalism—oil on canvas—and I just sold this piece for one hundred thousand dollars yesterday morning.”
Gary sends art to Hush since I won’t give him my home address. I have a closet at the apartment full of paintings collectors would love to own, mostly from up-and-coming artists. I’ve asked him many times to give the work to someone who’ll genuinely appreciate it. He insists they’re mine and if I want to get rid of the art, I’m to do it myself.
When I’d see a new painting in Inez’s office with a letter from Gary explaining who the artist is with an art description, I thought he was doing it to culture his whore. Over time, I’ve come to accept that he’s a lonely gentleman without family and friends to share his love of art free and clear of motive. He gives paintings to me because I think they’re wonderful, not because I’m interested in stockpiling coveted pieces.
“I thought you were going to be late,” Gary says when I emerge from the women’s restroom.
He waits for me in front of a contemporary art piece that’s painful to look at, not only because I simply don’t understand the appeal, but because the colors cast across the canvas look how I feel inside: messy.
Gary must have been gorgeous when he was younger, because he’s a good-looking older man with snow-white hair and gray eyebrows. There’s not a person on this planet with better posture than him, and every movement he makes and word he speaks is deliberate.