Exit Wounds

03 | good girl

          "You seem preoccupied," she says. It's the nicest thing she could possibly muster. "What's going on?"

          I stare at the gentle waves of steam coming out of my cup instead of trying to find her eyes. It's still too scalding to drink, the sugar making it progressively more indigestible. "I need to leave for a while. Leave the state. It's a family matter."

          "I thought your family was dead."

          "Dead to me."

          "Ah." She wipes a lipstick stain from the rim of her cup like it matters, like anyone is staring, and, for a split moment, I give myself the luxury of selfishly wishing she would stare at me instead. All this time, I've been begging her to see me, actually see me, yet all my attempts always fall flat, like I'll never matter to anyone enough. "We should probably have a deeper conversation about that. I don't like that you've been keeping secrets from me, especially of that nature."

          "You keep secrets from me."

           "Well." Sadie tucks a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear, showing off all her ear piercings. My mother would find it distasteful, which I suspect played a big part in drawing me to Sadie initially. "You know what you need to know about me. I need to know every single detail about your life if we want this relationship to work properly. If we want to brand you a certain way, I need to know particular aspects about you, including about your family." She briefly scrolls through her phone. "I'll arrange a flight for tomorrow morning, but I'm tagging along. I want to see your ghosts."

          Haunt me, then.

⊹˚. ♡

          That evening, I stop wallowing in my misery by staring at my own reflection for hours on end and decide to go out. For good measure, I wear a pair of faux leather pants that flare at the bottom, helping me look taller than I actually am, and my sequined blouse leaves more skin exposed than I'm comfortable with, but I'm not planning on being out for long. I'll be a good girl and won't drink too much. I won't look like a victim. I won't look desirable. I'll look like someone who doesn't want to be there, but is deathly addicted to bad decisions.

          Mine. Other people's. It's truly terrible.

          Even with all the precautions I take, even with my keys between my fingers and my shoulders hunched forward to show I'm definitely not in the mood for conversation, men don't give up. They approach me to try and talk to me, some of them recognizing me from projects—I refuse to think about the alternative—but they lose whatever little appeal they might have as soon as I catch their eyes darting down my face to glance at my chest. Others attempt to buy me drinks, but I know I can't let my guard down and suggest I'm intoxicated, as that would turn me into an easy target.

          I argue with a few of them. They argue with me first, saying I'm looking at them the wrong way, when no, they're the ones looking at me the wrong way, like Pavlovian dogs salivating over a piece of meat, and it takes everything in me to not go ballistic. It's mostly because it would damage my carefully curated image and reputation, unleashing Sadie's wrath on me and the world, but also because I know that, realistically, I can't take these guys on. I'm strong thanks to the gym membership Sadie got for me and thanks to years of surfing when I still lived in California, but I'm small and vulnerable, and there's just one of me.

          "You need to get a grip," one of them tells me, in that mocking tone that makes my skin crawl. I hate everything about him—everything from his gelled back blond hair to his tight white t-shirt. "You just jumped us out of nowhere when we were trying to be nice—"

          "Maybe consider I don't want you to be nice," I retort, the small of my back pressed against the bar. It makes my spine ache, but I'm paralyzed in place. "I want you to leave me the fuck alone."

          "You really are ungrateful, you know that? Girls like you like going off about shitty guys who hurt you, but they're the only ones you ever go after. When a nice guy comes along, you string them along and—"

          "Save it, will you? Go preach your monologue to someone who cares."

          When I turn around to focus back on my drink, my elbow accidentally knocks his own drink all over his pants and shoes, sending him flying backward into his group of friends. Most of them cheer, like they think it's absolutely hilarious, but it's never funny when you're the only woman in the situation, like a drop of blood in shark-infested waters. He insults everything about me, from my looks to the family he doesn't even know exists, makes one or two comments about the ungrateful whore I am, and then throws my own drink to my face.

          My heart thuds so hard against my chest it blurs my vision and laughter fills the bar. It echoes in my ears like an annoying bass drop, shaking up the entire room, and my own hands are trembling. I close them into fists before I can do something stupid, something that will get me in trouble, and force myself to try and smile. Not smiling at angry men is always a dangerous idea, and often gets you killed.

          I smile. I laugh. I laugh hysterically, mimic their laughter, wonder how it feels to be on their side of the brawl. I want to be able to have the last laugh for once in my life, without needing to bother about where my dead body will end up, which dark alleyway my barely conscious self will be dragged to.

          "Come on," someone says, with a hand on my shoulder. When I spin around, the remnants of my cocktail dripping from the ends of my hair, I find him—tall, broad shouldered, blue-eyed like he was the last time I saw him, the only man I give myself the luxury of minimally trusting. Trusting men is always a double-edged sword. "Come on. Let's go."

          "Why?" I ask him, half laughing. He stares right back at me like I'm worth worrying about, and my soul is long gone by that point. "Why are they the only ones who get to have fun? When is it my turn? When is it their turn to be scared of me?"

          Nick St. Martin, Broadway actor, former college show choir national champion, has the patience of a saint when he swings his leather jacket around my shoulders. "This isn't a fight they want to pick." He leans forward like he wants to speak in my ear, but keeps his voice at the same volume so the men can hear him. "They should know better than to not fear you."

          "Nicky." My hand, gently pressed against his cheek, moves his face away. I feel his facial muscles curve into a smile. "Be careful. If someone hears you, they might think you care about me."

          "We wouldn't want that, would we?"

⊹˚. ♡

ladies and gentlemen ........ Nick St Martin (don't worry tho you DON'T need to read tone spirit)