Public Relations

Chapter 9: Mia

"Yes, you, Mia."

The lights flash from blue to pink, and the song jumps to Superbass. It's a 2010s kind of night, apparently. The crowd - mostly people our age, mostly big groups of women - goes wild for it.

"Three o'clock," Vanessa adds. Elizabeth holds up both of her hands in the shape of Ls. Vanessa swats them down. "That's not - you know what? Slightly to the right."

I glance up to three o'clock, where the bar is situated in the middle of the room. Sure enough, there's a collection of a few men standing around a handful of barstools. One of them is leaning against the edge of the bar, watching. Our eyes meet the second I look up.

On principle, I do not break eye contact first. I've had people try to intimidate me too many times; I stand my ground. But this man put up a good battle, the two of us in a standoff across the club for several seconds before he laughs to himself and drops his gaze to the dark drink in his hand.

"Woah," Elizabeth breathes. "What weird sexual encounter did I just experience?"

The man is fairly cute, with coffee-colored hair and dimples I can see from here or outer space. His shirt clings to his biceps desperately, half a size too small, and I imagine how solid they'd feel under my fingers.

Get yourself together, Mia.

But isn't this what the point is? Girl time plus poor decisions. That's why I was invited here, as someone who doesn't have girl time or make poor decisions. And with Sean and I hurtling towards our impending end and no one else on the roster, I'm free to have a bar hookup.

He looks up again. His eyes are light, maybe a deep amber color, something so similar to his skin tone it looks like they're glowing.

I turn to the girls. "Should I go in for it? Harmony is already making out with security."

Elizabeth's stare is endless, unfocused. She says, "Harmony is my hero," so quietly I almost don't catch it.

Vanessa nods fervently. "Absolutely. Even for a fun little flirt moment."

Elizabeth wags a finger. "There are no fun little flirt moments at my divorce party. Either you kiss or you fight. Those are the rules."

I laugh. "I'll let him know."

And then I shock myself by rising from the table and striding across the room with more confidence than I feel. I channel all of my attention to my feet, which are unwisely stuffed into towering heeled boots, and say a silent prayer that my steps look even, sober.

The guy's friends see me coming, nudging each other as discretely as schoolkids. He stands firmly, though, our eyes locked as I close in.

"Hi," he says when I've approached, speaking at least three levels above normal volume. Somehow it's still barely audible.

My hand shoots out. "Mia."

This catches him off guard. He tentatively shakes it. "Michael."

I smile. "Mia and Michael. Sounds good together."

Up close, his smile is dazzlingly white, his teeth charmingly off center. I clock his outfit - simple, but definitely designer pieces - and the several thousand dollar watch on his wrist.

"You're a model," I wager, taking a sip from the lemonade. 

His brows jump up in surprise. "I am. Is it that easy to tell?"

I shrug, but the corners of my mouth are dancing in amusement. "It's all over your face."

This gets a solid laugh from him. He steps to the side to let me lean against the counter as well, but I keep my feet planted in front of him.