Delilah
For the second time in less than a year, my condo is like a mausoleum. The only life here is me. Alone. JD moved out several weeks ago. How I held back the tears and pulled myself together long enough to help him set up his kitchen, I couldn't say. If anyone deserves an acting award, it's me. Slap on that smile and force out a few giggles. Tease JD about his stark bachelor pad. I've been over once or twice since, but it's hard. I miss his ugly mug around our place. I want him to come home to me. I won't admit this, even in my own head, but there are times I miss him more than John. Even thinking about thinking about that mortifies me.
As I flip on the shower and immerse myself in the hot spray, I slap a steadying hand onto the tile.
"Oh my God, John. What am I doing? You've been gone the better part of a year, but still. I'm mooning over your brother as if he was a high school sweetheart who broke up with me. I'm so sorry, baby." Tears spring forth like a fountain. I've been tear-free for a few months—mostly—but admitting whatever the hell I'm admitting to John still seems like I'm cheating on him. That's when I truly understand why JD moved out. He figured out we had become too dependent on each other. I'm not done grieving John. I have no place moping around over JD's leaving. The tears stop, and I swell with anger.
The phone rings four times before there's an answer. The whole time I'm tapping a foot on the floor and drumming my fingers as I stand in my closet sifting through outfits.
"Finally. What took you so long?"
"Well, hello to you, too, Del." Meghan sounds a bit out of breath. I sigh at my impatience.
"Hi. I'm sorry. I just need...my best friend."
"Aww. Still missing the boys?" Wow. Interesting way to put it.
"Yeah. It's crazy, but I'm not even sure who I miss more at this point. You up for going out?"
"Do you have to ask twice? Where to? It's Saturday night. I'm sure nightlife is a-buzzing."
I grimace. Crowds of people. Ugh. "What's the most sedate place you can think of?" I want peace. Meghan laughs, and I can practically see her shaking her head at me.
"I got just the place Del. Put on a dress. I'm picking you up in an hour. Makeup too. No cheating. It's time to get out there, have some fun, and quit moping."
"Meghan..."
"No. Sweetie, you're still sad. I get it. You miss James. I get it. You're not on the prowl for a new guy. I get it. Going out doesn't equal finding a hookup. One hour." Click.
All righty then. I pull out a little black dress that's not too sexy, but does fit well. Nope. Too funereal and depressing. Red? Nope. That one yells sexy at the top of its lungs. Pink? Gah. I'm not a little girl, either. I finally decide on a white dress that falls mid-thigh. It's a little clingier than I'd like, but I love the trendy black and silver metallic strip that runs down each side. Even though it is sleeveless, the straps are a decent two inches wide—passing the old lasagna noodle width test from high school dress code—and the scoop neck dips down the right amount without showing too much cleavage.
After drying my hair and partially pinning it up, I apply makeup. As I'm dabbing on mascara it occurs to me that I haven't touched any cosmetics other than that in more than a month, not giving a rat's ass about my appearance for the most part. I zip myself into the dress, slip on black heels that aren't quite stilettos, and turn toward the full-length mirror.
Staring back at me is a woman I haven't seen since John died. I look fantastic. That's a sucker punch. I shouldn't be doing this. I should stay home and... The doorbell rings, followed by furious knocking. Meghan has arrived. There's no backing out.
"Holy spitballs, Del." Meghan's eyes are saucers. "I've missed this babe. You're gonna knock 'em dead."
A wave of panic swipes at me. "It's too much. I'll change. The black dress is better. More conservative." Meghan's hand stops me mid-spin.
"No damned way. This is great. Let's go. Get your clutch." She doesn't let go, afraid I'll run off and barricade myself in the bathroom. Yeah, I probably would. I lock the door and toss the key in my purse, quickly rechecking it for my ID, money, credit card, and phone. Check, check, check, and check.
Bless her heart, Meghan starts us out with a quick dinner at Dino's. It's a small place that lot of people hit before moving on to nightclubs to ensure they're not drinking on empty stomachs. Everyone's dressed similar to us—upscale, trendy. We order a few plates of tapas to share and white wines. My stomach jumps around and I can't tell if I'm nervous, excited or scared. A little of all three, I suppose. Best get in the mood.
"Love that outfit, Meggers." She one hottie tonight, having decided on a fire engine red dress that's quite a bit skimpier than mine. Compared to some of the other outfits I'm seeing here, hers is still leaning toward modest. She grins at me and pops a huge black olive onto her tongue.
"Thanks. New. Been waiting for an excuse to wear it." She's stunning. More than one guy has cast glances in her direction. "So, tell me. What's up buttercup? Why the panicked call?" She wraps a piece of smoked ham around a cube of Manchego cheese and sticks it in her mouth. I have to laugh because Meghan can get away with literally stuffing her face, maintaining an aura of cool doing so. I'd resemble a pig at a trough.
"Mixed emotions about so many things. I miss John, of course. Like crazy. It's getting a little easier, though. Having JD around helped."
She stares at me as if she has a big secret. It makes me uneasy. "Of course he helped. That man is a walking wildfire of sexy testosterone encased in a body made of carved granite." She fans her face. "I'm tellin' ya, that guy has gotta have women lined up around the block for a chance at him. If he weren't yours, I'd be in that line, too."
I'm sure my face falls to the floor. The picture of one of the vapid women in this restaurant hanging on him turns my stomach. Meghan catches my reaction and grasps my hand. "Aw, shit. Don't do that, Del."
Fortified by a gulp of wine, words tumble out. "That's the thing Megs. As much as I miss John, as big as that hole is in my heart, JD patched part of it up. Thinking about him with one of these sluts makes me sick. He's got this big bed in his apartment. I can't even peek inside that bedroom without imaging him rolling around on it with a big-boobed bottle blonde. Which is stupid. He has a right to fuck whomever he wants. He's not mine. So, why am I being so possessive, so—jealous? He went on a date a few weeks back and I about lost it."
"Ooh. That had to have been tough. What about after? Any other dates?"
I shake my head, and this time only sip my wine. "He didn't say and I didn't ask. I don't think so, though. He was around a lot after that. Of course, he's been in his place for a few weeks now, so..." I can't finish the sentence. Without my daily presence to hinder him, he could be busy testing out the spring in his mattress every night. I push that visual away hard and fast.
"Sweetie, I get where you're coming from. You have emotions bouncing around like pinballs. I don't have any great advice, other than move on. Go have fun. You don't have to date anyone until you're ready. And, James is gonna be there for you no matter what."
I nod as we figure out the check. In a way, talking to Meghan has lifted a bit of the angst off me. Not enough, but it's a start, I guess.
After a quick visit to the ladies' room to paint on a layer of red matte lipstick, we call for an Uber and head out for Girls' Night Part Two.
****
Outside the club, I stare at the brilliant pink lights flashing against the building, music pouring out the door like an aural flood. What on earth is Meghan thinking? This place has hookup joint written all over it. I wouldn't be surprised to find strippers pole-dancing inside.
"Relax. It's not what you think in there."
"It's called Fuchsia. The lights are fuchsia. The music is loud. Meghan, for crying out loud look at who's going in there. I can't do this." I turn to flag a cab, and she stops me.
"Del, please. Give it an hour, okay? One or two drinks. You'll see." Her eyes are begging me to give it a chance, and I relent.
"Fine. This goes against my better instincts. I'm not talking to any guys, though."
She wraps her arm in mine and tows me toward the door, producing two passes, offering the bouncer one of her trademark dazzling smiles. I can't tell you how she does it. Giant, growly meathead doorman actually cracks a handsome grin at her for a split second. That girl is quite simply a witchy woman with seductive powers not of this earth when it comes to men. Even more reason to be wary about entering this establishment.
Once inside, I have to say, I am surprised. Sure, the music is a bit loud and there's a huge dance floor. There are a couple of enormous glass top bars lining each side wall and the back. They're backlit with the club's trademark fuchsia lights, while a cobalt blue radiates up into the glass tops. Pretty cool. What's more interesting are the tables. A little lower than typical pub table height, they're circled by bar stools that are on the shorter side, making it easier for us girls to scoot in and out without having to scale a taller one gracelessly. They have wraparound leather bucket seats for more comfort. And, I do like the music. Honestly, the place isn't bad, just a bit loud.
"See?" Meghan's grinning ear to ear. "Not so bad, right? I reserved us a table." An inside doorman takes her name and escorts us to a table partway between the dance floor and one of the bars. Meghan's job as a high-end party planner gives her a foot in the door all over this city. I often forget how many wealthy, influential people she actually rubs elbows with on the regular. Comes in handy for us at times. We order drinks and sit back to listen to some great tunes and watch people dance. By the end of the evening, I'm certain the dance crowd will be nearer to the X-rated version.
"All right. This is okay. I can't say how long it'll be until the crowd turns over and I feel awkward, but, yeah. This is fine." Meghan beams.
We stay well past the hour she got me to agree to, and at some point start dancing. A few guys approach, but we manage to avoid most of them with a smile and a spin.
"Whew. I'm beat. I'm out of shape." We return to our table sweaty and thirsty. A fresh round of drinks is delivered surprisingly fast. Meghan and I are so caught up in our conversation I jump a little when a guy appears behind me and greets us.
"How are you ladies this evening?" He's got his wingman with him. They're nice looking, about our age, and well-dressed in what are clearly designer slacks and button-down shirts. I can tell they both work out, based on the way their arms and chests fill out the crisp shirts. "Can we buy you a drink? I'm Greg and this is Mitch."
Before I can decline, a beaming Meghan squeaks out "sure!" and flags down the cocktail waitress. Ten seconds flat and I can see the connection sizzling between her and Mitch. We make small talk until the new drinks arrive. Well, the three of them do. I mostly listen, wishing they'd scram, while I watch Mitch flirt with Meghan. Or is it the other way around? I can hardly keep Meghan from being social. Soon, she and Mitch are tearing up the dance floor.
"You don't say much do you?" Greg leans in so I can hear him. He's not crowding me in any way, and maintains a respectable distance given that we're in a loud nightclub. I'm still a little uncomfortable. I push through though. I don't want to be rude.
"Not really." I offer a small smile. Oh, God. I hate this. "So, you're in PR for a movie studio. Sounds interesting." Actually, it kind of does. Greg smiles, pleased I'm making an effort, I guess. I'm sure it will be an invitation to go off on how great he and his job is.
"Sometimes. Mostly it's a grind with long hours. How about you? What do you do?" His eyes sweep over me, assessing my looks. I squirm.
"I, uh, run a flower shop in Westwood. Keeps me busy. And out of trouble."
Greg throws his head back and laughs. "You don't look like a woman who gets into much trouble. Do you own the shop?"
"Yeah. For about five years."
"Impressive. How's business?"
"Good. I get a lot of business from the industry. You know 'send a bouquet to so-and-so's agent' and an occasional small party or event."
"Nice."
We continue with the harmless conversation for a while. He's a nice guy, and he doesn't seem to be hitting on me, for which I'm grateful. I suspect he's actually the wingman for Mitch, who appears to be making headway with Meghan, if the way they're dirty dancing is any indication.
There's a break in the conversation as Greg orders more drinks. I ask for a soda water this time out. While he's talking to the waitress, my gaze wanders around the room. My heart plummets to the basement when I hone in on a couple about five tables away. I can't even breathe when I watch as James tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and offers her his trademark sexy grin as he closes the space between them. He's gonna kiss her.
"Hey, you okay?"
I ignore Greg and stare a hole into James' head, my mouth gaping, unable to breathe. As if we were connected by an invisible wire, James' head snaps up and he turns to me, making direct eye contact. His eyes go wide and he tears his hand from the woman he's with. I can see him mouth, "Oh, fuck no D-doll." Then, his gaze drifts and clouds over as he takes in Greg, who, at that moment, decides to run a finger down my arm to get my attention. I swat him away and jump to my feet, still in an eye-lock with James. James, who is here with a woman.
"Delilah? What's wrong?"
"I...I...I gotta go. Tell Meghan." Grabbing my clutch, I walk as fast as I can to the exit. My heart banging a thousand beats a minute. Outside the club my fingers are shaking so bad I can't type in a request for an Uber. The bouncer approaches me.
"Miss? Are you all right? Can I help you?"
"Yeah. I can't...I need a cab. Or something," I stammer.
He lets out a shrill whistle and a cab appears out of nowhere. He holds open the door and I slide in. As the taxi pulls away from the curb, I try to calm myself. An impossible feat as a sledge hammer is currently smashing my heart as if it were rocks in a quarry.
****
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***I'd like to thank James from www.goonwrite.com for the cover to "Delilah's Tears."