I have nothing to lose.
If Laguna Beach isn’t the place for me, then I’ll come back to New York. And if I have to, I’ll grovel to get back my old job at the fashion house. My soon-to-be-former boss might be an ass, but he knows my value to the company as a designer.
Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it’s over, I’m the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys our mothers warned us about have reoccupied their seats, leaving us homeless.
“Let’s sing another one,” India suggests, practically jumping at the idea. India is—no, as of today, was—my coworker at Kate von Frantzenberg. We’ve been friends since we both started there right out of college. She’s married to a great guy named Elvis—yes, Elvis. And she, like Sandra, saw me through the dark times following my breakup with Sebastian.
Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. “You guys go for it,” I tell her. “I’m going to use the bathroom and I’ll hop in when I’m done.”
“Stay out of trouble,” she calls to me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.
Trouble.
That’s a laugh.
Even if I went looking for it, it would never find me.
Boring.
My life is that boring.
Wonder of wonders, there is only a very short line. Gleeful and relieved when I finally push through the bathroom door, I hurry to find an empty stall. The hard part comes next. My dress is tight, too tight to shimmy over my hips. With its large silver zipper running up the entire back, I have to use both hands to get it down. Getting it back up is just as much of a bother.
An episode of Sex and the City comes to mind. One in which Carrie Bradshaw finally accepts being alone and figures out how to zip her own dress.
If she could do it, so can I.
Channeling my inner Carrie, it still takes me a few minutes. And when I come out of the stall, the bathroom is jam-packed. I wait my turn for a sink behind two women whispering loudly about the tragedy of it all and how they don’t blame him for leaving the city. Him. I don’t know who they are talking about, but by the time the two women leave, even I feel sorry for this him.
After I wash my hands and dry them, I follow the surge of people down the dimly lit hallway. There are rooms reserved for private parties and with my feet killing me, I slip into an empty one to check my messages.
Strips of neon-pink bulbs along the perimeter cast an almost strobe-like effect in the room. Ignoring the fact that it’s messing with my vision, I pick a booth out of sight of the door. My screen saver lights up when I pull my phone from my purse. It’s of the Statue of Liberty. A photo I took last summer when Sebastian and I were goofing off one Saturday instead of looking for wedding locations.
I should have taken it as a sign.
Resolved to stop thinking about Sebastian, I thumb across the picture and go directly to Google. Once there, I search for a picture of something that will have meaning in my new life.
Bingo!
More than satisfied with my choice, I save it as my new screen saver and start singing the song that the bright photo reminds of: “If you like piña coladas . . .”
With a smile on my face, I finish that verse and flip to my message. When I do, I see that I have a text.
Maggie: Are you still out?
Feeling on top of the world that yes, I am, I look at the time and smile. It’s 12:35 a.m. And I’m still out. Having fun.
See, I’m so not boring.
Excited about this, I have to retype my reply three times to get the one word correct. Just as I go to hit send, my phone slides out of my grip.
Crap.
Camouflaged beneath the black tablecloth, I lie on the seat and reach onto the carpeted floor. The smoothness of the vinyl bench and soft material of my dress don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, and somehow I end up falling to the ground. It’s more than a little grimy and I’m more than a little grossed out. With my fingers curled around my phone, I’m about to get off this disgustingness when I hear the sound of voices and the door closing to the private room.
I freeze right where I am.
From under the table I can see two silhouettes. A man. And a woman. I can’t see their faces from this angle, only their bodies. Just as I’m about to announce my presence, my eyes drift down to a perfectly shined pair of men’s shoes and a very familiar pair of high heels. I know by the Louboutins that the woman is the Megan Fox look-alike.
Like a cat, my curiosity is back.
And when she shoves the man against the door, I feel my heart start to pound. The man is likely Cam—the dark-haired guy she trampled over me to get to and then dragged away from his friends. Getting a better look at him, I can see that his body is taut with tension. A live wire, I think. Definitely an uptight suit.