Midnight Valentine(8)

“What about the super cute building inspector?”

She turns practical, not even having the decency to look chagrined. “He’s a foot shorter than me. When I said he was ‘cute,’ I meant in a ‘look at the cute little fella’ way.”

“You were gonna set me up with a man who’s eye level to my belly button, weren’t you?”

She keeps a serious face for a split second, then breaks down laughing. “My mother keeps telling me I’m too picky and should look on the bright side: I’d get to set my drink on his head if there wasn’t a cocktail table nearby.”

“Wow. I think I love your mother.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s a character. Eighty years old and she can drink the rest of us under a table. Now go put on a dress and some lipstick. I can drive over. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

I look down at my jeans and David Bowie T-shirt, then back up at Suzanne. “I don’t own a dress, and I don’t wear lipstick unless I’m going to church. Which I haven’t set foot in since I was married.” I lift my arms. “This is as good as it gets.”

Suzanne’s pursed lips aren’t quite a pout, but they’re not not a pout either. She eyes me up and down. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve got coffee stains on your shirt, dirt stains on your jeans, a smudge of something that could be bird poop on your cheek, and your hair’s a little…funky. You look like you might’ve recently been living under a bridge.”

Inevitably when someone starts a sentence with, “I don’t mean to be rude,” they’re about to be rude. She’s lucky I’m tired, or I’d be inclined to give her a hard shove and watch her topple over on those skyscraper heels of hers.

“If you’re one of those super girly-girls who refuses to go out of the house without an hour’s worth of prep, full makeup, and a bra, we can’t be friends.”

Suzanne isn’t fazed by my disdain. “I am, in fact, one of those ‘super girly-girls’ because I like to look my best—which isn’t a crime, by the way. It’s called being put together—and when you have thirty-eight double Ds, going out of the house without a bra is like getting into a car without a seat belt: careless, dangerous, and something you can get in trouble for.”

All the cleavage she’s baring is dangerous too, but it’s none of my business how much skin she likes to show. Truth be told, if I had boobs like hers, I’d probably be showing them off too. They’re pretty spectacular.

Sometimes I feel sorry for men, having to try to maintain eye contact while two of their favorite things in the world are smiling up at them from the open neckline of a woman’s blouse.

“Okay. You win. I’ll go change and brush my hair, just for you. Feel honored, because I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. And they better have delicious fried things at this so-called party, or I’m walking out.” I make my way out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the stairs.

She calls out after me, “You can’t walk out, I’m your ride!”

It occurs to me that a town this size might not have decent taxi service, but it wouldn’t be much of a problem anyway. I’m accustomed to taking long walks alone in the dark. It’s one of the only things that’s kept me sane the past few years.

When I enter the master bedroom, I notice a handprint on the sliding glass door I hadn’t seen earlier. It’s backlit by the setting sun, so it glows against the glass like it was breathed there by a ghost. It strikes me as oddly compelling, so I cross the room for a closer look.

It’s big and surprisingly detailed, as if the person who made it however long ago pressed his hand there with the fingers spread wide and stood unmoving for a long time, looking out at the ocean. The ridges, lines, and whorls seem strangely intimate. I feel like I’m looking at a clue someone left behind. A secret moment in time marked by skin.

The lifeline that runs down the center of the palm is broken in half right in the middle, as if part of it was erased.

I lift my hand, spread my fingers, and hover my palm over the ghostly print on the glass. When a gust of wind rattles the glass, I jump, sucking in a startled breath.

Then I scold myself for being an idiot, wipe the print off the glass with the sleeve of my shirt, and go get ready for the party.





3





Because I’ve perfected the Don’t Give a Shit approach to my personal appearance, I’m ready in under five minutes. Suzanne attempts another pout when she sees me reappear in a clean pair of jeans and another Bowie T-shirt, but she smiles instead when I arch a warning brow.