Well, that is just rude.
"Camden," she calls, sounding a little frantic. "Give me a chance. I want to make it up to you. I'll do anything."
"There's nothing I want from you-that's the problem."
Cam. Short for Camden.
I rather like it.
Too bad Camden is a prick.
"Then why let me do this?"
There is no answer, just his feet moving out of my sight.
"You're a fucking asshole!" she cries after him.
Those polished, very male shoes come flying into the room.
Hell hath no fury like a man scorned.
He steps very close to her. I imagine him tipping her chin up to look her in the eyes, although I can't see up that high. "Just so we're clear on this-I owe you nothing," he seethes, and this time when he leaves the room he doesn't return.
Ouch!
"But I still want you," she whispers, more to herself.
I think she's used to getting what she wants, and this Cam is it. I wonder how far she'll go to get him. Wish I could find out.
Soon after, Megan with a B stumbles, and then slumps onto the bench at the table across from me. I can see her face now.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Please don't look this way.
If I can see her face, does that mean she can see mine?
It's dark enough in the corner and I hope the glow of the pink lights helps to camouflage me, but if she looks hard enough, she'll see me.
Sadness consumes her and her crying is as heavy as her breathing. She's not looking anywhere but into her own lap. I feel a little sorry for her. I don't know what she did to Camden, but it must have been very bad, or this is one really fucked-up sex game they're playing.
Too bad for me I will probably never know because as if reborn, she wipes the tears from her eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands tall before she walks out of the room with a very steady stride.
Boy, does she put herself together quickly.
I could take a page or two from her "how to" book.
Hard to believe I just did that-watched a girl give a guy a blow job. Honestly, I didn't see much, just the back of her head, but still, that has to count as anything but uptight.
Right?
When the coast is clear, I grab my phone, finally press send with the one word, yes, to answer Maggie, and make my way into the lounge. There is no sign of Megan with a B, and although I'm uncertain what Cam looks like, something tells me he's gone too.
"Happy" is playing and my friends are onstage moving like Pharrell Williams. Practically skipping toward them, I hop up and join in. Moving my hips, snapping my fingers, clapping my hands, I have no trouble belting out this tune all the way through.
"Clap along, if you feel like that's what . . ." I finish the song on a high note, with my hands together and a sense of being reborn myself.
What I watched in that private room makes me realize everyone has issues, and everyone has a way of dealing with them-beg, cry, get mad, say things that hurt, curl up into a ball, and even have sex. However you deal, at least you deal, and I've done my fair share of all of that.
I'm done dealing.
I'm ready for tomorrow.
Ready to start anew.
Be a hot-air balloon, just like the song says.
Within minutes of our grand finale, I'm drunkenly hugging my friends goodbye.
"Don't forget to call us!" they holler as I get into a cab.
"I won't," I answer, closing the window, and then turning around to wave goodbye as the taxi pulls away.
Slumping against the door, reality dawns. In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be on a plane to Orange County.
I can't believe it.
I'm really doing it.
New start.
New life.
New me.
California, here I come.