“I'm gonna miss you,” Lacey whined, leaning close to her. Misch nodded and knocked back another Lemon Drop.
“I'm gonna miss you, too, chick,” she breathed, wiping at her chin.
“But … but … who am I going to talk to?” Lacey continued, pretending to cry.
“Your husband. These losers,” Misch joked, gesturing to the other girls at the table. She was met with a chorus of boos.
“But no one talks to me like you,” Lacey groaned, then pressed her forehead to the table.
“Oh god. Okay, someone call her husband to come get her, I'm getting the rest of us another round!” Misch shouted. There were cheers, and she headed to the bar.
“Can I get four Washington Apples, and a vodka-tonic!?” she called out to the bartender. He nodded and began assembling their drinks.
“Hey.”
Misch jumped a little, startled. A guy had sidled up to the bar next to her, leaning against it. He looked young, or at least younger than her. He eyed her up and down very openly, his gaze lingering on her breasts before moving down to her hips and thighs.
“Can I help you?” she asked, glancing around to double check that he was talking to her.
“Oh yeah, you can. You live around here?” he questioned, his eyes finally making their way back to her own.
Holy shit, am I getting hit on?
“Uh, yeah.”
“Nice. I noticed you ladies were celebrating. Birthday?” he kept going, chewing on his straw.
“Sort of.”
“It's a sort of birthday?”
“Birthday slash going away party,” she clarified, nervously running her fingers through her hair. She hadn't really been out-out in a long time. The more weight she'd gained, the more she'd stayed at home. Even when she'd started losing weight, she'd just spent all her time trying to lose more weight. She didn't even remember what it felt like to get hit on – she couldn't tell if that's what was happening or not.
I'm an idiot.
“Aw, you're going away? Bummer, I was hoping we could hang out,” the guy mock-pouted, but his eyes were smiling.
“Really?” she laughed. “You don't even know me.”
“I could get to know you a lot better tonight, back at your place.”
Oh yeah, he's hitting on me.
“I'm sorry, I'm married,” she automatically responded.
“I'm sorry, too. We could go to my place.”
That moment. That moment was the moment.
Mischa blushed and said no, thank you. Paid the bartender and took her tray of drinks. Smiled politely at her admirer before making her way back to her table.
But as she took two shots back to back, then chugged down her vodka-tonic, she kept glancing at the bar. Glancing at the man. He would look back every now and then, sometimes wink. Chew on that straw. Misch knew she wasn't going to go home with him, wasn't going to do anything bad.
But not because it was bad.
But only because her friends would see what a horrible person she was.
I am most positively, definitely, going to hell.
“You sure you don't want me to come? I could get a ticket,” Mike said, following her through the airport. Mischa rolled her eyes.
“We've been over this, Mikey. I asked if you wanted to go in the beginning. You said no. Now it's too late. You have your job. You're coming to visit me in a month,” she reminded him, hiking her messenger bag up higher on her shoulder.
“I'm gonna miss you so much,” he sighed. She frowned and glanced at him.
“Me, too, babe.”
It was such a horrible feeling, because she would miss him. So much. Just not in the way she was supposed to miss him. Not the way a wife should miss her husband.
Before she could go through security, he hugged her tightly. She pressed herself against him, comforted by his familiar smell, his familiar body. He felt so comfortable to her.
Maybe that's our problem, we just got too comfortable.
He kissed her goodbye, a chaste pressing of lips. No tongue. Nothing overly emotional. Of course not. She clung to him, but he became embarrassed. Pulled away. She wanted to get angry. She was about to climb into a metal tube of death, that could fall five miles out of the sky, dropping her to a fiery grave – couldn't she get a little passion? A little emotion?
Just a little tongue!?
Once she was through security, she waved once more at him. He blew her a kiss, which she caught, then she walked away. Picked up her pace, dragging her carry on bag behind her.
She passed several gates before she realized she was crying.
~Mischa~
You have to understand, I wasn't trying to “have my cake and eat it, too.” That wasn't what it was about.
I was a horrible person, who just didn't want to hurt her best friend.
Of course I had talked to him about it, of course I had broached the subject with him – but when you're shot down at so many turns, you begin to fire back. Sometimes in a not very noble way.
I'm not trying to make excuses. There is no excuse for what I did. I should have broken up with him. Point, blank, period. I know this. I know this.
But when you're looking at your best friend, a person who is a part of the fabric of your being, and you can literally see their heart start to break, well … it takes a lot of strength to smash that heart all the way. To disintegrate it.
It takes someone stronger than I am.
So then you do begin to make excuses.