“No, you’re wrong. He ended things with me,” I sneer.
“Whatever, and don’t you take that tone with me, missy. Your bullshit won’t fly with me. All I’m saying is that maybe you’re hurting a little bit and that being with another guy is not going to make the pain go away. Don’t let another guy use you or treat you like shit.”
“Newsflash, honey, I use them too. Besides, I’ve had fun with most of the guys I’ve dated. I’ve been to Paris and Milan just for shopping sprees. I’ve fucked a guy senseless in the presidential cabin of the Oriental Express while touring Asia. I’m living in an apartment in Murray Hill for free, as long as I keep getting on my knees and opening my mouth. You call it being used, but I call it being smart and resourceful. All of my relationships are mutually beneficial. Trust me on that.”
“But—”
I don’t want to look at my reflection in the mirror anymore, so I get off the chair, feeling the slight thump of my heels when they connect with the floor. As I move to stand next to Elly, we stare at each other, resignation reflects in her eyes, or maybe it’s sadness. The urge to cry comes over me, but as quickly as it comes, I’m able to control the slight trembling of my lips. I’m able to swallow over the knot in my throat and pretend that, for one short second, I wasn’t tempted to get lost in the comfort of her warm embrace while I confessed that Walker had indeed hurt me; that I need my best friend now more than ever. However, the opportunity comes and goes, and like a departing train for which I’m too late, I watch the chance disappear over the horizon. I shake my head and lean down, kissing her cheek. “Can we drop it? I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Elly shakes her head, making her short brown hair brush the outline of her jaw. “Fine, be your usual shit-don’t-bother-Blaire self, but if you want to talk about it or if you need a good cry—”
“I’m not going to. I’m wearing my favorite Chanel mascara, and I like it too much to waste it on him.”
She sighs. “Oh, girl, what am I going to do with you?”
“Nothing. Just love me like I love you.” I smile and grip her hand, squeezing it hard. “Thank you, Elly. I mean it. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
She squeezes my hand back. “Just know that I’m here for you, okay?”
I nod. “All right, get your cute ass behind the bar before I get you in trouble. I need to go talk to Carl about the computer at the hostess station. I think Carla messed up the program because some reservations won’t show up,” I say.
Later that night, when the restaurant is at its busiest, I smile at the couples waiting to be seated as I go over my conversation with Elly in my head. I don’t want to explain to her why I called Lawrence because it would mean having to admit that Walker actually hurt me. That he managed to get under my skin when I least expected it and, like the Trojan horse, showed me how vulnerable I still am by cracking the indestructible walls I thought I erected. He showed me that they were breakable.
If I’m honest with myself, I feel like shit, but I will make sure that never happens again. I’m Blaire White after all.
I don’t wallow.
I don’t cry.
I move on.
I forget.
I discard … or get discarded.
I’m a survivor.
I’m resilient.
I will always have the last say in what goes on in my life. I’ve gone through too much not to. And if that means maybe getting involved with someone who is actually willing to pay me to sleep with him at the expense of feelings, so be it.
I don’t care.
I’M LYING IN BED TRYING TO figure out what to do with my day. I don’t have anything going on until work later tonight, and staring at my white ceiling fan while I wonder if the blades could actually cut my head off is not what I consider healthy or fun.
I shake my head, dismissing the morbid thought, and stretch my body, yawning. Minutes pass in silence where the only sounds I can hear are my steady breathing and the noises coming from outside the window.
I grab my old copy of Persuasion—my favorite novel—and try to get lost in the love story of Captain Wentworth and his Anne Elliot. But today, not even Jane Austen’s witty narrative will do. I’m restless and I can’t focus.
Putting the book down on my nightstand table, I get out of bed and go to the bathroom to take a shower. I have to get moving so I can avoid thinking about what the hell I’m doing with my life and what is my purpose to exist other than sucking a rich man dry. It’s quite annoying because as easy as it is to lie to everyone, it’s close to impossible to lie to oneself since deep down we always know whether we are a failure or not.
And, oh, boy, don’t I know it.
I decide to spend my time shopping. Yep, that’s something that doesn’t require much thinking, and there’s no woe that a great outfit won’t solve. And if it doesn’t, at least I’ll look good.
After I settle on a cute chocolate-brown, bohemian babydoll dress with a very delicate flower pattern, and loafer ankle boots, I take a shower and finish getting ready. But as I apply my makeup, I think that maybe I shouldn’t go shopping since I need to make Walker’s money last until I find someone else. I guess one of the reasons why I’ve managed to stay debt free for this long is because I only splurge when I’m dating someone who will take care of the bill. I try to avoid tapping into my personal savings account.
But then I remember Lawrence …
After buying a short leather skirt and a silk cream blouse with black piping, I leave Barneys. I’m standing outside the department store, watching people walk past me or cross the street, oblivious to the world beyond their minds, so I decide to take a walk as well.
I end up sitting on the wall at the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. Once I place my shopping bag on the ground, I lean forward, dipping my fingers in the cool, greenish water as I look up at the famous Angel of the Waters. There are about a dozen pigeons scattered on its wings and hands, but only one sitting atop the statue’s head. He looks lonely. My eyes remain trained on the bird until it flies away, then I scan the surrounding area protected in trees.
The heat is rising. The air is hot and humid, almost oppressive, and the light sheen of sweat that covers my skin makes the dress I’m wearing cling to my body. I’m staring at the young couple making out to my right, when someone sits next to me, his or her leg bumping into mine.
Out of reflex, I glance to my left and find a boy of maybe five or six years eating a salted pretzel. It looks delicious, and I guess my stomach agrees because it grumbles loudly in protest. Self-conscious, I wrap my arms around my middle as I realize that I haven’t eaten anything all day. The boy must hear the embarrassing sound because he turns to look at me, smiling sweetly.
I flush. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay, my belly growls all the time. Mommy tells me that I eat like a champ because I’m growing up.” He breaks off a piece of the doughy bread and hands it to me. “Would you like some? It’s really yummy.”
My mouth waters as I stare at the piece of bread in his hand, but I don’t want to take it. I don’t do carbs. At all. It’s a hang-up I have, particularly because if I close my eyes and concentrate hard enough, I can still remember being cruelly teased about my weight by Paige and her friends.