3. Elise

3

ELISE

Dark jeans, pewter-gray ankle boots that boost me up a critical three inches to a whopping five and a half feet, and a black blouse, the top button undone to show a hint of flesh. Well, I’m not a nun.

I screw up the corner of my lips, peering at myself in the hotel mirror. I’m so . . . dark. “I look like a widow,” I mutter.

“No. You look like a trendy, modern woman who likes black,” Veronica corrects as she slides chandelier earrings into her ears. She wrenches her gaze back, studying one earlobe. “Why am I wearing these? They might get stuck on a pillow.”

“Or a chair cushion. Don’t rule out the possibility of rambunctious furniture sex.” I wink.

“You’re right. Best to wear studs.”

She bustles out of the bathroom, grabs her jewelry case from her suitcase, and finds, I presume, the studs she’s looking for. Meanwhile, I root around in my bag for another option. Locating a silky purple top, I tug it on. It slides off one shoulder. Just the right amount of sex appeal without being inappropriate.

I hold out my arms wide, giving a half twirl. “How do I look now?”

“Like an eggplant.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a witch.”

“A very sexy eggplant. Please. It was a compliment.”

I eye her getup, which can be described in one word— clingy . “And you look positively like a woman who’s going to enjoy the fuck out of her last night in town.”

She grins widely. “Let’s hope I enjoy the fuck out of it.” She wiggles her hips. “Also, no need to wait up for me.”

“As if I’d wait up for you.”

I smooth a hand over my blouse as my stomach flips with nerves. “Am I really doing this?”

“Yes.” She slides her foot into a red stiletto. “Aren’t you always telling me to enjoy life’s pleasures? To take a lover? To savor each day?”

I tap my chin, smirking. “That does sound vaguely like me. But only in theory.”

“It’s exactly like you,” she says adamantly as she slicks on lip gloss. “Now let’s put it into practice. You’ve been talking ‘seize the day’ ever since you finally came up for air after?—”

I wince.

I don’t like hearing his name. I don’t want her to say his name. Once, not so long ago, his was the only name I ever wanted to hear. At night, in bed—all day long.

Veronica quickly reroutes herself, like a GPS after a wrong turn. “And I love your carpe diem -isms. So, let’s go carpe the hell out of the night. Besides, why is it less crazy for me to see Lars than for you to see . . .” She trails off, waving her hand as if to say you-know-who.

I point to her. “That. Right there. That’s why it’s less crazy. I don’t even know my pseudo-date’s name.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” she says softly, her words laced with meaning.

Maybe she’s right. When you’ve had your heart shredded in a Cuisinart, then your sense of order in the universe sliced off at the knees with a serrated blade, maybe it is best to do things differently.

Tonight will be different. Tonight doesn’t have to lead to anything more. Tonight can be a moment in time. A pleasure I take, not just one I talk about.

We leave our room, head down the escalator, and through the brass revolving door that swooshes us onto the street. The doorman hails a taxi, and we slide inside.

Veronica gives the driver two names. “I have no idea which one is closer, but I checked on my GPS, so I think it’s?—”

“I don’t need a GPS. I know exactly where both are. I will take you first,” the driver says. A few minutes later, he drops Veronica at a restaurant, and then he shoots me a grin.

“Who needs GPS? I’ve lived here my whole life. There isn’t a sight in this city I can’t find.” He taps his forehead and smiles confidently at me in the rearview mirror.

A few minutes later, the car jimmies up to the curb, and he smacks a meaty paw on the black leather seat. “See? No GPS, and here you are.”

“Brilliant,” I say, and press the fare into his palm.

On the street, I glance up at the sign.

It’s a little bistro.

“Huh,” I mumble, because it looked bigger when I checked it out on Yelp. But if I’ve learned anything from my decade in advertising, it’s that photos can beguile you.

But it’s cute enough, and I head inside, my pulse skittering in excitement.

My God, what if he’s a serial killer?

Don’t leave with him, then, girl.

What if he’s a lech?

Walk away.

What if he’s not even here?

He’ll show.

I do a clean sweep of the bistro and its ten tables and Lilliputian bar. There is no Skarsg?rd look-alike.

Perhaps he’s in the little boys’ room.

Or little lads’ room.

Thinking of his English accent makes me smile, and I grab a seat at the bar and order a glass of white wine. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. You don’t ask a woman out while dressed in nothing and then ghost her.

I glance around, then fiddle with a napkin. I need something to do.

Do I stare at my phone as I wait? Or does that make me look too millennial? I don’t want to seem like I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed like an addict when he wanders in.

The bartender slides over a glass, and I pay, then engage in small talk with him—the spring weather, how it’s been a warm season, and so on.

That kills all of two minutes.

Drumming my fingers on the bar, I straighten my shoulders and sip my wine.

And I wait.

And I wait.

Screw not looking like a phone-obsessed junkie. I have a magazine on my cell phone, and I’m going to read a long, in-depth article on growth in the travel sector. There. I’ll be doing business, like I’m not even waiting for him.

I’m keeping myself occupied, and if he shows, fine.

I barely notice the men who stroll into the bistro as I read. Well, I do notice that none look like the man from the dock. I do catalog that none have the impish grin of the handstander.

I’m keenly aware that it’s seven thirty-five and my wineglass is empty, and the sector is growing at 11 percent with the biggest opportunity being on the luxury side, and I’m done, I’m done, I’m done.

No one stands me up.

I leave, hail a cab, and return to the hotel where I promptly get acquainted with the way my evening was intended to unfold: a bubble bath, some music, and a novel.

After I’ve finished soaking, I grab one of those plush hotel bathrobes I never use because I’m not a person who likes bathrobes—since nudity or clothes seem like vastly more reasonable choices—but tonight feels like a bathrobe kind of night.

Bathrobes are for disappointment.

It’s easier to drown your temporary sorrow while wearing terry cloth.

Flopping down on the bed, I crack open my book again.

A little while later the door creaks, then it slides open with a loud, demanding groan. Laughter spills into the room. A man with a soft lilt to his English accent says, “I’ll make your last night so worth it.”

Worth it.

Those words resonate with me.

Trysts can make a night worthwhile. Can make a moment sing.

I’m glad Veronica’s going to have a fabulous night.

Even if it means my game plan has changed.

They stumble around the corner, and I wave at Veronica and Lars. Her lipstick is smeared. I hold up a hand before she can even breathe a word. “I’ll go make myself scarce in the lobby bar.”

“You’re a saint,” Lars says to me with a flirty smile. “A French saint. And she’s a French angel.”

“I don’t think she’s an angel, Lars,” I say.

“Even better.” He buries his face against her neck, smothering her skin in kisses.

“You don’t mind?” Veronica’s breath catches. “Oh my.”

That last comment was not meant for me.

“Enjoy yourself. Seize the night.”

“I will,” she says breathily. “Did you already seize yours?”

“He didn’t show.”

She knits her brow. “He didn’t?”

“Trust me, I scanned all of Jane for my handstander,” I say, tugging on panties and leggings under the robe, then dipping into the bathroom to pull on a sweatshirt.

When I pop out, Lars lifts his chin at me. “Did you go to Jane the bistro, or The Jane , the hip, trendy lounge bar that’s supposed to be popular with French ex-pats down on Kronerghaven?”

I freeze. “Are you kidding me? There are two Janes?”

Lars laughs, as he yanks Veronica impossibly closer. “It’s such an easy name to say and to spell. It was good for the tourists. But the newest one is The Jane.”

Veronica gasps and jumps up and down. “You know he went to the other Jane. You could still go and find him.”

Her excitement is adorable and thoroughly misplaced. I shake my head. “It’s eleven thirty. Have fun. Good night.”

“ Bonsoir ,” Lars says, a dirty sound to his voice that makes it clear he intends to give Veronica a hefty dose of bonsoir .

Grabbing my book, my glasses, and my phone, I head to the bar.

I’ve no interest in drinking though, so I find an empty chair at the edge of the lobby bar and tuck my feet under my legs.

I read till one in the morning.

With no sign of Veronica, I head to the front desk. “Do you have any extra rooms tonight?”

A ponytailed attendant smiles, taps the keyboard, then frowns. “We are all sold out.”

“Are you sure?”

“So sorry. But yes, I’m sure.”

I return to my chair. Surely, Veronica can’t go all night long.

But at two thirty, it’s still me and my book.

I yawn, barely able to stay awake anymore. My eyes flutter closed, and before I know it, I sit bolt upright at five thirty, greeted by the blazingly bright morning sun, and a massive crick in my neck, having spent the night curled up in an uncomfortable emerald green leather chair in the lobby of my hotel.

But it was worth it, evidently, I learn when I return to the room, greeted by a contrite but glowing Veronica.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t fetch you. We were busy, and then we were busy again, and then I crashed, and I’m the worst friend in the world.”

“Don’t even think twice about it. I’m glad you were—wink, wink—busy,” I say as we pack.

“I’m terrible. But you truly are a saint,” Veronica declares as she stuffs clothes and makeup hastily in her bag.

“I’ll be awaiting my official canonization any day, then.”

Sitting back on her heels, she tugs the zipper with vigor, sealing her suitcase. She grabs her phone when it buzzes, then scans the message as I check and double-check that my passport is secure.

“Eek! The airline gave me a first-class upgrade.”

“Lucky you.”

She dances her way over to me, her eyes twinkling. “No. Lucky you. It’s my gift to you for the valorous act of compassion you performed last night for me.”

“No, I can’t,” I say, but I can, I truly can.

“I insist.”

Twisting my tired arm won’t be hard. “Really?”

“Take it. You deserve it.”

All the way to the airport, Veronica tells me it was the best sex of her life. The best night of her life. The most interesting man she’s ever met. She can’t stop smiling. She can’t stop beaming. “I’m happy, Elise. I’m ridiculously happy.”

Happy.

What does it take to be happy anymore?

“Will you see him again?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Doubtful. He’s a boat captain in Denmark. I’m a candy-maker in France.” Veronica runs a handful of popular artisan candy shops in Paris. “Besides, I don’t need something to last to make me happy. I don’t even need something to happen twice for me to enjoy it. Though, let me tell you, it was three times.”

She’s brimming over in the morning-after glow of great sex, buzzed on the lingering effects. I know too well what that’s like, to be so blissed out that anything feels possible.

Turning, I stare out the window as the brick buildings and cobbled pedestrian streets give way to sleeker, more modern structures. I wonder how I should live my life now—a year after everything with Eduardo fell to pieces. Like Veronica, daring and wild? Or perhaps like me, the woman who lubricated a magical kind of night for a friend?

She’s glowing. I’m thinking.

She’s bubbling. I’m contemplating.

Who do I want to be?

When we reach the airport, make our way through security, and step onto the plane, I sink into a plush, first-class seat.

It’s so lush, so comfortable, and so precisely what I need.

I sigh happily, then laugh at myself. My friend is on cloud nine from orgasms. I’m walking on air from a leather seat.

Maybe last night wasn’t such a loss after all. Maybe it was the start of starting over.

As a spectator.

As the sidekick.

As the friend who sleeps in the lobby so one of her besties can seize the day.

Yes, that’s the better path for me. I have a business to run, a company to shore up, and a heart that I won’t let out to play again. Life is for living well, not loving well.

I shut my eyes, briefly wondering if I’ll ever see the man from the dock again.

The world doesn’t work like that. You only see a naked handstander once.

That’s just how life is.