16. Lola

The week that followed was perhaps the longest and darkest of my life.

I had known there was something hiding under the surface when it came to Willow. I had never felt like Willow was keeping a secret from me. Instead, I’d felt like she hadn’t found the right moment to share all of herself yet. And I was okay with that because I thought we had forever.

I could have looked her up on Google. I know I could have. I knew that it would have given me the answers.

But I had chosen to respect Willow’s privacy. Sharing was something to be earned, not just taken.

But after the two-line break-up text I got, I guessed that Google was now fair game.

‘Willow Rutherford,” I typed with a desperate twist deep in my stomach.

Google held nothing back.

Willow Elizabeth Rutherford. Daughter of Senator Jackson Rutherford Jr.

Of course. Why had I not connected her name to his? When I looked at his photo next to hers, I could see the same strong nose and hazel eyes with flecks of amber.

Willow Rutherford. The senator’s daughter.

A woman like her doesn’t date strippers, Lola.

Her life had been documented via magazines I would never read. Her family was splashed across pages and pages of who’s who. Photos of Willow on yachts with billionaires and at the Hamptons with A-list celebrities. Interview articles where her father’s unscrupulous business decisions were questioned, and Willow’s stoic, no-comment responses. The preppy schools, the studies abroad, and even a college with had her last name on half the buildings on campus.

I knew Willow. My Willow. But Willow Elizabeth Rutherford, Senator Rutherford’s daughter, was a stranger to me.

Still, I held on tight. I understood exactly what had happened. She hadn’t wanted to tell me in case it changed things, which it would have. How could it not?

And if Willow had told me, then we would have had to confront the inevitable question of what was going on between us. And where could it possibly lead.

Women like her don’t date women like me.

She hadn’t told her parents because . . . well. We all know why. Then suddenly Willow’s world was upended, so she retreated and hid from who she really is.

All that I could understand, could forgive. I still saw a future for us when the dust settled. Perhaps she’d be able to see it too, I told myself.

Until I got the letter.

If I thought the harshness of a two-sentence text was tough to bear, the reality of two pages about why we would not work, could not work, and how it had all just been some little sex fantasy and she was sorry, truly, truly sorry to disappoint, but if I were to contact her again, lawyers would be contacted.

Then to top it off was the crisp, freshly written check, with the name left blank, because she didn’t even know my name, for the amount of one million dollars.

That was the price she was putting on my heart, which was now shattered into a million pieces and strewn across the floor. But the check did help me in one way. It helped me feel angry. It helped me feel the burning rage of injustice inside me.

I might be in love with her, but in writing that check, Willow made me a whore. An expensive one, but a whore nonetheless. And I was a lot of things. I never judge anyone who sells themselves, but our love was so much more than that.

I had seen enough movies and read enough books to know that I was supposed to tear up that check with indignation, that I was supposed to ride along on my moral high horse with my broke ass looking cute all the way up there.

Except I was angry and I’m not stupid. I knew a million dollars would change my life. So, I cashed it. And while I longed to go on a huge shopping spree, instead I enrolled at college for fall to study business and I let Landon know that I would finish at the club after the summer.

I didn’t tell anyone else about the money, for lots of reasons, but the main one was shame. They would either think bad of me--or worse, well of me. But either way, I would use the money to change my life. I would show Willow Elizabeth Rutherford that I might be a whore, but I was a smart one, and that she was the one who had missed out.

Landon took the news well. I walked into his office, my heart pounding with anticipation. The atmosphere in the dimly lit room felt like a mix of excitement and secrecy. A worn-out leather couch sat against one wall, its cracks revealing years of use. A desk cluttered with papers and empty coffee cups stood as a silent witness to the busy nights the place had seen.

A framed poster of an exotic dancer adorned the peeling wallpaper, her sultry gaze captivating anyone who dared to look. I couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of connection to her, knowing that we both embraced our sexuality in a world that tries so hard to suppress it.

The air was heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, mingling together to create an intoxicating aroma. It reminded me of the late nights I had spent dancing under neon lights, lost in the rhythm of the music and the energy of the crowd.

I glanced at the mirror hanging on the back of the door, catching a glimpse of myself. My reflection stared back at me, hair tousled from hours of teasing. Makeup slightly smudged from sweat and exertion. But in this moment, I feel more alive than ever before because, finally, I can feel an end in sight. And it’s one of my choosing. I wouldn’t have to settle for the future that Pearl ended up with.

I’m short and direct, but I tell Landon that I’m giving him a couple of months’ notice, so I think we can end on good terms. He agrees that we can and says that he appreciates that. Unasked questions linger in the air, but I don’t feel the need to volunteer any more information.

He leans forward, though, with those dreamy blues, and asks me softly, “You gonna be okay, Lola? Because if you need anything--if you’re in trouble--I can help.”

It’s Landon’s genuine concern that pushes me to tell him just a little more. “I’m going back to school. It’s time. I can’t do this forever. I got a chance and I just think I should take it. Try and sit that side of the desk for a change—with more clothes on.” I grin and he smirks.

“You belong on either side of this desk, probably over it too on some occasions, clothing optional. But good. I am proud of you. If you need anything, you call me, okay? This place is special to me, but it isn’t my only venture in town. Maybe I have a better fit for you, when the time comes.”

“Maybe you do, Landon, but either way . . . I’ll be sad to say goodbye to you and this place.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be gone for good. It’s still one of the best-stocked bars this side of the river.”

“I will pass on to Pearl your high praise.” I grin as I stand, and he does too. A second passes. Do we hug, shake hands, or go for the side cheek kiss? Instead, Landon shrugs, with his soft smile, and sits back down.

“I don’t like goodbyes anyway. Get out of here.” I go to leave. As the door closes, Landon calls after me, “And you still gotta put on the best shows! I ain’t paying you for half-assed booty shaking!” he hollers, in his best leery strip guy voice. I laugh as I head to the stage, the exit countdown on. I keep my heart in an armored box, never showing the faintest hint of just how broken it is, underneath the steel cage.