Hell on Heels(11)

“And you,” she whistled low, “you look sultry!”

Only Leighton would use a word like sultry to describe someone in regular conversation, and I loved that about her. She looked heart stopping in a low cut black dress that showed off her petite frame and a tiny lace mask.

That had also been a theme to the event; all guest were required to wear black or red, as well as a mask. It was, after all, a traditional masquerade, and aside from the staff or those speaking, everyone’s identity should remain relatively anonymous.

It was then I noticed the male hand at her waist and her use of the word ‘we.’

“We?” I asked, eyeing the man next to her.

“Char, this is Morgan.” Her date reached the hand not affixed to her waist out to me. “Morgan, this is my best friend, Charleston,” Leighton said with unabashed enthusiasm.

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Morgan.”

“Great event,” he praised, which was kind, and I responded with a, “Thank you.”

Leighton turned to him and smiled. “Would you grab me a glass of champagne?”

Her voice was breathy, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Which, in all honesty, wasn’t fair. I didn’t know Morgan, and I was judging him based on the other men who’d, for lack of a better word, screwed her romantically. I didn’t know anything about their, what I gathered to be relatively new, relationship, and I was critiquing it immediately.

I guess that’s natural for the faint of heart though. Those too damaged to give in to hope are all essentially judging books by their covers, even though we had no intention of reading any of them. Sad, I supposed.

“Sure, babe.” He kissed her cheek and disappeared into the slew of people surrounding us.

Hurling herself at me, she wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed. “How are you doing? You okay?”

“I will be.”

It was the lie I told her every year, at every one of Henry’s galas, when she asked. Truth was, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ‘okay.’ I hadn’t been ‘okay’ for a long time.

Letting go, she pulled back and smiled softly. “Yeah.”

“Who’s the guy?” I asked, eager for a change in conversation.

She beamed, smoothing out her dress. “I met him at work! He’s a lawyer on the floor above mine and we met in the elevator.”

She would meet a gorgeous man in an elevator like a made-for-TV movie, and he was gorgeous. His skin was a dark chocolate, and it made the green of his eyes seem as though they saw through you when he spoke. He was taller than me, which meant he towered over Leighton, and even I had to admit she looked adorable tucked protectively into his side.

The jaded parts of me worried for her, but I learned a long time ago not to rain on her parade. Leighton was a big girl and she made her own mistakes. Instead, I smiled back at her and wished that maybe Morgan just might be her Page Six happily ever after.

“You two look cute together,” I offered, and she jumped up and down.

“Don’t we?” She sighed, and I felt a small pang of jealousy for her never depleting romanticism.

It never mattered like that for me.

I could never fall the complete way she did.

Of course, I was only human, and thus hope did get the better of me from time to time, but unlike her, I despised hope.

Hope tricks you into believing in a reality that doesn’t exist.

I guess that’s what makes the reality of dating so sad for someone like me. Sometimes I was the leaver, and sometimes I was the left, not that the distinction mattered much anyhow, the conclusion inevitable regardless. The fall out always being that a part of me was now sewn into the fabric of their heart’s memories. Truth be told, I’d given away so many pieces of my soul over the years that the woman looking back at me over the bathroom sink was often a stranger at best. We’d all sell our souls to the devil himself for a chance at being loved, so I never faulted Leighton for that, but perhaps I had none left to bargain with, soul that is.

I was nothing if not frequent in my fondness of “in for a penny, in for a pound,” but like every gambler, my luck would run dry and I’d turned up broke more than a time or two.

If love was a loan shark, my debt was already well past due, and I’d be left black and blue before the night was through.

It was because of this that hope and I remained in a lustful tangle as frienemies.

You know, I think that was the problem with using people to manufacture and generate a high. People were unpredictable. They were an uncontrollable chemical substance, and thus, the high varied dramatically from person to person encounters, as did the fall.

Some left bruises that faded, and others left scares that wouldn’t ever go away.

Leighton had heartbreak too, frequently, but she rebounded like a warrior. She became braver and more determined with each and every relationship misstep.

It was admirable.

For my heart, albeit wild, was grossly without bravery. The fear in me had bred a coward’s heart.

I’d spent many a night over the years bathing in the dim light of my alarm clock raining black tears on white pillowcases because of men. I was a smart woman, constantly bested by her own romantic inadequacies. I had to wonder though if the tears always came because fear whispered to me that I’d never be enough of something for a man, or if it was because fear challenged that I’d never be enough of something for myself.