You Are Not Alone(58)
She straightened up and glanced in the mirror, dabbing her fingertip below her right eyebrow to remove a smudge of mascara. Then her eyes widened. How could she have forgotten her lip gloss? That simple mistake could have derailed everything. She reached for a tissue and wiped off the peachy-pink shimmer.
She hadn’t been able to eat anything all day. She knew she should nibble on something, especially because she’d be drinking soon, but her stomach was clenched in knots.
She took a last look around her apartment. Tupperware containers on her kitchen counter held the evidence of her sleepless night: lemon poppy-seed muffins, cream cheese brownies, and classic chocolate-chip cookies. Cooking was her therapy.
She stepped out into the sweltering evening.
She’d imagined this night many times. Now that it was finally here, it took on a surreal quality. Her senses heightened: She flinched at the blaring horn from an idling Uber and turned her head away from the noxious smell of the puddle left by the Labradoodle being walked a few feet ahead of her.
The air felt thick and dense, as if it wanted to hold her back.
Perspiration began to gather under her arms, but she couldn’t hail a cab just yet. She needed to put a few more blocks between her home address and the pickup stop. She stopped on the busy corner of Park and Thirty-second and raised her hand. It was rush hour, and even in August, with the city’s quieter rhythms, it took another precious four minutes for one to stop.
She slipped into the backseat and gave her destination, then ducked her head, pretending to be busy on her phone. Normally, she engaged cabdrivers in conversation. She enjoyed hearing their stories: She’d chatted with drivers who’d been cruising the streets of Manhattan for decades and had the thick Brooklyn accents to prove it, immigrants who’d worked as engineers in their home countries, and cabbies who’d ferried around celebrities and loved recounting their brushes with the famous.
Tonight the only noise in the cab came from Jeopardy!’s Alex Trebek on the touchscreen: “The title of this popular Netflix show about female prisoners references two colors.”
A jitney bus pulled sharply into their lane, making the driver slam on his brakes.
“Sorry, lady,” he said, catching Amanda’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“It’s okay,” she muttered, ducking her head again.
The bar was approaching; the distinctive red awning was just two blocks away.
“This it?” The cabbie pulled over in front of a Mexican restaurant. The fare was $15.60. She gave him a folded twenty and slipped out.
She waited until he was halfway down the block before she slipped on the glasses she’d purchased for tonight and began to walk briskly.
She entered Twist twenty minutes behind schedule. She stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Coldplay’s “Yellow” played through the sound system, and the click of a cue hitting a pool ball came from the back of the room.
She spotted Beth at the far end of the big, L-shaped bar, a glass of white wine in front of her. Beth’s eyes skimmed over Amanda without stopping.
The bar was moderately crowded; it was a Thursday night. If she’d made it here on time, there might have been more empty stools.
But the only unclaimed ones were at the end by Beth.
She looked around again, as if deciding where to plant herself. A couple of men played pool in the back room. Other people were scattered at tables and booths.
She took a deep breath and moved toward the bar, wedging herself into the small spot between two occupied stools. She smiled at the bartender, who was filling up a glass with beer from a tap. He gestured that he’d be right over to help her.
She felt dizzy. Her lack of sleep, the two cups of coffee she’d consumed during her shift, her empty stomach—it was all conspiring against her.
She tensed her leg muscles to try to stop them from shaking, then leaned against the bar, jostling the man to her right. He turned around reflexively.
She leaned forward and pressed her arms to her sides so the V-neck of her dress plunged more deeply. “Sorry,” she said just as the bartender came to take her order. “What are you having? That looks good!”
The guy on the stool—late thirties, broad shouldered, thinning blond hair—lifted up his nearly empty glass. “Whiskey and soda.”
Amanda nodded to the bartender and handed him a twenty-dollar bill: “We’ll take two.”
“Hey, thanks.” The man spun around a quarter turn to fully face Amanda. He looked her up and down, appearing to like what he saw. “I’m James.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SHAY
Four indications people may be uncomfortable with you:
1.??They touch their neck (where there are nerve endings; this can unconsciously help calm them down).
2.??Their feet are pointed away from you.
3.??They avoid eye contact or wince.
4.??They cross their arms or physically withdraw and place an object between you (such as pulling a pillow on their lap).
—Data Book, page 53
NORMALLY, I’D NEVER WALK INTO a boutique like this. You can tell from the outside the clothes are pricey and chic. I can see why Cassandra and Jane shop here, but I’m out of my element.
When I step inside Daphne’s, however, my shoulders instantly relax. It smells delicious—like fresh citrus. Upbeat music is playing, something with a great rhythm, and yummy-looking mini-cupcakes are set out on a platter. The little store has an aura of happiness.