Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [66]
Then his cell phone rang. “Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, Grace,” he said with an apologetic smile, glancing at the screen of the phone. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
“No, no, go ahead,” I said, sipping my G&T. Do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.
Lester flipped open his phone. “What do you want, bitch?” he demanded, his face contorting with fury.
I choked and sputtered, lurching up straight in my seat. Around us, patrons grew still. Lester ignored us all.
“Well, guess where I am?” he barked, turning slightly away from me. “I’m at a bar with a woman! So there, you disgusting whore! And I’m going to take her back to our house and I’m going to have sex with her!” His voice grew louder and louder, cracking with intensity. “That’s right! On the couch, in our bed, on the kitchen floor, on the goddamn kitchen table! How do you like that, you cheating, miserable skank?” Then he flipped his phone shut, looked at me and smiled. “So where were we?” he asked pleasantly.
“Uh…” I said, glancing around in frozen horror. “Was that your ex?” I asked.
“She means nothing to me anymore,” Lester said. “Hey, feel like going back to my place? I can cook us some dinner.”
All my internal organs seemed to retract in horror. Suddenly, I wanted no part of Lester’s kitchen, thanks very much. “Gee… um, Lester. Do you think I’d be out of line if I suggested you, uh, weren’t really over her yet?” I tried to smile.
Lester’s face crumpled. “Oh, crap,” he sobbed, “I still love her! I love her and it’s killing me!” He lowered his head to the table and banged his forehead repeatedly, sobbing, snuffling, tears spurting out of his eyes.
I caught the eye of our waitress and pointed to my drink. “I’ll have another,” I called.
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I finally walked Lester to his car, having heard all about Stefania, the coldhearted Russian woman who’d left him for another woman… how he’d gone to her house and bellowed her name over and over and over until the police were summoned and dragged him away… how he’d called her one hundred and seven times in a single night… how he’d defaced Russia from an antique map in the public library and had to serve a hundred hours of community service. I nodded and murmured, sipping my much-needed alcohol (I was walking home, what was the harm?). Artists, I thought as I listened to his tirade. I’d been dumped, too, yet you didn’t see me crapping on anyone’s lawn. Maybe Kiki would like him….
“So, hey. Good luck, Les,” I said, rubbing my hands on my upper arms. The night had grown cooler, and mist hung around the streetlamps.
“I hate love,” he declared to the heavens. “Just crush me now, why don’t you? Kill me, universe!”
“Chin up,” I said. “And… well. Thanks for the drinks.”
I watched as he drove out of the parking lot—no way in hell I was getting in the car with him, no matter how benign his offer of a ride had been. Sighing, I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock on a Wednesday night. Another man down.
Drat. I’d forgotten my statue inside, and whether its maker was insane or not, I liked it. In fact, it might well have more value in the near future. Metalsmith institutionalized. Prices soar. I made a mental note to strangle Margaret as soon as I got home. She was a lawyer, after all. Maybe next time she fixed me up, she could run a quick background check.
I went back inside, retrieved my little statue, wove my way once again through the sea of bodies crammed into Blackie’s and pushed the door to leave. It was stuck. I pushed harder and it opened abruptly, thudding against someone who was trying to come at the same moment.
“Ouch,” he said.
I closed my eyes. “Watch where you’re going,” I muttered by way of greeting.
“I should’ve known it was you,” Callahan O’Shea said. “Hitting the sauce, Grace?”
“I was on a date, thanks