is her problem?”
“Hell if I know.”
To my horror, the hostess leads Arlene to the far back of the shop where Risha and I are.
“Oh, God,” I mumble.
Moaning in frustration, I look to my right as Arlene is seated in the leather pedicure chair on my left.
Risha’s lips twist in disapproval.
“Hello, ladies.”
Arlene’s nasally voice has always irritated me, that and the way she walks around with her head held higher than everyone else’s, like she’s extra special.
“Hello,” Risha responds, in an exaggerated airy tone— the tone of fake affection she reserves for people she doesn’t like.
For a moment I debate simply ignoring the bitch. I mean, why pretend we’re friends when we’re not? But after a couple seconds, I paste a sugary smile on my face and turn to her— the only greeting I can find it in my soul to give her. Arlene and I were never friends, but after I saw her at my fiancé’s place in a serious lip lock with him only days after we’d broken up, I knew I could never keep up the pretense of being civil to her.
That decision was solidified when Arlene starting flaunting the rock Adam gave her shortly after our own engagement ended.
A minute passes. I pretend to be completely absorbed in the issue of Black Hair magazine I scooped up before I sat down.
“Have you heard from Adam?”
My head turns to my left so fast, it’s a surprise I don’t get whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“I hear he’s spending time in D.C.,” Arlene tells me in a tone that says she’s proud to be sharing information I likely don’t know. “He’s apparently exploring work opportunities. I figure he’ll make a permanent move there, given his political ambitions. Especially since he’s got family there he can stay with.”
“His cousin, Milton. Senate aid. Yes, I know. Adam and I were together for four years, remember?” My tone is testy, but I can’t stop myself.
“Of course.” Arlene plasters a fake smile on her face. “Look, I figured you’d want to know what he’s been up to.”
“Really? And why is that?”
The water sloshes around Arlene’s feet as she shifts her butt in her chair to fully face me. “Because we share a common bond—whether you want to accept that or not.”
This enrages me. Arlene’s gall at acting as if she and I have both suffered equally at Adam’s hands.
As Alice begins to buff my feet, I say to Arlene, “We have nothing in common.”
“He hurt both of us.”
“And you seem like you still want to him back, even though the whole world knows he’s a perverted freak. What Adam does with his life doesn’t interest me in the least. He could be starring in gay porn in D.C. for all I care.”
Arlene’s jaw flinches at my words, and I know I’ve hit the nail head-on. Tsking, she shakes her head. “So bitter.” She pauses. “Bitter enough to spew nasty lies?”
I slam the magazine down on my lap. “Tell me, Arlene—how long were you fucking my fiancé before we broke up?”
I expect shock from Arlene. Instead, her face fills with smugness. “If you’d been able to satisfy him, he wouldn’t have ended up in my bed.”
“You bitch. I more than satisfied Adam.”
Risha grips my arm. “Claudia—”
“Adam was a freak, okay?” I feel everyone’s eyes on me—Alice’s, Bree’s, the stylists’ at the other end of the salon and their patrons—but I don’t stop. “A pathetic freak who liked all kinds of disgusting sex. When I found out about that, I knew I could no longer be with him. But you—how many times have you been engaged again? Three? Four? At least I’m not desperate enough to settle for anyone.”
Arlene glances around uneasily, though her eyes flash fire. “Adam was right about you. You’re bitter because he dumped you, and you started those rumors about him to ruin our relationship.”
I laugh out loud at that. “Yeah, that’s how it happened. And here I thought you were just desperate to finally get married, why you were so willing to settle for my rejects. But you’re really as much of a freak as Adam, aren’t you? You two really should get married. You deserve each other.”
Arlene’s gaze is venomous, but she doesn’t respond.
I pull my feet away from Alice, apologizing as I do. “I don’t think I can stomach sitting here any longer. Something foul in the air is getting to me.”
Arlene quickly stands and steps out of the bubbly water soaking her feet. “I’ll save you the trouble. I’ll leave.”
As Arlene slips her wet feet into her sandals, I casually lift the magazine off my lap. But I don’t open it. Instead I face Risha.
She offers me a “You go girl!” smile, then squeezes my hand in support.
When I arrive home—which happens to be an apartment within my parents’ very large house—I kick off my shoes, then head straight into my bedroom. I fluff my down-filled pillows and settle my back against them, sighing as I do. That’s the only moment of repose I allow myself, because I need to seriously bitch to my two best friends about Arlene Nash. Hopefully I can get both Annelise and Lishelle on a three-way conference call.
I reach for the phone on my night table, but it rings before I can pick it up.
I lift the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”
“Claudia?”
My back straightens at the faint sound of the male voice on the other end of my line. Surely, it couldn’t be…
“Adam?” I ask cautiously.
There’s a pause, and in that moment of silence, I almost hang up. But then I hear, “No, this isn’t Adam. It’s Greg. Greg Rutherford.”
Greg Rutherford? I frown, wondering why the name sounds familiar, but not recognizing who it is. Then it dawns on me. Greg Rutherford is a guy in my social circle whom I see out at various charity events.
“Oh, hello,” I say, relieved. “Greg, how are you?”
“I’m good. Good.”
“To what do I owe the honor?” I ask, though I already have a sneaking suspicion.
Another pause, long enough that I have to wonder if he heard my question. “Greg?”
“Um, sorry.” I hear some nervous laughter on his end. “Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“She gave me your number. Said you were, uh, interested in getting together. With me.”
“She said what?” I practically shriek. I know my mother has been desperate to marry me off, but how could she?
“I’m sorry. I thought…”
I want to tell Greg to stop apologizing, just be a man and express what he wants. But I see an image of his face and the brown eyes he hides behind thick glasses, and suddenly feel sorry for him. Almost sorry enough to spare his feelings, lie to him and tell him that yes, I did want to get together.
But that would accomplish nothing.
So I go for the truth.
“Greg…I don’t know if my mother told you or not, but I recently ended a relationship.”
“I know. You were engaged to Adam Hart.”
“Right. And…and I’m not anymore. The