Oh my god, I need a new life.
Not that I’d ever confess how truly boring I am with a man whose weekends probably consist of nonstop sex romps and a couple of orgies thrown in for good measure. The last thing I need is his pity on Sunday when I catch him pushing his latest glamour girl out the door.
With considerable sarcasm, I say, “You know me, one party after another.”
He runs a hand over his washboard stomach, wiping away the dirt that clings to his perfect body.
Hell, if I got to touch that, I’d cling too.
“Good for you, but remember what I told you,” he says, completely missing my scorn.
Ah yes, the icing on the cake. The continued proof he barely sees me as a woman. This is our little game, and even though it annoys me, I parrot back his favorite line. “Yeah, yeah… Stay away from guys like you.”
“Good girl.” Lukas is a whole three years older than me, and therefore has taken it upon himself to act like my much older, much wiser brother.
It makes me want to jab him with a sharp object.
Boy, thirty is making me unreasonable.
“Sure,” I say, wanting to get away from this miserable conversation. I turn, starting back up my front walk.
“Happy birthday, Abby,” he calls.
I wave over my shoulder, wishing I could flip him off without looking like a lunatic. Instead I’ll settle for a fast getaway. In ballet flats that look fashionable on other women but sensible on me, I bound up the stairs two at a time, desperate for the comfort of my house. Moments later, I shut out the outside world and slump against my door.
This sucks.
At fifteen, I’d lie on my bed and dream of the day I’d be free. I’d travel to exotic lands, go to fantastic parties where some mysterious, powerful man would sweep me away. Obviously I’d spent too much time sneaking my mother’s Harlequins, but at least I’d had dreams.
Now, fifteen years later, I’m a bored, dissatisfied thirty-year-old accountant who’s never really done anything remotely interesting. What happened to that girl who’d craved adventure? I throw my purse on the foyer table, kick off my shoes and pad into the living room.
Unable to help myself, I walk to the big picture window, watching as Lukas attacks his bushes with a hedger. Those heavily muscled biceps bunch under the exertion, gleaming with sweat. The scene has all the makings of good porn, but I can’t enjoy it.
God, I hate him.
Sick of my own pathetic thoughts, I turn away from the window and stomp into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator. I reach for some water only to freeze when a bottle of readymade margarita mix I’d forgotten catches my eye.
I stare at it. A good stiff drink, that’s what I need. I nibble on my bottom lip. Do I really want to be one of those people who drink alone? That’s drifting dangerously into Eden territory, a fate I avoid at all costs.
Ah, what the hell. One time won’t hurt. I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. Alcohol is bound to help.
I pull out the bottle; grab the tequila hidden in my top cabinet and a glass with ice. I fill the tumbler half full of alcohol and splash in some of the margarita mix to take out the bite.
I’m going to have my own party.
Happy birthday, indeed.
* * *
Thank you, Jose Cuervo.
One hour later, tequila has done wonders for my mental perspective.
So I’m thirty and destined for a life on the straight and narrow. Who cares?
There are worse lots in life. Acceptance is the key. So what if I’d never travel to exotic lands or be whisked away by a handsome stranger? Big deal. I’m almost forty percent sure excitement is overrated.
Safe and narrow is great. Exactly where I need to be. According to the actuarial tables, I’ll live a long life, so it’s important to accept my nature.