If Peter was dead or captured and the FBI knew it, they’d stop following me around. Same goes for whoever Peter hired.
It’s not much of a relief—he could still be badly hurt somewhere—but it’s something.
It’s what lets me get up every morning and go about my day despite the gnawing pit in my stomach.
“There you are!” Marsha pops up next to me, beaming with that unique glow that only alcohol-enhanced dancing generates. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”
“I’m here,” I assure her as the bartender hands me my drink. “Just got delayed at the clinic—you know how that goes.”
She nods sympathetically and tells the bartender, “A Corona, please.”
He hands her the bottle, and she clinks it against my glass. “To finally getting you out,” she says, and I laugh as my friend takes a long sip.
“So,” she says, “how have you been? I can’t believe March is around the corner, and we haven’t hung out since your first week back.”
“Ugh, I know.” I make a face. “Sorry about that. It’s just that with my mom and everything—”
Marsha cuts me off with a wave of her beer. “Say no more. I get it, I do. Just tell me one thing…” She looks around, then leans closer, laying a hand on my forearm. “Are you okay, hon?” Her voice is soft despite the blaring music, her gaze lingering on the now-faded scar on my forehead. “We never really talked about… well, about what happened.”
My throat tightens. “I told you what happened.”
She nods gravely. “I know. I’m not talking about that. How are you handling it?”
“I’m”—stressed to the max, unable to eat or sleep, having nightmares about Peter hurt or dead—“fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Marsha glances down at my forearm, which looks particularly skinny and pale under her tan, sleekly manicured fingers. “That’s why you’re imitating an anatomy lab skeleton.”
I pull my arm away. “I’m on a diet.”
She sighs and leans back. “I see.”
I sip my drink, wishing I could tell her the truth: that I’m not suffering from psychological trauma but missing the man who did this to me, that I’m waiting for him to return and reclaim me. Except if I say that, I might as well sign my own jail sentence.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. Putting on a bright smile, I say, “How about we stop talking about depressing stuff and just go dance?”
Marsha hesitates, then grins. “All right. Dance it is.”
I grab her hand, and we make our way to the crowded dance floor. They’re just starting to play one of Nicki Minaj’s latest hits, and I laugh as I remember belting out my own version of this song to the guys back in Japan.
Marsha laughs too, tilting her head back to gulp her beer, and we start dancing. I sing along, substituting some of my own lyrics at key spots, and before long, we’re genuinely having fun. The beat vibrates through my bones, making my feet move of their own accord, and I giggle as some of my drink spills on my hand.
“Hold on,” I tell Marsha and down the rest of my gin and tonic to avoid another accident. Setting the empty glass on a nearby table, I push my way through the crowd to the bar and order a bottle of beer—much more dance-floor friendly. By the time I return, Marsha is already dancing with a couple of new guys, and as I approach, she grabs my hand, pulling me toward them.
“This is Bill and Rob,” she shouts over the loud music, and I smile uncomfortably. This is not what I had in mind when I agreed to this outing with Marsha.
“I’m going to go use the restroom,” I say, leaning in so Marsha can hear. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you.” Marsha abandons her companions without a second look and follows me through the crowd.
It’s still early in the night, so the line to the ladies’ room isn’t too bad. As we wait, Marsha tells me all about the club she went to with Tonya last weekend and the hot guy she met there. I listen, smile, and nod, marveling the entire time at how different my friend’s life is, how straightforward and uncomplicated. When was the last time my biggest concern was whether a guy is likely to call me? College, maybe? When I met George, my dating life ground to a halt, and I didn’t resume it after his death.
Peter claimed me before I got the chance.
We finally make it to the bathroom, take care of business, and then return to the dance floor. It’s even more crowded now, so after a half hour of being shoved around and having drinks spilled on us, Marsha yells in my ear, “Let’s get out of here.”
I gratefully follow her out, and we go to a lounge a couple of blocks down the street, where we plop down at the bar and listen to a live band playing eighties rock songs interspersed with recent Top 100 hits. “You sing, right?” Marsha asks after we knock back a couple of shots, and I nod, my head spinning from the alcohol.