“Gee, thanks. You’re quite the ego booster this morning.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Things like that don’t happen to girls like us.”
“Who are girls like us?”
“You know, average girls. We’re cute, smart, successful, but there’s nothing crazy extraordinary about us.”
“And the ego boosts just keep coming,” I say drily.
“Says the girl who just left the hot guy's bed.”
“There is that,” I say, tempted to blow on my fingernails, then shine them on the chest of my dress. Last night was like a coup for ordinary girls everywhere. Because the guy wasn’t that drunk.
Riggs.
That’s his first name. I didn’t ask for his last. Even his name is sexy. I shiver at the memories of his hands roaming my body, his lips murmuring beautiful words, his eyes worshiping in their quest to see everything about me at once, yet still retain each detail. I should be on cloud nine after last night. And part of me is. But the part of me that didn’t leave my number, or get his, and who snuck out while he was in the shower, that part of me knows I’ll never change.
Always preferring the sidelines to center stage; the wall to the middle of the room; the backseat to the driver. Probably because my mom and grandmother are such drivers. There’s not room enough for three of us in the same house. It’s barely tolerable with the two of them. Which reminds me, I never did text my mom or grandma to say I wouldn’t be home. Not that I have a curfew or anything, I’m a grown woman. But they worry when they don’t know where I am or what I’m doing.
The driver turns onto the long dirt drive leading to our house. It’s impressive when you don’t realize that we’re at the tiny square house to the west and not the multi-level chalet straight ahead. But that’s a story for another time. Right now I’ve got to square my shoulders and prepare myself for the onslaught of questions the two pains in my neck are going to shower me with the minute I walk in the door.
“Hey, we’re pulling up to the house, I’ll call you back in a bit,” I tell Tess.
“Later, bad girl.”
I chuckle as I click to end the call and gather my purse, looking around to make sure I haven’t left anything in the back seat. “I can tip through the app, right?” I ask the driver, even though I already know the answer to that.
“Yep,” he nods once as he answers. It’s a dumb question but I don’t know of another way to let the driver know I plan to tip them. I don’t want them driving away thinking I stiffed them until later when they get their paycheck or whatever and realize I did tip them. I mean, by then they may not even remember who I am or what day it was they drove me.
This way they have it on their mind, hopefully for a couple days, and then make the connection that I’m the girl who left the tip. Not that I’ll ever see them again, but that’s not the point. I want them to have the instant gratification of knowing I appreciated them and the service they provided, and that I plan to reward them financially.
I slip inside the front door as quietly as possible in hopes my mom and grandmother are still asleep or at the very least, preoccupied somewhere else. Which turns out to be futile. The familiar voices of the cohosts for a popular morning show are already echoing through the room, followed swiftly by the tenors of my mother and grandmother as they argue the points of the story that just aired. It won’t matter what it was about, they will never see it from the same point of view. Even if one of them has to argue against their personal beliefs, they will over agreeing with the other. It’s not something I understand or even try to.
“There you are!” my grandmother exclaims. “Come here right now, young lady.”
I bow my head slightly and walk toward them, ready to be shamed for staying out all night without calling and then walking in looking like . . . well looking like a hot guy fucked me hard all night long.
“Morning, Grandma.” I lean in to give her a kiss on the cheek. She smiles, but it’s fast, and her face turns hard again.
I brace myself for whatever punishment is about to verbally rain down.
“You tell your mother that Tom Selleck’s mustache is real. That man does not need to use a hair growth treatment on his face. He is all man. A real man. And real men can grow a proper mustache.”
“It’s too lush, Morgan. Look at it, no one has hair like that, facial or otherwise. He’s got to be using extensions or some sort of potion. And it’s definitely dyed.”
I look back and forth between the two of them, not quite believing what I’ve walked into. They’ve rewound the program and have it paused on the man in question. I have to admit, his mustache looks lush, and very dark. Almost too dark. I squint at the screen, trying to see if anything looks amiss. But Tom Selleck looks just as he should, otherworldly handsome with all that thick, dark hair above his lip and atop his head.
Both women lean toward me from their chairs, waiting to hear my answer. As though this will be the time I will produce a tie breaker. I won’t. I never have, and I probably never will.
“Hasn’t it always looked like that?” I ask, trying to take the middle road. “Lush and full? Like, since he was young.”
“Ha,” they both say, even though I’ve proven neither point.
“Okay, well, I’ve got to go get ready for my day and plan out tonight.” I wave over my shoulder as I head down the hall. Still wondering why no one said a word about my appearance or the fact that I was out all night.
3
I take a sip of my wine and continue to survey the crowded hotel ballroom before me. I wish I could say I’m in my element at a wine event, but social things aren’t really my forte. Never mind that I am one of only five winemakers selected to compete for the WCWA award out of the hundreds who entered. To be one of the few who remain is an honor. I should be flying high on some simulated form of self-confidence but I’m not. Mostly because I’m just not that girl who can speak to total strangers with ease.
