Broken Vows, New Temptations

Evangeline

Three weeks ago…

No more tears. That’s final. I’ve made up my mind. That growing pile of damp tissues beside my pillow? It stops here. I’m done.

No more dwelling. I need to take charge of what comes next.

Regrettably, there’s just one option. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only one I can think of.

“Dad,” I say, relieved when he picks up.

“Pumpkin?” His voice is warm over the phone.

I take in the sight of my ravaged apartment. Thomas and Chanel took everything. Everything. They left behind my clothes and toiletries. Thankfully, Chanel’s too much of a snob to want anything I wear.

But the furniture? Bedding? All gone. I’ll be sleeping on blankets and a pillow until the lease ends and my two weeks at work are up.

I clear my throat. “Hey, Dad. How—are you?”

“Good. It’s nice to hear from you,” he responds cautiously.

Guilt pierces me. The last time we spoke, I was horrible. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I…”

“What do you need, Evangeline?”

No more "Pumpkin." I’ve just reminded him of all the crap I put him through. Now he’s putting up walls. I don’t blame him.

The last time we spoke, six years ago, he was telling me that my old room, which I hadn’t visited since freshman year of high school, would no longer be mine because his brother Leonard needed a place to stay for a few months.

I didn’t handle it well. In fact, I was a total jerk. I told him he obviously didn’t have room for me in his life, and because of that, we’d be better off not seeing each other.

This outburst came right after Mom allowed Chanel to take over my room at their house. Since I couldn’t express my true feelings to Mom and Chanel, I took it out on my dad instead. When I realized this, I was too ashamed to apologize.

Since then, we’ve exchanged brief, awkward text messages.

Until tonight.

“I was wondering, is Uncle Leonard still using my old room?” I ask tentatively.

“Not right now. He visits occasionally, though. Evangeline, are you okay? Do you need somewhere to stay?”

A sob escapes me. “Yes.”

“It’s yours, Pumpkin.” His voice softens, and for some reason, that hurts even more. “The room is yours.”

--

The long queue stretching around the corner of Club Vice confirms it's indeed Friday night.

As the San Esteban travel blog pointed out, and I can't dispute it yet, it's Friday and there's a line extending from the entrance so far back I can't see its end.

I'm standing in this line. Like every other woman here, I'm dressed in a revealing dress. My hair is impeccably styled, finally putting in the effort Thomas said I never did with him. I even splurged on professional makeup.

I look attractive.

If my heart wasn't shattered and filled with bitterness, I might actually feel good about myself.

"Hey," the bouncer calls out, motioning to the group of hopeful club-goers ahead of me. "Yeah, you ladies. Your turn!"

"Yay!" one of them squeals, clapping her hands.

It's obvious he's addressing only their group. I'm here alone.

But a girl at the back of the group takes my hand. "Come with us," she says kindly, giving me a warm smile.

"Oh, I'm not sure..." I hesitate, not wanting to break any rules. The bouncer wasn't inviting everyone in line, just that specific group.

"You want to go in there and have fun, right?" she urges.

Now she's invested, puzzled why I would hesitate to pretend I'm with them to get in early.

Even though I've lived just half an hour away in Fair Heights, I've never been here. I came to Club Vice tonight to finally say yes. So I force a wide smile and agree. "Yes. Thank you."

She giggles and links her arm with mine, leading me along with her friends. We all pay the cover, show our IDs, and enter the club.

"Enjoy yourself out there," she shouts over the loud music. "If you need company or feel unsafe, find our group!"

"Thank you!" I shout back. "I hope you have a great time too!"

"I plan to!" She heads to the bar with her friends.

I spot another less crowded section of the bar and make my way over. As I move, I absorb the atmosphere. Vice lives up to everything the travel blog promised. The music is pumping, the vibe is electric. Everyone exudes confidence and joy, flirting and dancing as if it's the most important thing in the world. This place is like the coolest party I've never been invited to.

Yet here I am.

The guy in front of me at the bar steps away, and suddenly I'm facing the bartender, a tall guy in a snug black t-shirt named Vincent. His eye makeup is striking, and I compliment him on it.

"Thank you," he replies. "What can I get you?"

"Oh... a lime soda," I decide. No alcohol tonight. If I want to say yes to everything (within reason), I need to stay clear-headed.

"Coming right up." Vincent pours me a glass, adds a slice of lime, and hands it to me with a smile. "Soda's on the house. Enjoy."

"Thanks!"

I don’t know what else to do, so I hop up on a nearby stool and spin around to face the dance floor. I want to be out there, forgetting everything from the past three weeks. This is my last night of freedom before I move in with my dad. I haven’t seen the guy in six years. I’m staying in a hotel tonight, and after this, it’s back to being treated like a wayward teenager.

I deserve that treatment. I made bad choices, bad judgment calls.

But tonight? Tonight I fucking dance.

I finish my soda, then give Vincent a little finger wave and pop off my stool. Excitement bubbles through me as I make my way out to the dance floor. Even though I’m here without friends, I don’t feel lonely. That’s the beauty of frenetic dancing to too-loud music—you’re never really alone. My blood thrums through my body like liquid joy, pulsing in time with the bass, speeding my heart. This is where I come alive, where I shed the misery of the past month, kick betrayal and heartache to the curb. This is where I become myself again—in the hottest club in Southern California.

It doesn’t take long for someone to break the spell. A guy in a baseball cap and a half-unbuttoned shirt slides up next to me and smiles. Harmless, right? I smile back.

He takes it as an invitation and snatches me around the waist to grind up against me. I try to pull away, shaking my head.

He holds on tighter. “Let’s have fun.”

“No,” I say, pushing him off. I told myself I’d say yes within reason. And this handsy dick-sprout is not within reason.

“Aw, c’mon, baby.”

What the fuck is that phrase, anyway? Aw, c’mon, baby…it’s like the mating call of every low-life degenerate fuckboy fratbro asshole. Does it work on any woman?

He makes it worse by grabbing my wrist and trying to drag my hand down his stomach to his junk.

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Don’t be like this, look how much I want you.”

I shove him away and he stumbles off, swearing about stuck-up frigid ice princesses. I give him a one-fingered salute.

“Starting fights, are we?” a low voice says from behind me.

The club is loud. I shouldn’t be able to hear this guy. And yet the rumble of him fills my ears, my head, my very soul.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but I swear I feel that voice more than hear it.

I turn around.

He's older, probably in his late thirties or early forties, fitting the diverse crowd the travel blog mentioned—Vice attracts everyone from younger twenty-somethings to those in their forties, fifties, and beyond. I never thought older men were my type, but damn, he's attractive.

"I'm not here to start trouble," I reply. "Just dancing and keeping to myself."

"Mind if I keep you company?" he asks.

Say yes, my brain suggests. "Sure," I agree. "But please don't try anything like that guy earlier."

He chuckles. "You're a troublemaker, aren't you?"