Witness

4. Chelsea

I rub my clammy hands over my jeans once more.

Sweating in places I didn't think possible, my hand shakes as I lift my second glass of water to my lips and take small, slow sips. My eyes dart around the restaurant. 

The couples dining together, a group of girls out for late night cocktails, the fucking waiters. 

I'm going to kill him. 

An image floods my brain, one of me grabbing Tony Mierro by the balls and hanging him from the wine-glass racks above the bar for all patrons to see. He'd be crying, obviously. One of the waiters would hand me a glass of prosecco and I would take a long drink of it before pouring the rest over his eyes. 

Being stood up once? Shameful.

Twice? I think I'm on the verge of committing a very serious crime. 

The manager of the restaurant, Christina, eyes me from the bar. I look up and catch her by surprise, her only response being to quickly look away and snap at one of her wait staff. 

He had to pick the same restaurant, just for the extra humiliation. I've been seated at the same table, for Christ's sake. Tony Mierro always sit at this table, facing out at the rest of the restaurant. 

Does he? Because twice I've been invited here and twice he hasn't been sat at this table when I arrived. 

Asshole. Prick. Knobhead. 

"Jennifer, you make me feel like the luckiest man in the world..." 

"Oh my God," I say aloud, glaring across at the man down on one knee. He glances at me, clears his throat, and continues the proposal. Jennifer begins to cry. 

My life is a joke. 

Is everyone around me getting married? Am I emitting some sort of marriage pheromone that's sending every man who doesn't fancy me into a commitment frenzy? 

Jennifer says yes. I clap alongside everyone else in the restaurant, forcing a smile onto my face that I'm sure they both know doesn't mean congratulations. Christina brings them over a complimentary bottle of champagne, giving me a side eye as she wishes them a long, happy life together. 

My scowl deepens. 

Silently, my phone lights up on the table. Dread curls in my stomach, twisting into knots as I snatch my phone off the surface and bring it closer to my face. When I read Tony's name off the screen, the dread begins to dissipate.

               Tony: I'm sorry, babe. I'm going to be an hour late. Tops. 

A new wave of rage courses through my body. 

An hour? One hour! You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago! 

Standing abruptly, I collect all of my things from the table - the notebook I was doodling in, the leaf I had been twiddling through my thumbs, my pocket mirror - and shove them into my purse. I feel eyes on me as I walk out of the restaurant and into the damp air, finally releasing a frustrated breath as I press my body back into the brick wall next to the door. 

It's been too hot today. The sun, Cece's impromptu arrival, Tony being the biggest asshole on the planet; it's all gotten to my head. I just need to calm myself down and remember that I am a bad bitch.

I am a bad bitch. 

I have bad bitch energy. 

Men fear me.

Releasing another deep breath, I stand up straight against the wall and pull my coat down so it's unruffled. I brush the lint from my clothes and begin walking down the dark street, lit up intermittently with streetlamps.