Dare to fall

Blakely

I was still riding that high the next morning when I awoke to a few texts from none other than James himself. Sent one after the other, starting at 5am, like he was thinking about it long into the night.
Does Tyler really not give you much help with Willow?
Is he just not around or does he not help financially?
You'll let me know if there's anything I can do to help?

Trying to think up a response that doesn't sound bitter before my morning coffee proved too hard, so I didn't sit down to reply until my coffee was made and my spawn was at the bench eating breakfast.

He has just bailed on a lot of weekends since being married but it's fine. And Wednesday's Boutique does well enough that I don't need to rely on child support payments, so that's fine too.

His response was faster than expected like he has nothing better to do but wait around for texts.

Him bailing must be hard for Willow though.

Yes, it is. But I do my best to ensure she knows her dad loves her and that him bailing doesn't hit too hard.

I reply, irrationally peeved at the slight implication that he thinks I haven't thought of that.

I'm sure you do. I honestly thought he had her every weekend. He always implies he does.

I'm not sure what he wants me to say at this point. Is this where I badmouth his best friend and father of my child? No thanks, I have Scar for those venting moments. And the last thing I need is something getting back to Tyler and making my life more difficult. So I opt out of replying and continue with our morning routine.
By Friday, I still hadn't replied so I no longer saw a reason to at all. Tyler actually came through this weekend and picked Willow up from kinder. This means girls night with Scar.
"Where shall we go? bar? Club?" She asked from my couch.
"Home?" I laugh. Maybe I'm getting old for my age, but frankly staying home seems better.
"Nope. We are going out. Just need to decide bar or club so I know what to dress your hot ass in."
Sensing I wasn't about to get my way, I chose bar. Less people than at a club. And closer to home.
Scarlett throws clothes at me from my walk-in robe while belting out lyrics to our favourite 90's playlist. Thankfully she has decided on jeans over dresses.
I pick my favourite black ripped skinny jeans from the mess she is making and start sorting through tops. Why do I have so many skimpy tops still? And where are all my band teeshirts?
I eye Scarlett suspiciously. "Can you throw a top in this pile that actually covers my boobs?"
"Bitch, you've got em, flaunt em." She said looking from my D's to her B's. "Glad I packed my extra extra push-up bra for tonight or id look like a 12-year-old boy next to you."
I roll my eyes and pick a black lace bodysuit that has a higher neckline than the others, then get to work on make-up. I don't wear make-up often these days so when I do, I like to do it right. And since I seemed to choose all black tonight I might as well make my blue eyes pop with some smoky eye shadow.
I leave the bathroom to see Scarlett is finished getting ready too. Say what she wants about her boobs and looking like a 12-year-old boy, that girl is seriously hot. She has dyed her hair a fiery red since I've known her, match that with her green eyes and body that doesn't even look like she's pushed out a kid, decked in tight black high waisted jeans and a slinky silver top (that looks suspiciously like it came from my wardrobe) and ill be all but invisible tonight.
"Damn girl, you're looking fine tonight!"
"Right? This is why we need to go out. A blonde and a redhead together? Fuck the saying blondes have more fun, bitch we are a dream team!" She shimmies over to me while singing to a Shakira song she must have slipped into my playlist. "These hips don't lie girl."

I'm drunk.
I'm not white girl wasted.
But I'm certainly drunk.

I can't feel my cheeks and our dancing to the band playing has gone from shaking our hips to alternating between jumping and holding each other upright while laughing our asses off. I've danced with so many guys without once having to talk. It's been a pretty damn good night.
I see a pretty boy douchebag from earlier, heading toward us again and I steer Scar towards the bathrooms.
"Heyyyyy!" She pouts at me when we get through the door. "I was dancing."
"Yes, and Mr handsy was on his way over plus I needed to pee."
"Argh, what is with that guy? How did he not get the hint when I elbowed him in the ribs?" She moans. "Don't rub your dick on a stranger's ass when you're at half-mast. It's not polite. And It's actually gross. It's even less polite to grab my tits while you're doing it. What's with guys these days. What happened to chivalry? What happened to having a damn conversation before they decide it's okay to rub their gross meaty hands all over random girls?" She continues her rant while I make use of the urination station.
At some point, while I'm failing to do the clasps on the bodysuit up, someone else enters and rants with her. Apparently, Scar wasn't his only unwilling dance partner tonight.
Back in the bar, we order more drinks and find a table. Scarlett decides she wants to dance more while I cry exhaustion. She walks away, calling me a pussy as she goes.