Free Dunkin and Donuts by Daralyse Lyons Page A

face turns bright red. Do I have another errant boob a la the yoga fiasco escaped-boob incident or the carwash caper? I look down. Everything seems to be in place. What is he talking about?
    “Ignore him,” Dunkin squeezes my arm. “The man’s drunk, not to mention the fact that he’s an asshole.”
    But, then, Barney points theatrically to a bank of television screens on the wall behind us as he sings off-key, “We saw London, we saw France, we saw Shayla’s underpants.”
    Displayed on the myriad of TV screens is a live video feed of the building exterior, the lobby, and, of course, the elevator. Apparently, the Corbetts have a state-of-the-art security system which includes live video feed of the elevator. I wonder how many of the guests saw me shirtless in only my bra?
    “Well, hello Dunkin. And who is this lovely exhibitionist you brought with you?”
    “Shayla, this is Antony Corbett. Antony, meet my girlfriend, Shayla.”
    I blush bright red. But, this is no time for regret. Putting on my big girl panties, I stick out my hand as my boyfriend’s wealthiest patient, the host of tonight’s festivities, lets out a loud laugh and wraps me up in a bear hug.
    “Honey, we need not stand on ceremony. I’ve seen all of you. We may as well be friends.”
    I plaster on a smile and force myself to laugh along. This night could not get any worse. But then, Pamela Drew, the mother of one of my students from last year and an avid PTA mom at Saint Sebastian, walks over to me, drink in hand, and says, “Why, Shayla Ross. I heard you made quite the splash this evening. If you ever decide to leave teaching, you’ve got a guaranteed job in the pornography industry.”
    As I join in her laughter, I can’t help but think that the ramifications of tonight’s little elevator debacle may well be far-reaching, but there’s nothing I can do to stop Pamela from spreading stories to the other PTA moms. So much for making a good impression and wowing people with my conversational skills. It looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the night trying to get people to raise their gazes from my cleavage to my eyes. I can’t win.
    I sigh and head to the bar to get myself a drink.

Chapter Twenty-One

    By Sunday morning, I am ready—although not eager—to get out of bed. I spent all of Saturday in self-pity mode, huddled beneath the covers, feeling like a total idiot and trying to wish away my flashing episode of the night before. But, today, feeling better and wanting to emerge from my self-imposed exile, I get up and start a pot of coffee. Then, I remember that it’s Sunday’s brunch with Dunkin and my family.
    “Ugh,” I groan.
    I crawl back into the safety of my bed, burrow under the covers and mope for about five minutes, contemplating feigning illness or injury to get out of today’s brunch obligation. I decide to woman up. I get out of bed, shuffle toward the bathroom, punctuating my walk with a string of expletives as I go. Just because I’m going to go doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.
    I scowl at myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s a good thing no one is around to see me in my ratty pink sweatpants, oversized magenta Tinkerbell nightshirt and fuzzy yellow slippers. When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I put on my silliest, most ridiculous sleepwear and mope around the house. It helps me not to take myself, or my life, too seriously.
    Before getting into the shower, I text Dunkin my parents’ address. We’re going to meet there rather than drive together because I want Dunkin to be able to leave whenever he needs to make a break for it. He assures me that he’s not worried, but I know that the next time his parents come to town, I’m going to need to give myself an early escape option and I figure it’s only fair to reciprocate in advance. Anyway, I text Dunkin and he replies immediately that he misses me and can’t wait for brunch.
    The poor guy is delusional. He actually thinks that spending time with