Free Down to You by M. Leighton

His
expression says he’s sorry that his “better half” isn’t better at
all, more like “toxic” instead. I smile in return, thinking I hope
showers with her are worth it because I see only misery in his
future.
    I’m glad Nash doesn’t mention the interaction
as we move on to the next couple. This pair is every bit as misfit
as the previous one. This guy is so dorky looking all he really
lacks are black-rimmed glasses with tape over the bridge piece and
a pocket protector for his tux. And the girl? I’m pretty sure he
got her from a movie set where the music sounds like bow chicka
bow wow. That or she’s inflatable.
    I think to myself that there’s no way these
two are going to be nasty. They look so comical themselves, surely
they won’t throw stones.
    But they do. Big ones.
    In my head, I dub this one Bimbo Barbie. My
assessment of her is only further reinforced when starts laughing
at me the instant we stop in front of them.
    “Oh my gawd! Somebody didn’t get the
memo.”
    She doesn’t even try to keep her voice down.
My mouth drops open and my cheeks sting a little when, from the
corner of my eye, I see several heads turn in our direction. I can
almost feel judgmental eyes burning their way through my brightly
colored dress.
    I say nothing and make no move to acknowledge
her in any way other than to smile, a smile I hope belies my
growing humiliation.
    Still, Nash doesn’t speak. And I’m grateful.
I’d likely burst into tears.
    We move on to the next couple. And the next.
And the next. Each gets progressively worse.
    Just when I think there isn’t a more rude
person left in the room, I meet another one. I shall call her Vapid
Barbie.
    “ Where did you get that dress?”
    My stomach drops into my shoes. I want
nothing more than to run and hide. After I hunt down Marissa
and strangle her with her own dress, of course.
    To make matters worse, I feel tears prick the
backs of my eyes. I blink quickly and force my lips up into another
smile. It’s when I feel Nash stiffen at my side that anger makes an
appearance. It’s bad enough that they’re doing this to me, but Nash has to work with some of these people!
    I don’t bother to stifle the sharp reply that
comes to my tongue. “I stole it from a homeless person,” I say,
straight-faced. “She was lying right beside the stripper that gave
you yours.”
    Her expression is blank for several seconds
before my meaning sinks in. Then her face turns red and her glossy
lips drop into a nice big O of shock.
    For one second, I’m satisfied. Seeing her
speechless makes me feel a teensy bit better. But then I remember
the guy at my side. The one I wanted to make a good impression
for.
    Guilt hits me in the face like a bucket of
ice cold water. And I feel sick.
    I smile sweetly at Vapid Barbie and her
clueless mate. “Pardon me while I find the ladies’ room.” To Nash I
whisper, my heart in my eyes, “I’m so sorry.”
    And I make my escape.
    I search the hostile environment for the
universal signs of a restroom. When I spot the little silhouette of
a girl in a dress, I practically run for it. I don’t, of course,
mainly because I’d probably trip and fall and give everyone an even
bigger laugh. But I do walk very, very quickly.
    In the bathroom, I keep my head down and make
a bee line for the solitude of a stall. Once inside it, I close the
door, lean back against it and let the tears flow.
    I’m so embarrassed. And so angry. And so
embarrassed again. And for them to be so nasty in front of
Nash…
    My God, those girls make Marissa’s vicious
bite feel like butterfly kisses! No wonder Nash doesn’t mind
her.
    My tears turn bitter—bitter at them for
humiliating me, bitter at me for caring about someone I can never
have and bitter at the reality of how ill-suited I am for a guy
like that.
    After several more minutes of wallowing in
self-pity and the cruel why-oh-whys of life, I exit the stall. I
know if I don’t get back soon, someone will think