Free Regrets Only by M. J. Pullen Page B

know what’s happening,” she
started.
    But
Misty was in no mood for conciliation, apparently. “Listen,” she said harshly,
in a far more country-sounding accent than she had been using moments before.
“I know what you’re doing and you can just go ahead and give up. No matter what
kind of stupid game you’re playing to get his attention, there’s no way I’m
letting him go. Besides, if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d
know that Dylan never dates older women.”
    “What?”
Suzanne said, thoroughly confused. Before she could defend herself, however,
Dylan had returned with a bottle of water and suddenly Misty was dragging him
away.
    When
they were out of sight, Suzanne stood, threw away the water, and flagged a
passing waiter. She downed a flute of champagne in seconds. She heard it: the
tiny warning voice, screaming that this was a bad idea, that something was
seriously wrong and she ought to find Marci and a place to lie down. But the
voice was so muted, it was as though it were coming to her through ten feet of
solid concrete. She talked to herself instead.
    Head
up. Keep smiling. On with the show.
    It
took some time to get to the main tent area. Suzanne had to stop once or twice
to sit down, she was so dizzy. By the time she got there, she was sweating and
her cocktail dress clung to her. To avoid being pressed into problem-solving
service by her staff, she veered along the edge of the seating area against the
white canvas to the back, where she could check the status of the event
undisturbed.
    The
Christmas lights and tiny mirrors Jake and Chad had so painstakingly draped as
a backdrop to the stage had been worth every minute of their time. They
twinkled behind Dylan, sitting on a leather and chrome barstool with his
guitar, singing something soft and low. Among the soft lights, the jarred
fireflies, and candles scattered around the tent, the whole place looked
magical, and everyone seemed rapt by the performance.
    The
song sounded familiar, and she strained to allow it into her brain and connect
it with a title. Eventually she realized it was Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful
Tonight,” and that Dylan’s twangy voice gave it a rough-hewn sound that
actually made it even more elegant. Several couples were slow-dancing near the
stage. She was proud that things were going well. If only she didn’t feel so
dizzy and restless.
    A
sudden wave came over her and Suzanne was overwhelmed with an urge to be out .
Away from the tent, the crowd, the lights. Anywhere but where she was. Her feet
could simply not stand in that spot another minute. She staggered back toward
the exit of the tent, feeling dizzier by the minute. She couldn’t help but  step
on several coats and purses as she went. She excused herself as quietly as
possible as she passed behind people, trying to avoid bumping into anyone with
her wavering gait and hard-shelled arm.
    It
seemed to take forever to get out of the tent, and it was especially difficult
to get the canvas out of her way. Her clothes were too tight, the six-hundred-dollar
cocktail dress scratchy and uncomfortable. Even though she was the same perfect
size six she’d been for years, she’d had to use the best Lycra had to offer to
make sure the lines were smooth beneath the satiny dress. Now she regretted it,
because she could barely breathe as she made her way out to the museum lawn.
After tonight, she vowed never to torture herself with a bustier and lacy biker
shorts again.
    The
rest of the evening came to her in flashes. The humid night air. The feel of
damp grass. Marci and Chad calling to her from far behind. Thinking Marci and
Chad were hilarious. Feeling suddenly elated, free. Running. So much running. A
funny house. Water. The smell of men’s deodorant. And the bright, ominous flash
of cameras. Then darkness. Sleep.

Chapter 8
    “Are
you ready?” Marci said, handing Suzanne a mug of hot coffee.
    She
had been staring out the kitchen window of Jake and