Free Rapture by Lynne Silver

Chapter 1
    There was no warning there would be singing. One moment, I was studying the dessert menu, and the next, singing, tuxedoed waiters surrounded me, placing a flourless chocolate cake with a sparkler dancing on top on my plate. I glared across the table into the laughing eyes of my best friend, Lauren.
    â€œI didn’t think restaurants like this sang ‘Happy Birthday,’” I accused her. I glanced around, embarrassed, and sure enough, people at the neighboring tables averted their eyes. They doled out some noncommittal polite applause when I doused my sparkler in my water glass but then returned to their meals.
    Lauren laughed. “Catherine, relax! I just flirted with the head waiter, and hence…singing! Don’t be uptight. Five years ago, you would have stood on your chair to join the chorus. Since your divorce, you forgot how to have fun, which leads me to my next item on the agenda.” She paused dramatically, reaching into her purse.
    â€œVoila! Your birthday gift,” Lauren said, sliding a large cerulean-blue envelope across the table to me.
    I thought about protesting, but nixed the idea. Single girls learned to take gifts where they could get them, and Lauren’s envelope looked enticing. The envelope slid open with a snick as I slid a fingernail under the flap.
    â€œRapture Spa?” I asked. “You got me a massage?”
    â€œNot just any massage,” Lauren corrected, “The best massage in New York City.”
    â€œWhat,” I joked, “they offer Happy Endings?”
    Lauren’s eyelids fluttered suspiciously for a second. “Just make the appointment,” she urged. “It has been a year since your divorce, and all you do is work. Even lawyers deserve some downtime.”
    Lauren and I dug our spoons into the warm oozing chocolate cake and chatted about mutual friends. It seemed all our old friends from college were either procreating or divorcing. I fell into the latter category.
    About a year and half ago, my ex, Alexander, decided he couldn’t take the pressure of Manhattan investment banking. He shed his suits and ties for granola and tie-dye and headed to the jungles of Guatemala, or Costa Rica, I forget which, to become an Eco-tour guide. He didn’t even invite me along. Not that I would have gone, but it would have been nice to have been asked. Especially after four years of marriage.
    Divorce is a funny thing. It makes people think they have the right to say things they would never normally say.
    Like “At least you didn’t have kids,” from my friend Sara.
    Or “If you had been home taking care of him instead of working all hours at your law firm, he never would have left.” You could probably guess that came from my grandma Faith.
    And the grossest response from Alexander’s office mate, Peter, “Wanna have a single-life celebratory rebound fuck?”
    Well, maybe I wanted kids, and I love my job. And no , I most certainly did not want to sleep with Peter that perverted ass-wipe.
    Aaron was my celebratory rebound fuck. He works in the West Coast office of my firm, and we had always enjoyed a little innocent flirting when he came to town on business. With Alexander gone, the flirting turned to a little bit more. Okay, quite a bit more, truth be told.
    But the one time with Aaron had been the last time I’d slept with anyone. It was just easier to throw myself into work. Maybe Lauren was right. I was feeling a little drained lately. I looked down at my uneven, unpolished fingernails and then ran a hand through my unstyled hair. I could not remember the last time I had it colored. Or shopping? When was the last time I bought anything other than a boring suit for work? I used to love buying flirty, trendy dresses and impractical pocketbooks that held nothing more than a lipstick. Yes, Lauren was right. I needed to pamper myself, and a spa treatment was the perfect way to get started. I would