Unlucky In Love (7 page)

“What do I want?” I said aloud.

J’Austen stared up at me again.

“Exactly, baby kitty! I wanted you, and I
went out and found you. What else do I want to do?”

I sat back and stared at the screen, then
started typing again.

What do I like?
Reading, wine, dancing,
the water, exercise
…

I already had the reading down, but what
else could I do? Dancing … I was certain I could find free dance
classes somewhere. Exercise … but maybe I could do more. Maybe
there was a class at my gym where I could learn martial arts or
something. The water. I couldn’t afford to own a boat. Dick had
kept the boat. But … he’d left the kayak he’d bought for him and
Eric.

That’s what I needed to do. I needed to stop
worrying about
finding
a man, and start
finding
myself. And I needed to stop reading
sappy
romance
novels.

***

In my search of free hobbies, since my
budget didn’t allow for “paid” fun, I discovered that there were
several nightclubs that offered free line dancing classes. I’d also
found a free self-defense class, but figured I’d do that after I
learned how to
dance
since I was certain that
balance was important. Sadly, I wasn’t what most people would
define as graceful. I
wa
s also aching to learn
how to use the kayak that neither Dick nor Eric had used more than
a handful of times, but since it was large and bulky, I figured I’d
better wait until I found a dolly on Craig’s List. That way I could
transport it from the truck to the water without throwing out my
back.

As it turned out, tonight was ladies’ night
at the local country western bar. I had no desire to hang out and
drink all night, but according to the ad on Google, they offered
free line-dancing classes from seven-thirty until nine o’clock. And
everyone in the ad was nice looking and having a nice time, so
clearly it was the place to be. Everyone knew that advertisements
never lied. According to the calendar, Thursdays were “Improver to
Intermediate” night, and I was pretty sure I could fake it. After
all, I’d been to umpteen weddings in my life, and nothing —
including my two-left-footed ex — had ever kept me from jumping up
and trying to do the
Boot Scootin’ Boogie
and the
Cha Cha
Slide
.

I fished through my closet for the pair of
cowboy boots I’d bought back in college. In the process, I stumbled
on the one pair of jeans I’d saved too. I hadn’t worn them since I
found out I was pregnant. I pulled them down from the top shelf,
hoping they’d still fit.

No such luck. I guess only the shoes and
T-shirts I’d owned since college still fit. But I didn’t have too
far to go, so instead of tossing them, I hung them up on the door
of the closet. They’d be my inspiration.

I slipped on
my
most
recently purchased jeans, dabbed on extra mascara, and pulled my
mop of hair up into a clip. Even though I knew I looked better with
my hair long and flowing, I didn’t think that sweating profusely on
the back of my neck would look attractive.

Besides, learning to dance wasn’t about
meeting a man, it was about doing something I wanted to do. If I
started thinking about the men around me, I wouldn’t be able to
have as much fun dancing.

When I walked into the country bar, I
immediately imagined I was at a down-home shindig set inside the
town’s largest barn.

Of course, it was a rectangular steel
building on the outside with plenty of exposed steel beams and
rafters on the inside, but the walls and bar area were lined with
naturally stained pine and the massive dance floor was filled with
dancers of all ages and sizes. From the college girls in their
short-shorts, tank tops, and cowboy boots to grannies in large
smocks
over polyester pants.

As I suspected, there weren’t a lot of men,
which elicited a sigh of relief from me. I really just wanted to
learn how to dance. Once I learned how to dance, if I liked it,
then I’d consider meeting a man who liked to dance. After all, what
if I hated dancing in a bar as opposed to a wedding where I knew
everyone? What if I realized that dancing was sweaty and tiring,
but then I suddenly met
Mr.
Wonderful,
who just so happened to love dancing so much
that he wanted to go out every weekend.

Jana, my friend,
I thought to
myself
, you really should start seeking professional help
because really … you might just be going insane.
I gave my
psyche a good chiding for picking on the practical side of myself
for thinking ahead for once and then allowed my fun-loving self to
trot over to the dance floor.
Way
in the back
of the dance floor so that no one could signal me out.

I passed a few men who were entirely too
young for me, and then a few who looked like they might be gold
prospectors, but thankfully, all of them just smiled and
concentrated on their own hops and
claps
.

After just a few dances, I felt at home on
the dance floor. I’d never been great, but I enjoyed dancing. When
I was in college, I never missed a chance to dance.

An hour later, the instructor informed the
wannabe dancers about the specials if they chose to stay after the
dance lessons. She smiled widely when only a few people cheered.
“Oh, you want to hear about tomorrow’s special?”

A few more dancers cheered at that
announcement, encouraging her, it seemed.

“Who hates Valentine’s Day?” the woman
screeched in response.

The floor came alive with stomping and
hooting. Even I couldn’t help
but
applaud for
that
question. I’d almost forgotten about the lovers’
holiday. And why shouldn’t I? If I dwelled on the fact that
tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, I might start feeling sorry for
myself, and that’s the last thing I needed. For the first time in
more than fifteen years, I had no one to bring me candy and
flowers.
Meh!
Chocolate was fattening and flowers just made
a mess of my counter top and then died anyway.

“That’s more like it,” the announcer
continued in her drawl. “Tomorrow night we’re havin’ an
Anti-Valentine’s Party. Don’t forget to wear blue if you’re
single.”

***

Blue
… Other than blue jeans, I
didn’t own anything that was blue. I racked my brain for something
that Angela owned. Ooh … that silky tank top she’d worn for New
Year’s Eve a couple years ago … that would work. I pulled on a pair
of jeans and just a basic T-shirt, then texted her I was coming
over.

Before leaving the house, I downloaded the
Uber app I’d seen advertised at the
bar
since
the bar offered a twenty dollar credit. Not that I planned to drink
much — drinking at a bar definitely wasn’t in my budget — but I
figured why take the chance? I wasn’t opposed to accepting a
paid-for drink if a man was so inclined. It was Valentine’s Day
after all.

Angela chuckled as she sifted through her
closet.

“Why are you laughing, Ang?” I bit out. “Do
you think it’s too dressy?”

“No, not at all,” Angela grunted as she
nearly got down on her knees. “It’s perfect. Hang on …” She
rummaged through the shoe boxes on the floor.

“Angela, you’re going to hurt yourself. I
have shoes —”

“No, you don’t,” she cut me off, “you have
boots.” She exited the closet with the top draped over her shoulder
and a shoebox in her hands. She threw the box on the bed and then
handed me the ruffly and sequined silk blouse. It really was quite
beautiful.

I slipped the top over my head, noticing
that it fell lower than I thought it would. I liked the pockets of
these jeans and had wanted to show them off.

Angela leaned back, shaking her head. “Now,
get rid of those boots and jeans.”

“But … what will I wear with the top?”

My cousin rolled her eyes. “It’s not a top,
Jana, it’s a dress. You never actually saw me wearing it since you
and Dick went to that party at the country club he’d wanted to go
to.”

I darted my eyes to hers to confirm that she
was
serious, then stared down at the tiny
patch of fabric between me and my legs. “You’re kidding me. My butt
will hang out in this.”

Angela walked around me, inspecting my
backside. “First of all, your butt doesn’t hang — thank God — and
no, it won’t.”

I walked to her full-length mirror and then
turned around, doing my best to see my rear. I pulled at the hem,
checking the length. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“You can, and you will. I’m not letting you
wear my dress over jeans.” She opened the box and handed me a pair
of black four-inch ankle-breakers.

I pulled the straps over the backs of my
heels and examined myself in the mirror.

Angela popped her head over my shoulder.
“You should wear cobalt blue more often, Jana. It looks good on
you.”

“Dick hated blue,” I murmured.

“Dick was a fool,” Angela said in
response.

I huffed out a breath through my nose as I
tried to hold back the tears. Not once had Angela said anything
like,
I never liked Dick
or
You’re
better off without him
. She’d just kept her opinions to herself
and had been a shoulder for me these last few months. Even now, she
didn’t call him names, she’d just pointed out the obvious:
Dick
was a fool
. And he knew it too, at
least
I
assume he knew
it
since he’d tried repeatedly
to come home. But I just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard I
tried, I just couldn’t get the idea of him having sex with another
woman out of my mind. And I knew that I never would be able to.

I lifted my head, attempting to dry my eyes.
“Thank you, Angela.” I wrapped my arms around her. “I love you,
cuz.”

“I love you too.” She pulled back. “Now, go
have fun, but be careful. Call me if you decide to drink.”

I smiled. “I downloaded something called
Uber. It’s supposed to be pretty easy. If I use it, I’ll call you
to go pick up my truck with me tomorrow.”

Angela flashed a half smile. “I know what
Uber is. My husband uses it a lot when he’s out of town on
business. Says it’s easier to use than most taxi companies — and
cheaper.”

I rested my hands on my hips. “How is it you
always know about this stuff before I do?”

“Because I’m almost a decade younger than
you. My generation grew up with all these new gadgets as you
old-timers call them.”

“Oh, right.” I twirled and inspected my
reflection in the mirror again. “Are you sure?”

“You look hot! Go have fun. Don’t think
about meeting anyone, just dance and enjoy yourself.”

Every time I tugged at the hem of my dress,
the famous words of Richard Gere from the movie
Pretty Woman
flashed in my head:
Stop fidgeting
. He’d been right, of
course. Nothing detracted from what a woman was wearing — or trying
to
wear — than
when she continued to yank on
it … because she knew it was too short or too low cut.

In the case of the dress I was wearing, it
was both. Whenever I hitched up the dress to cover my cleavage, I
immediately had to check that my rear was still covered.
Regardless, I
heeded
Angela’s command. As soon
as I heard a familiar song, I headed to the dance floor. By the
second chorus, I had most of the steps down and had all but
forgotten the length and cut of my dress. After all, what did I
care? I was single. It’s not like I had anyone who would be
offended. Actually, even if I
were
still
married, it wouldn’t have mattered. Dick had always asked me to
dress sexily, especially when we were going out.

Since I was no J-Lo, though, I constantly
tripped over my own feet and stepped on a few others. Thankfully,
most people laughed it off. Those who were wearing cowboy
boots,
that is.

By the third dance, I was laughing myself
silly,
but I was in love … with dancing. I’d
been so concentrated on my feet that I didn’t have a chance to see
if there was anyone cute around me. I was also parched, though. I
quickly remembered why I could eat and drink anything I wanted when
I was in college … dancing burned calories — and dehydrated me. I
was dying of thirst.

I headed to the bar, hoping they didn’t
charge a buck for a plastic cup of water.

As soon as I sat down, I felt a tap on my
shoulder.

“Hey …” a male voice shouted in my ear.

I swung around on the barstool, hoping it
wasn’t someone I knew. Nope! The man standing in front of me was a
lot younger than I was, so more than likely we didn’t run in the
same circles.

“Yeah?” I asked, not sure what he wanted.
Had I taken his seat?

“Wanna dance?”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, immediately
flattered, “but I just sat down. I need to drink something before I
die of thirst. Maybe in a little bit.”

The man turned to
leave,
but then waved his hand at me as though he were
telling me no. “A hundred dollars? No thanks.”

“What did you say?” I shouted over the din,
even though I was a hundred percent sure I’d heard him
correctly.

The man sat down at a table with several
other young men, and they all laughed hysterically at their
friend’s rude comment.

As much as I wanted to walk
over to the man — boy — and slap him up the backside of his head, I
remembered all those barroom brawls my father had to break up, and
how he’d always complained that if people just wouldn’t pay any
mind to belligerent morons, there’d be a lot less
fights.

I decided
against
the
water. I wouldn’t stop coming back to the club to dance. I
definitely loved to dance. But I really wasn’t into the bar scene.
I’d wait until I could come back with a date or continue to
restrict my dancing to weddings and New Year’s Eve parties.