I ran down the front steps of the country club, past the teenaged valet parking attendants who

were
huddled together, sharing a stolen bottle of beer. It wasn’t until I’d gotten to the parking lot that I
realized I didn’t know where I was going.
I glanced over my shoulder. People were streaming out of the country club. I needed to make a fast
getaway. But how? I’d come to the club with A.J. His red Z-3 was easy to spot. He’d parked it in the
front row of the lot and left the top down. I walked over and looked down at the black leather interior.
For the first time I realized I still had Paige’s panties clutched in my hand. I draped them over the
steering wheel. His keys dangled from the ignition. How very A.J.
Should I just take the car and leave? And go where? And do what?
I had a better idea. I grabbed the keys and considered the gleaming expanse of freshly waxed red
paint.
The valet parking guys were heading out to the lot to start retrieving cars. I had to work fast. My
letters were big and bold and scary. The handwriting looked like that of a serial killer. Excellent. I
wanted him to fear me.
“Asshole!” I whispered triumphantly, reading what I’d just written in five-inch-high letters. I
wrenched my engagement ring off my finger and threw it in the car. “Asshole.”
I heard a cough then. I looked around. For the first time I noticed the car parked next to A.J.’s, a big
old canary yellow Cadillac, the vintage kind with the fins. A man was sitting in the front seat. He was
laughing his head off.
“Ash-hole,” he said, laughing again.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice dripping venom.
“Ash-hole.” He repeated himself. “You spelled it wrong.”
I’d never seen this guy before. He certainly wasn’t from Madison. I’d have remembered a car like that.
He was in his early to mid-thirties. He had red hair going gray around the sides, and he was good-
looking in a sort of outdoorsy way, even though he was dressed in a tux.
“Do I know you?”
“Not really,” he said. He pointed at A.J.’s car. “See? You left out an ‘S.’ So it sounds like you’re calling
him an ash-hole.”
“Mind your own damn business,” I snapped, giving my hair an “I don’t care” toss.
People were walking to their cars. I had to get out of here. I took a few brisk strides through the lot.
Damn. I’d forgotten about my shoes. High-heeled slingback sandals are not exactly made for walking.
And my strapless silk dress wasn’t either.
I didn’t care, I told myself. There was no way I was going back inside to beg a ride from Daddy or
anybody else. Not after the spectacle I’d made of myself. I half jogged out of the parking lot and up the
two-lane blacktop road back toward town. My apartment was less than two miles away. I can walk a
ten-minute mile most days. But most days I don’t walk in cocktail attire.
After less than fifty yards my calves were screaming in protest. I could feel blisters forming on the
tops of my toes. And I had to keep hiking up the top of my dress to keep my boobs from falling out.