Page 12 of All Mixed Up

Once back on the train, I mentally smacked myself. And then added aloud, “Gratitude is an attitude, missy, and you’d better hock off a giant slice of one.”

Rarely had a self-flogging been truer. A week ago, I’d been ready to face these four weeks alone—as in alone. Now, thanks to Milo Proust’s generosity, I’d had three full days with my dearest friends, all of whom had been there for one of the biggest opening nights of my career. Better yet, I’d had a phone call from Mom this morning, in which she’d assured me she was feeling better and stronger every day. She’d kicked cancer’s ass—and if I kept getting gigs like this, I’d be able to pay off all the medical bills in a couple of years. Of course, that would be happening much sooner, had I not decided to compensate for my anger about Dad in a relationship with an equally deceitful pretty boy—but I was, as everyone couldn’t stop noticing, young. And youth was for mistakes, right?

Just not ones to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars.

So much for the self-smacking. My chastisements felt like feathers compared to the fresh weight of that realization. I leaned my head back against the train’s window, and at last allowed tears to seep from my lashes, etching hot trails toward my hairline.

I was alone.

For a girl who went to work in an “office” full of three thousand people every night, that was usually something to be grateful for.

But in moments few and fragile, alone became lonely.

Moments like this one.

But I refused to become the ultimate Paris cliché. I would not sob on the train. I turned inward instead, letting emotions snowball into exhaustion. Between working all night then hanging with Leese and Greer the rest of the time, I’d had about six hours of sleep in the last two days.

I’d just escape for a few minutes…

Why was there an accordion blasting in my ear?

Despite the din, I woke in groggy stages. Wondered if I was dreaming…though I couldn’t link any of this craziness to anything from my life, in any way, shape, or form.

There were a dozen women, with hair in various shades of purple and blue. They were dressed in flouncy tea dresses to match. They had flawless skin, and even more flawless voices. Were they singing along to the accordion? An Adele song? In…French?

Where was I?

Shit.

I repeated it out loud as I bolted upright. Wiping the sleep drool from my chin, I blinked at the dream women…who weren’t a dream at all. Nor, for that matter, were they women. But hell if I could remember a grander group of drag queens, in looks and talent.

When they finished the song in perfect harmony, I applauded—but was stunned to observe I was one of a small handful who did. I was more surprised when the purple-and-blue-hairs applauded back at me. Wait. Me? I glanced around, ensuring they were really directing their praise my way.

One of them rose and strutted over. Five-inch heels on a rocking Metro car; I was already impressed. “Elle habite,” the he-she crooned. “C’est bien!”

She lives. This is good.

“Did you really think I was—” I stopped, mentally recomposing the words in French. “Avez-vous penser…je mort?” Okay, it was missing some pronouns but the guy chuckled, meaning most of the message was clear.

“Of course not, luv.” His/her rural British came as less of a surprise than the nicotine rasp. It had followed a singing voice like melted honey. “It was a joke.”

“Oh.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry.”

“So you’re not dead. But are you all right?”

“I think so.” My sight cleared a little. “Uh…where is everyone?”

“Everyone?”

“Here. On the train.” I blinked again. “It’s Monday, right?”

“Yes.”

“And not a holiday?” And, best of all, my night off. Aside from tentative-ish dinner plans with Gigi, and—they all went home on Wednesday—I planned on getting acquainted with the apartment I’d barely seen since arriving—especially the pillow on the bed in that apartment.

“No.”

I scowled. “I thought rush hour was insane on this line.”