At first, she thought her mind was simply playing tricks on her. After all, what were the odds that the one person she had prayed she'd never see again, the one person that had taken almost two years of therapy despite being a therapist to get over, would be in the same exact place as her, at the same exact time, only months after her last therapy session? Either fate had a twisted and cruel sense of humor, or someone above was determined to make her life torture. Having left many people angry and bitter over her years, the latter was probably most likely. Whatever the reason being, Bridget Westfall had suddenly found herself in an entirely compromising situation.
Not fifteen feet away from where she sat in a corner booth with one hand clutching onto the ice cold beer in front of her, and the other clenched in a fist in her lap, was Franky Doyle. She wasn't alone either. In front of her was an intimidatingly beautiful blonde in a shockingly tight black dress, seemingly taking great pleasure in keeping Franky preoccupied. Her head was thrown back against Franky's shoulder, one hand resting on her thigh and the other hooked around her neck as she kept her gyrating hips pressed firmly against Franky's pelvis in a way that Bridget deemed entirely inappropriate. Judging by the characteristic smirk across Franky's face and the way her hands gently trailed down her companions sides before resting on her hips as if to guide the blonde's movements, she didn't mind very much.
But Bridget minded. She minded very much. She'd be an idiot to even pretend to pretend she didn't. Therapy hadn't prepared her for this. She never thought she'd have to face Franky again, and now that she had she knew she wasn't ready to. Making a mental note to never come to this club again, she quickly grabbed her purse and gave a courteous nod to the bartender before slipping through the throng of drunk, sweaty, twenty-something's and towards the exit before Franky could notice her. She was only twenty feet away from the door, if her estimates were correct. Surely she could slip by unnoticed, right? She kept her head down and weaved her way through a group of girls, laughing and crying at the same time. Fifteen feet. She could hear a man drunkenly arguing on the phone with what she presumed was his wife, saying that he had no choice and his friends dragged him out.
"That'll go over well," Bridget muttered under her breath.
Ten feet. She ducked, suddenly, narrowly avoiding having a bunch of drunken men crashing into her with an armful of drinks. The one with blonde hair turned around and shouted what she presumed was an apology, although she couldn't hear him over the blaring music. Five feet. Almost there. She heard a commotion behind her, grunting and apologies mixing together before one familiar voice rose above the others, sending chills down her spine and stopping her in her tracks.
"Gidget?"