He was beyond insufferable. She hated him, hated him, hated him. Hated the way his hands were too heavy and his face was too rough and how his words dripped with the putrid stench of overconfidence, as though he'd doused himself in AXE body spray at his last fraternity party a decade ago and hadn't showered since.
Maxwell Lord thought himself to be one-in-a-million, no, one-in-a-billion. And sure, his bank account supported this theory, but in Lena's eyes he was worth about as much as the watered down coffee she knew the receptionist left in the Luthor Corp executive break room (after pouring herself a fresh, untainted cup, of course). Unlike Maxwell Lord, however, the coffee had an easy fix: one shake from the container of instant coffee in her desk drawer, or a new pot if she was so inclined, and problem solved. The only fix for this particular mess, however, was to muddle through it.
She was currently stood by the tech mogul's side at a yacht party off the coast of National City, meant to be shown off to Lord Technology's investors like the prize trophy of a big game hunt. "…And so I was standing there with Clooney," He wasn't. "And he says, 'Leo, you've gotta talk to my boy Max.'" Leonardo DiCaprio? Un-fucking-likely. No matter how utterly tiresome she found it, she had to admit it was impressive…the way he wrapped these fools around his finger, hanging on his every word. But how dumb could they possibly be?
As she drained the last sip of her champagne and placed the glass on the tray of a passing waiter. She smiled with forced charm at the group. "Excuse me for a moment, boys."
Turning, Lena made her way to the bathroom with greater ease than she felt. It had been three months of relentless nights out and though each night she told herself it would be easier, each night the walls closed in just a bit sooner than before. She paused at the sink, running the cool water over her wrists as she tried to breathe through her rising panic.
How the fuck did I get here?
She sighed as she saw herself in the mirror. The now constant bags under her eyes were covered by carefully applied make up, but it did nothing for the dulled shine of her green eyes. The weight that seemed to disappear along with Kara from her life was clear as day. Her collar bones stuck out like jagged edges and her stomach was even flatter than usual. Max loved it. "You look great, baby," he'd say in a voice that made her skin crawl. She wasn't sure if he cared she started adding protein powder to her coffee, because it was the only thing she trusted herself to eat or drink on a consistent basis.
Kara would have cared. Kara, who spent mornings nuzzled into her stomach and who plied her with donuts and fast food at the slightest glimpse of a craving, would have noticed. Her thoughts began to drift to soft hands and blue eyes and gentle words, but she shook them free. Kara was in the past and she needed to stay there.
The bathroom door opened as she pulled her hands from the faucet, startling her. It was one of the waiters, a muscular, blonde woman whose choppy dyed hair and tattoos were a clear sign that she was much more than trays of hors d'oeuvres. Lena recognized her from earlier in the night as the waiter who stared down her cleavage while she took a few seconds too long reaching for the tray, under the guise of searching for the perfect piece of crudité.
A look of realization dawned on the woman's face as she lingered in the doorway.
"Hello," Lena greeted through the mirror, rolling the syllables easily on her tongue.
"Sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here."
"I don't see anyone," Lena shrugged, turning toward the woman as she nodded toward the door. The blonde closed it behind her in response. "You know who I am?"
"I won't tell anyone." A tight lipped smile that said Yeah, sorry as her eyes flashed with a sadness the brunette didn't care for, "It's fucked—"
"I don't need your sympathy," she said succinctly before pulling the woman flush against her body as she backpedaled to the sink. The muscular arm wrapped around her waist felt hauntingly familiar for a moment as she was hoisted onto the countertop, fingertips grasping her hips wanting more than she could give.
Lena met brown eyes as the bleach blonde leaned in for a kiss. No. She redirected the woman, pushing her to her knees. There was nothing intimate about this exchange as tattooed arms grasped her thighs and the waitress' head undulated beneath her dress, black underwear hanging precariously off her left ankle.
It was easier this way. Easier to imagine blue eyes and a smile like the sun and feeling like it would never end. Easier to imagine gentle hands and perfect lips and strong arms. If she closed her eyes, she was right there. She was safe. She was home. Kara. Kara. Kara.
It felt the same in so many ways; so soft, so feminine. She wasn't Kara, but this was as close as she could get. It was different in more ways; rougher, distant. It could never be Kara and she knew it. Always, the same thought circled in her mind: It's not Kara. It's not Kara. It's not Kara.
As tears built in her eyes, Lena pushed away the waitress' face along with the emotions that threatened to bubble over, "This didn't happen." This shouldn't have happened. This couldn't happen.
"Right. For what it's worth…" the woman started, swallowing her pride as she rested on her heels.
"It's not." Lena brushed past her, not bothering to ask for a name before she quickly slid on her underwear and returned to the party.
What could she have possibly said? It'll be okay. I'm sure things will work out. You won't be gay tomorrow. Nothing fixed it, no matter what she did. Part of her…the part that still held on to the idea that Kara would be back in her life, that she'd wake up in the morning and all this would be just one horrific nightmare for the reporter to soothe away…that part ached from the betrayal of her love. The bigger part of her, though…the part that didn't believe she'd ever see Kara again, it ached even more so.
"Ah, Lena, there you are! I was just saying how much Greg's wife would love your mother."
A nightmare, surely.