Tuning back into her monologue aboutseizing the moment,I stop her and ask, “Wait. I thought you were seeing someone,” and that was the wrong fucking thing to say. Maybe someday I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut, but I guess it’s not today.
For a split second, I see the gut-wrenching look I’ve come to know so well. Then she waves a hand in front of herself as if dispelling the bad vibes and gives me her bestI’m not bothered at alltone, “Yeah, well it didn’t work out. She said that I need to choose a side.Pick a team,”she emphasizes with air quotes.
Now that I’ve taken the wind out of her sails, she redirects to another conversation we’ve had before. “People just don’t get it, Bel. It’s not about teams or sides or any of that. I just want to find a person.Myperson. He, she, they, does it really matter?”
“It shouldn’t matter, no. You’ll find someone who gets it eventually,” I repeat back the words she’s tried to tell me a thousand fucking times. Even if I don’t believe in true love, I know that if anyone deserves it, it’s her.
“Alright, ladies, we’re here. Have a good night,” our driver announces.
“Ahh, I’m so pumped!” Isla pulls a wad of cash from her handbag and counts it out, handing it up to him before giving him her friendliest smile and wave, shouting, “Thank you so much, sir, have a good one!” as we step towards the bar.
It smells like Vegas in here.I stifle a gag at the stench of cigarette smoke, booze, and sweaty bodies. I might have more faith in the wholefinding the oneplan if we had somewhere to go nearby that wasn’t so run-down. I shouldn’t have such a crappy attitude, especially since I know that once I get settled in, something about this place feels like home. We know all the bartenders, we can usually guess what songs are going to play, and we can always sense which group is going to start a fight.
But with that same knowledge comes the wisdom that we will have met 99% of the patrons, too. I don’t think Chad, who drives home half-drunk every weekend, is going to be the love of my life. And I’ll be damned before he gets his grabby hands on my friend.
Glancing around, I do see a couple faces I’ve never seen before, and as Isla drags me towards the bar, I get a whiff of a familiar cologne and freeze. Every inch of my body suddenly feels cold, there’s a ten-ton weight on my chest, and I have the urge to puke all over my shoes.
It’s not him. He’s two states away. That stupid cologne is like catnip for douchebags like him.
I try to take stock of the world around me to help calm my racing thoughts. I find one thing I can see: that god-awful neon Corona sign above the bar. Then something I can hear: coincidentally, also that fucking sign. Something I can smell: the sharp citrusy scent of the bar cleanser. Something I can feel: my toes squished into these heels Isla insisted I wear. And finally, something I can taste: our favorite bartender, Char, slides me a sparkly pink mystery cocktail with a wink. I take a small sip, and all the tension bleeds out of me.
If I got one good thing out of therapy, it’s that single exercise.
* * *
After an hour or so, I’m actually having a great time. Neither of us has found anyone who piques our interest, but that’s notreallywhy we’re here. Whether she’ll admit it or not, Isla just needed a night out. If she needs to make every outing a clandestine affair to ensure she doesn’t get discouraged, I’ll happily play along.
But then there’s the more difficult part of being out with her. I always find myself envious of Isla when we’re in public. Even just in sweatpants, she’s beautiful. But when we do go out, it’s harrowing to stand next to her. From her wavy, dark hair, always sun-kissed and freckled face, to her eyes that can best be described as storm cloud gray, she’s the kind of beauty that strikes fear into the heart of every man.
If her looks weren’t enough, there’s the effortless way she seems to float through the world. Every person we meet becomes charmed by her, like she always knows the right thing to say. When she speaks to you, she makes you feel like her entire world revolves around you; Like there’s nowhere she’d rather be. While I find it safe to assume every conversation I have with a stranger is tainted with an expression that saysGet me the fuck out of here.
Getting drunk and waxing poetic about my friends’ beauty? This is what Friday nights have become? Maybe Ishouldtry to get laid or something.With that, I think I’ve had enough liquor and get a beer instead.
We’re sitting at the bar, snacking on cheese fries and chatting with Ash when they have a break between customers. When someone loudly plops onto the chair beside me and snaps their fingers at them, I’m hit with a whiff of that horrible cologne.
Before Ash can fully get to the snap-happy asshole, he blurts, “Top-shelf vodka tonic.”
I shoot Isla and look, and she gives me the same one. Women’s universal code forCan you believe this prick?
Completely unaware of our silent conversation, he leans our way and slurs over the music, “Heyyy. Buy you a drink?”
“Which one of us are you talking to?” Isla asks, masking her laughter. This guy is so drunk he can’t focus on either of us. I grab her arm in an attempt to keep my cackling at bay.
His eyes make their way lasciviously over both of us, pausing to keep eye contact with both of our tits before proudly proclaiming, “Both. I’ll buy you both a drink.”
Listen. If some dickhead wants to ogle the girls for a second and buy me a drink for the privilege, who am I to say no?
“Sure.” Ash is watching us, an amused grin on their face, and I ask, “Can we please get two more of these?”
“Of course. On this guy?”
“On that guy,” Isla answers, wiggling all her fingers in his general direction.
Once Ash places the drinks in front of us, we look at each other, mutter a small thanks to the buyer, then grab our goodies and stand to walk away.
“Hey, hey, hey wait!” Drunk-guy holds up a hand to stop us. “You can’t just take the drinks an-and justgo.”
“Well, why not?” Isla begins.
