“Like in the produce section?” Rose joked, bumping shoulders with Angelina, who rolled her eyes and smirked.
“Don’t be daft. You know, I mean meeting someone as you go about your day. But I suppose this is still better than speed dating.”
“Or blind dates,” Angelina said.
“Or stopping by your parent’s house for Sunday dinner only to find out they invited some guy you went to preschool with when you were three,” Marietta added, taking the cherry from her drink and eating it.
“Ouch. Speaking from personal experience?” I asked, watching as her expression morphed between shock and embarrassment.
“One hundred percent,” she said, nodding into her drink. “And on a day I looked like human roadkill, fresh from the gym after an hour cycling class, then hot yoga.”
“Oh, I’m sure your mother loved that,” Rose said before rattling off several appetizers to the server and another round of cocktails. Marietta shook her head so her long, chestnut hair swished around her shoulders. She took a moment and pulled it into a high bun, then turned her focus toward me.
Damn. I thought we’d deflected away from my pitiful love life.
There was too much to unpack without their knowing glances and subtle smirks. I had houseplants to water and Fiestaware to buy. Perhaps after working through two Julia Child cookbooks, organizing my closet, and pressure washing the entire apartment complex, I could return and figure out the baggage that was my feelings on the matter of romantic partners.
There were too many thoughts swirling around my brain for me to have an intelligent conversation with the three of them. We needed to laugh about the subpar dick pics I’d received, muse about how one day our princes would swoop in and save us from ourselves, then hope the good-looking band on stage played music we could dance to.
“So, you think a supercomputer who matches your answers to a bunch of random questions to the answers of random guys is your best chance of success? Have you thought about telling the headmaster to fuck right off? You don’t need a man to determine your competence for a position, and you are certainly old enough to tell your father to butt the hell out of your life.”
I sighed as Angelina arched an eyebrow like she was ready to shut down any excuse I had. Would that be so bad?Notfinding someone and just waiting for it to happen, eventually?Maybe Headmaster Hopkirk would respect my self-sufficiency and promise never to trample it again. He’d observe the quiche I made in my baby blue crock pot with quiet awe, respecting my hard-earned independence.
I’d be seen as the woman who grabbed life by the balls and wrangled it into neatly organized drawers with color-coded labels. No longer would I be the grown woman who ran away and had to be rescued by her parents—I’d be the woman with the amazing life she’d built for herself—one delicious brunch dish at a time.
“No. I think I need this job and will do anything to make it happen. Even if it is navigating the online dating pool.”
“That’s the problem, though, babe. Do you need it, or do youthinkyou need it?” Rose asked, reaching out to run my shoulder. “Would it be so terrible if you did something that had nothing to do with your degree if it meant you were free of his influence and truly—truly—happy?”
“I—” My voice stuttered as I pressed a hand to my chest, shaking my head. I didn’t have an answer. Did I want a job where my father had so much pull? Did I want a job where I had to conform to fanatical demands?
This was just another wrench in the toolbox that was my life. Every time I thought I was in the place, the groove, the state of mind needed to be a successful, grown-ass adult whose life was more fulfilling than her two-bedroom apartment, succulent, and freezer full of bagel bites and sorbet—I slipped right back to the insecure girl not confident enough to move forward.
I dealt with being fired by sinking into myself, never explaining my side of the story. I accepted help from my parents, making me indebted to them—something they constantly reminded me of—and I hooked up with guys who wanted nothing more than one night.
Some would say I was taking the easy way out, but nothing was easy about this. It wasn’t easy to wake up each day struggling to have a positive outlook on life while you were berated for coffee not being hot enough, paper not being correctly collated, and not wearing an appropriate outfit for a random Tuesday night dinner at the country club.
That settled it—I was spiraling.
Spiraling into the depth of my mind where every insecure feeling and questionable decision bubbled to the surface and latched onto my body like an immobile ten-ton weight directly centered on my chest. I rubbed my breastbone vigorously before finishing my beer and focusing on the stage.
The band, who introduced themselves as Alice’s Monsters, had moved from alternative rock to more upbeat songs. This one sounded like Beyoncé, but the tempo was different—less electric and more unplugged. It was perfect for dancing. Perfect for losing myself in the pulsing, pounding rhythm of the songs and forgetting the day’s nonsense.
“Shots!” Marietta cried over whatever club mix played while the band took a break. “This night isn’t complete without tequila, ladies.”
I blinked, pushing my damp curls away from my face. The bar food had done little to quell the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream, but I was too far gone to care about responsible decisions. We were dancing in the middle of a dozen other warm bodies, bouncing around to the music, singing to the lyrics, and all in desperate need of air conditioning and water.
A guy whose name I couldn’t remember, with sweaty hands and teeth too white, had kept a hand on my waist for the last three songs. He’d slowly let his fingers slip underneath my shirt to graze the bare skin on my back. I shrugged it away—for the third time—and moved closer to the girls as we made our way to the bar for said shots.
Shots were a bad idea. My subconscious knew they were a bad idea, but I felt too good to care. I was in that blissful state of buzzing enough that the entire world was giggly and bright, and it was still too early for that bubble to burst.
“Oh. What about my brother, Ryan?” Angelina said before taking her shot and popping a lime slice into her mouth. She sucked on the wedge, squishing her eyebrows together and shaking her head. “I’m sure he’d be your stand-in boyfriend while you weed through the basement dwellers and trust fund babies.”
I laughed, licking the salt on my wrist, then throwing the tequila back, wincing as it burned a path toward my stomach. “Isn’t he in college? No, thank you. I’ll manage, y’all. At least we know the dick pics are plentiful.”
“Wait. Speaking of dicks. What about that gym teacher at the academy? Didn’t you say his sweats leave little to the imagination? It could be a worthwhile investment,” Rose mentioned, swaying to the slow song they’d pumped through the speakers. My eyes roamed the dance floor, watching couples pair themselves off, gyrating against each other as close as possible, some keeping things PG-13, and others, not so much.
No-name, too-white-teeth guy leaned on the corner of the bar, leering at me like he wanted to drag me on the dance floor and lick my body. Usually, I didn’t mind a little heavy petting while I danced. Find me a suitable partner with decent moves and a healthy libido, and I’d be the first to press our pelvises together to see what happens. But something about this guy made me cringe. Cringe on a level I didn’t want to deal with—especially feeling this good.
