Please
The honest truth? I don't want to go to Hung Out to Dry for lunch today. After yesterday's fake kiss debacle, is it any wonder?
I'm still coming up with a plausible excuse when I get two more texts from Reb, both variations of the begging GIFs, and a final text from Thea that merely says “1:30 at HO?” Reb responds with a GIF of a cheerleader celebrating and ultimately I cave, giving Thea's text a thumbs up.
Okay, the situation isn't ideal, but it will be fine. After all, Keegan usually takes Tuesday off. And he works nights. Roxy, his assistant manager, takes the daytime shift most days. So chances of running into Keegan are slim.
In fact, why did I even bother suggesting a different restaurant? I'm sure I won't see him there. More importantly, it will be okay if I see him there. Because he's my best friend. Despite any weirdness yesterday with the kiss, that's all he is. And that kiss meant nothing, anyway. It was only weird because I didn't expect it. I didn't know he was going to do it, because I didn't know he was having trouble fending off Selah. Now that I know, I can mentally prepare for any fake-dating-shenanigans that might happen on Saturday.
Have I listed enough reasons why it will all be okay?
Yeah. I thought so.
Between all the texting and drinking my coffee, I barely have time to throw on one of the simple dresses that I wear most days.
I slip into a silk dress I thrifted several years ago.
It always felt decadent to wear silk, and the environmentalist in me always feels good knowing my clothing choices don't add to my footprint.
I once read an article in Business Insider about Matilda Kahl, an ad exec in New York, who wears identical outfits every day of the work week to free up her creativity for her work. I figured if it worked for her, it would work for me.
True, she's tall, blonde and gorgeous, so she'd look great in anything. And I am ... not. Still, I like my collection of black, shapeless dresses. I don't mind blending into the wallpaper.
By the time I make it out of the house, I'm running only a little late. Traffic in Austin is the normal interminable slog that leaves me questioning all of my life choices. Thank God for audio books and murder podcasts.
I make it to work on time and answer the slew of emails and messages that have inexplicably piled up overnight. I know for a fact that Tad was out with friends last night, so how the hell did he have time to message me five times?
When lunch rolls around, I meet Reb in the lobby, and we take a ride share to Hung Out to Dry, since neither of us wants to bother finding parking. As soon as we're in the car, Reb mentions the boob armor issue again, then argues about it with the driver for the entire ride. By the time he drops us off at the bar, I still don't know exactly what boob armor is, but I'm thankful that at least I don't have a job that random strangers feel inclined to comment on.
A decade ago, back when Keegan and I were at UT, Hung Out to Dry was an English-style pub called The Dog and Whistle, which, I think we can all agree, is a horrible name. When the guy who owned it put it on the market right before we graduated, Keegan snapped it up and the rebranding began.
It's been a bar in one form or another since the late seventies, which makes it one of the oldest continually operating bars in Austin. It's just east of campus, nestled up against a residential area full of what was once cheap college housing. The interior is small and packed with history. The walls are plastered with vintage concert posters that date back to Austin's origins as the self-proclaimed “Live Music Capital.”
Even though smoking hasn't been permitted in the venue for more than a decade, the smell of smoke permeates the wood. There's a porch that wraps around the front of the bar to the patio along the side and back of the bar. Live oaks offer shade, and misters and fans keep the patio cool enough to sit out on it most of the year.
Of course, it's spring, and the weather is amazing today. Reb and I find Thea already seated at a table on the patio. She's ordered chips and guac and a frothy, pink drink that's almost as glamorous as she is. Once we're seated and have ordered, I fill in the details about the presentation to Butler—a.k.a. my impending doom—that I didn't share over text.
When I explain the situation to them, Reb is the first to respond.
“Why are you worried?” she asks with a wave of her hand. “You got this.”
“I don't got this,” I argue.
“Of course you do.” She tilts her head in question. “You can’t possibly think you are incapable of presenting your ideas—you’re brilliant, Meg.”
“Brilliant I might be, but not being able to t-talk is an issue.”
She takes a gulp of the gingerbeer she ordered. “It's barely noticeable. Most of the time, I forget you even have a stutter at all.”
I don't point out to Reb that—for all her many wonderful personality quirks and attributes—she is maybe not the most perceptive person. I'm sure she's brilliant at whatever gamer-y things she does, but she has less social polish than most do. So if she thinks it's barely noticeable, that's not encouraging.
I swivel to look at Thea. “What do you think?”
“Let me consider ...” Thea says slowly, each word pronounced with a stage actress's care as she sits perched on the edge of her chair, sipping her drink dramatically. “The presentation is on Monday?”
“Yes. Which gives me four days, assuming I work through the weekend. Which I don't actually have time to do.”
Reb snorts a laugh. “Right, because of your busy social schedule.”
