“Ireallylike him, Murph. I mean, I know it’s only been a few months. But something about him just feels right.”
“That’s great,” I say, really trying. “I’m happy for you. For real.”
“Thanks.” Kat’s sigh is heavy with relief. She sits up straight, and the table wobbles yet again, so I crouch down to readjust the cardboard. “So,” she says, “what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Your love life.” There’s an impliedduhat the end. “You’ve told me nothing the past three months.”
I pop back up like a meerkat, pressing on either side of the table to test the balance. It’s sort of better.
“Murph.” Kat snaps her fingers for my attention. “You’re ignoring my question.”
My nose scrunches. “There’s nothing to tell. The already microscopic gay scene out here dies when everyone’s away at school.”
Kat frowns, her eyes sweeping over the crowd of ordinary Daniel-types, plus some girls in sorority letters, and, of course, the locals. “What about tonight? I’m sure there are tons of girls from high school who are at least bi now.”
“At least bi?” My laugh comes out as more of a giant fart noise.
“I’m doing my best here,” she reminds me. Sometimes I forget just how straight Kat is. “There are easily, like, three or four girls from the trombone section alone who I bet are probably experimenting now, if you’re interested.”
“Sure, me and some girl who called me a dyke in high school and now wants to experiment,” I joke. “Tale as old as time.”
Her eye roll is strong enough to change the rotation of the earth, or at the very least, the vibe of the bar. The DJ, who is just some guy with his iPhone synced to a Bluetooth speaker, switches from annoying club beats to pop hits from our high school years, eliciting a “Woo!” from a gaggle of girls on the dance floor. Solid move. “I’m just trying to help,” Kat pouts. “Just because you’re stuck in the suburbs doesn’t mean you can’t date.”
I absentmindedly check my phone. No notifications. Ofcourse not. Who else do I text besides Kat? “Hopefully I’ll be out of here soon,” I remind her.
“Yeah?” Kat’s eyebrows jump an inch. “How’s the U of I transfer app coming?”
“It should be good to go so long as I pull off a passing grade in accounting.”
“And how’s accounting?”
I trap a sigh behind my lips. “No comment.” For the second semester in a row, the trajectory of my college career hinges on my ability to magically understand basic economic principles or schmooze my way into a passing grade. “Why do marketing majors have to take accounting anyway?” I argue, as if Kat could speak for the registrar at U of I. “I’ve been doing marketing stuff at work for two years and have never once needed to know any of that shit.”
“You have Professor Meyers again, right? Do you want my notes from last semester?” She’s being genuine, but we both know it won’t help. We suck equally at this stuff, but while Kat is a verifiedpleasure to have in class, I’m more of aneeds improvementtype. If not for successfully sucking up to Professor Meyers for extra credit, Kat would be right where I am: stuck.
Before I can remind Kat of her teacher’s pet status, Daniel returns, balancing three nearly identical drinks with the dexterity of a seasoned cocktail waitress. “I’m DD,” he says, setting all three cups in front of his girlfriend. “So one of these is just water. Can’t be hungover to meet the family tomorrow, right?”
“Plus Ubers are supposed to be, like, a jillion dollars tonight,” Kat adds, sampling two out of three of the drinks andpassing the outlier off to Daniel. “So, cheers to this guy for being our free ride.”
“Cheers,” I agree, but as we clunk our plastic cups together, I can’t help but tack on, “not that we would’ve needed an Uber.”
Daniel cocks his head as he sips his water. “Why not?”
“Because Kat was supposed to sleep over at my house,” I explain, “which is walking distance from here.” As I take my first sip of tonight’s second drink, I can feel Kat’s eyes burning into the top of my head. I’m being the worst and I know it.
“So is that your real name?” Daniel asks, a not-so-subtle attempt to steer the conversation anywhere smoother. “Murphy? Or do you go by your last name?”
I nod, swallowing a gulp of vodka soda that is more vodka than soda. I could be a royal pain in the ass and bring the conversation back to the plans I’ve sacrificed, or I could keep drinking and hope that it makes me nicer. I bravely go with option B. “It’s my first name,” I say. “My dad’s a big Cubs fan, so he named me after the bar by Wrigley.”
Daniel frowns, then leans across the table, cupping his ear. “The what?”
“The bar by Wrigley Field,” I half shout, enunciating each syllable a little extra. “Y’know, Murphy’s Bleachers?” Maybe we should’ve picked a quieter bar.
“Ah, gotcha.” Daniel leans back, nodding at first, but then shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve never been.”
“To Murphy’s Bleachers or to Wrigley?”
