My best friends, Gail, and Neil, both have ridiculously and annoyingly good luck at dating. Of course, they are both insanely attractive. Naturally. Some days, I think they only keep me around to show off to the world just how good they look in comparison to the common folk.
In all honesty, there is no logical reason for the three of us to be friends. It's not like we would cross paths on a typical day. Gail comes from Old Money, Neil is a designer and head of the Chicago Gay Mens' Choir, and I work in a stupid office doing stupid data entry. You couldn’t find three people less likely to have things in common, but I guess that’s what college does. For better or worse, you tend to bond with the people you met during that monumental time of figuring out who you are.
With Gail, we were forced together in the same dorm. Going to a State school was her way of rebelling against her parents, who wanted her to go to Yale. She lived right across the hall from my dorm room and was a bit of a needy friend. She was always knocking on my door—probably just so she could hear herself talk— but eventually, I got past her superficial 'hard-as-nails' coating and got to see her squishy, vulnerable center. She only lasted three years before her mother put her foot down and made her finish her last year at Yale under the guilt that not graduating there would throw her father into an early grave. We kept in touch during that year. Online chat rooms were just becoming a thing. God, I'm old. When she moved back to Chicago after graduation, we became inseparable.
Neil was in a class with both of us: Psychology 101. His constant whispered jokes about Freud and his dick issues made us the unlikely trio we are today. Neil is one of those people you meet in life that you know you were bound to meet. There is a rhythm that the two of us have that makes me believe we were destined to be friends. Maybe part of it is that we're all only children and found, in each other, the siblings we'd always wanted.
I should take some comfort in the fact that Gail is joining me tonight on this date, but I don't. Gail’s not going for moral support, don’t get the wrong idea. She's going because she wants to make sure I follow through on the bet. Ugh, the bet. Why did I agree to it? I’ve recalled that conversation more times than I care to admit the last couple of days.
“Dee,” Gail had said over her third Long Island Iced Tea last week, “I will bet you ten thousand dollars that you can’t date 100 men in a year.” She downed the last of the drink, spilling a little of it down her cleavage and failing to notice.
“Gail, I’m not you,” I reminded her. “There's no way I could date 100 men in a year for any sum of money. I don’t have your—” I glanced down at her insane expanse of breast area, "assets." I raised my hand to get the bartender's attention.
“True, true,” she said, tapping her bottom lip with her finger.
“I have my degree in writing, not fucking,” I muttered.
Gail laughed. “You majored in the wrong thing, honey.”
“You got that right!” I chuckled. “That degree is useless. I don’t do anything even remotely related to what my degree is in. Then again, neither do half the people I work with.”
“Oh!” Gail shouted, “I have the best idea ever.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
The bartender slid another Raspberry Smirnoff my way. I twisted the cap off using the bottom of my shirt and took a swig off the bottle.
“I bet you that you can’t ask out 26 men in a year.” She had the grin of the Cheshire Cat.
“26.” I blinked, unamused. “Why 26?”
Her grin grew as she leaned in, nearly falling off her stool. “One for each letter of the alphabet. Then you could write about it!”
I remember I shook my head at her. My writing years were long over. A college fantasy. She knew that, too. I hated that she felt the need to make that dig, so I countered her bet.
“Make it 50 grand and you have a deal,” I had said, knowing she’d drop the idea. Gail may be loaded, but she's not stupid.
Well, she didn't drop it, and like a fool, I called her bluff. Now, I know I could have told her, no, but there was something about the look of doubt in her eyes when she bet me that made me want to wipe that smug, entitled grin off her face. Of course, winning the cash would be nice too. Fifty grand is chump change for Gail. She's got money coming out her wazoo. Yes, I said her wazoo. She’s the Trustee of her father’s oil company, so yeah, I won’t feel bad taking her money. Hell, I already know what I’ll use it for, but I’ll never tell her. She’d just hand over the money and I do not do handouts. I earn my keep.
Not only did I have to call up this guy Adam that she said I'd be great with, she now has to see her matchmaking in action. I know I should have told her where to stick her double date, but to be honest, I really don't want to do this alone.
So now, here I am, panties in a twist (literally) as I embark on date one with the letter A. I start tugging at my bottom lip, something I do when I am nervous that Gail (and Neil) have been trying to break me of for years. I fidget when I am nervous, and right now I am officially panicking. Grabbing my cell, I hit one of my pre-sets, pacing as the phone rings on the other end.
I prepare what I’m about to say as the line connects.
“Dee, darling,” Neil’s bored voice echoes in my sparse apartment, “if you are calling me to talk you out of this date, you got another thing coming.” I’m sure he didn’t even have to look at my number to know that I would be calling. I’m apparently that predictable.
“Neeeeeeeeeeeeeil,” I whine in the sing-song way that drives him nuts. “What if he’s ugly?”
Neil scoffs. “Then don’t give him my number.”
As if Neil needs help in that department. Neil is tall, dark and bearded, which apparently makes him uber-attractive to the boys. I guess the Lumberjack look is not just a female fantasy.
“But—”
“Dee, I am hanging up now. Go. Have all the sex, it will do you some good.”
The sound of him hanging up makes me curse under my breath. I want to toss the phone, but deep down I wonder if he is right. It's been eons since the Dylan ‘incident’. Well, if you want to call walking in on your fiancée in bed with some big-boobed blond an incident. Honestly, it was like every clichéd movie breakup scene I had ever seen. Except this one ended with me practically ripping her fake tits off her plastic body. I may have had to take a few anger management classes after that day. Totally worth it, though. Gail, of course, had predicted that outcome from the start, claiming she could smell the sleaze on Dylan from the start. I thought it was just his Polo cologne. My bad.
Buzzzzz!
The sound of my doorbell shocks me back into the present. Gail’s here. No time to change the undies from 'panty hell' now.
“Come on wedgie, let’s go on a date,” I mutter, as I grab my purse and head downstairs.
Pushing out of the lobby doors of my building, I find Harold, Gail’s driver, waiting for me with his hand on the door, ready to open it for me—like I’m some sort of celebrity. He shines his perfectly dimpled smile down at me, which makes me blush on command. That man is seriously hot. It's not fair. Guys shouldn't get hotter as they get older. The dude is probably older than I am but could easily date a 20-year-old without batting an eye. I’m pissed she hired him for her weekday driver. I feel like an idiot whenever he's near. I have no idea what I am supposed to say. I mean, what are the rules? Am I allowed to talk to him or is that frowned upon? Do I leave a tip? Do I thank him? Do I look him in the eye? Gah! Gail knows how frazzled I get with him, which, I am convinced, is half the reason she hired him. That, and she’s kind of a sucky driver.
“Evening, Harold,” I risk saying. His eyes shine down at me. God, he is pretty. He's tall, well taller than my 5'6”, with dark hair that if left to grow longer would no doubt curl around his ears, and broad shoulders that every damn book gives their male leads. I now understand why. Yum. He is probably dating some buxom blond named Bambi. Guys like him always are.
I bet he didn't even need to show her his refer
ences; I bet he just smiled and she said: mine. That's how she is. Hell, Harold probably isn’t even his real name. She probably just liked the way it rolled off her tongue. Gail is … interesting in her unintended shallowness. That's probably why she doesn’t have any other friends except me. It’s all an act. All bark, no bite. I know she’s just protecting that rock of a heart inside of her. We all do that to some extent; she just protects it with a tad more claw exposure than the rest of us.
Harold bows down a bit as I approach the car. “Ms. Harper,” he says in his deep, manly voice. The kind of voice that makes your lady bits shake. Yeah, that's Gail’s driver. Bitch, right?
He opens the door for me as I try to climb inside without sticking my butt right in his face. Not easy to do in spanx. The move, of course, gives me an even deeper wedgie. How is that even possible? When Harold closes the door, I begin the removal process.
“I hate everything,” I spit as I try to regain my composure. Gail starts to laughs at me.
“Oh, calm down, you are going to love Adam. You’ll be thanking me one of these days as you walk down the aisle.”
She pulls out her designer purse, no idea who, but it's expensive, and grabs a lipstick and a compact. She glides the rose color over her Botox-padded lips.
“You’ve colored your hair,” I note, as I click my seatbelt. Gone is the blonde from last week and in its place? A Jessica-Rabbit-Red.
She snaps her compact and runs her fingers through her short wavy locks.
“Thought it would match the dress better.”
Looking down, I see that, yes, indeed, the red is a perfect match to her burnt orange sequined and very strapless dress. Suddenly, I am not feeling so good about this date. Or my choice of attire.
“Where are we going, anyway? You never told me to dress up or anything.” I glance down at my very plain looking black halter-style sundress. Even the light purple sweater I threw over it at the last minute does not class me up to her level.
“Relax, Deidre, we’re just going to a little French joint on Canal Street.”
I roll my eyes, twice. Once, for her calling me Deidre and once for the restaurant. My guess is that the place is anything but little.
I tuck a strand of my Jennifer-Aniston-style-hairdo back inside the silver butterfly clip that I thought I’d caged it in with earlier. There is a fake violet gemstone in there that would never pass as the real thing.
“So, who is this guy you set me up with? I need more than ‘his name is Adam and he is cute as a button.’”
Gail waves her hand at me, as though she is batting away a fly. “I showed you a picture of him.”
“Yeah, wearing sunglasses. I bet he's cross-eyed. He’s not cross-eyed, is he? Or worse. A uni-brow? You’ve set me up with someone who has a uni-brow, haven’t you?”
Gail smirks at me.
“He’s actually one of my drivers I use when I go visit Mother in Oak Brook. Apparently, he was born there so he knows the area well. You know him, right, Harold?” Gail says leaning forward a bit.
Harold. Shit. Kinda forgot he could hear us.
“Yes, Ma'am, Adam does areas outside of the city.” The tone in Harold’s voice suggests there is something not-so-great about this Adam guy, or maybe I am just really wanting to not go through with this date.
Gail looks at me as though his answer solves the problem.
I clear my throat, “Harold, I know you don’t know me very well, but would you consider Adam a good match for me?”
His eyes look back at us from the rear view mirror. Well, they go to Gail. She nods her ‘permission to speak freely’ smile.
“No.”
That’s it. No elaboration, just a flat, firm no.
Gail crosses her arms. “Oh, what does he know? He’s just the driver.”
“Gail!” I say affronted enough for the both of us. “That was rude.”
Her cheeks flush a bit, but she quickly busies herself with the contents of her purse again.
“For reals, Gail. What’s going on with you lately? It’s not like you to act this high and mighty. Is your mom in town?” Gail’s mother is the quintessential rich bitch and Gail tends to slide into old habits when her mom stops in for a criticism of Gail's life, I mean, visit.
She doesn’t speak for a moment, so I know something big is going on, but she then lifts her head up and sighs.
“No. She’s not in town, thank God. I am being bitchy, aren’t I? I’m sorry,” she huffs.
My eyes dart up front. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”
Gail sighs into her cleavage. She pouts like a child forced to tell her sibling she's sorry for yanking their hair. “Harold, I’m sorry. I’m a bitch.” She pushes a button and the glass slides up, blocking Harold from our view. Pity.
I cross my arms and frown at her. “That’s not what I meant, you know?”
She sighs again and looks dramatically out of her tinted glass window. “I know. I’m just—Ugh, I feel really cranky lately and it is driving me mad.”
I move my feet out of kicking area before I speak. “Menopause?”
She shoots an evil glare at me and I cannot stop laughing.
“What? You’re… of an age where that’s not out of the realm of possibilities.”
Instead of the onslaught of snide remarks that I have braced myself for, Gail grows quiet. She does that when she thinks. I watch her as her hands fold absently around her stomach. Almost…cradling it.
Holy Shit!
“Are you pregnant?” I ask louder than I mean to.
“Shh!” she hisses. “I don’t know. Okay? I should have started a few days ago. I am like clockwork, you know that, but it’s also true that I am, older and that this sort of irregularity is common for my age bracket.” Her perfectly painted on face suddenly shows the lines that she so carefully tries to hide from the world.
“Gail—have you—have you taken a test?”
The solemn look she gives me confirms that she hasn't.
“Let’s just go to dinner. I’ll be fine. This is just PMS. Nothing more.”
Her hands tremble as she pushes herself back against the window. I have never seen her act like this. Not in all the years that I’ve known her. She’s always the calm, cool and collected one. Seeing her so scared and unsure makes me feel like the balance of the world has shifted a bit. I don't like it and I'm gonna fix it. Gail isn’t the only one who can be bossy. I lean forward and hit the button to lower the glass.
“Harold,” I say “can you stop at the nearest CVS or even a White Hen?”
Gail looks at me in utter shock
“I need to buy some feminine products.” My cheeks blaze with heat as I ‘take one for the team.’ Harold quickly says ‘of course’ and I close the glass again.
“What are you doing?” she asks me.
I pull up the front of my stupid dress before my little ladies fall out then grab her hand. “We’re gonna go buy a pregnancy test, and you are going pee on that stick. I need to know right now if you have the spawn of Prada growing inside you or not.”
Despite her best effort to stay angry, she cracks a smile at me.
“Thank you, Dee.”
I smile back. “If it’s positive, I am so drinking all your wine tonight.”
“Deal,” she says, and her smile gets a little brighter.
For the next few blocks to the store, we hold each other's hands, neither of us saying a word. Until we find out for sure, there isn't much to say.
When Harold pulls into a spot, Gail squeezes my hand.
“We got this,” I say, squeezing hers back. “I’ll even buy it so you don’t have to look like it’s for you, okay? You just go into the restroom. I’ll meet you there when I have it.”
“What did I ever do to get a friend like you, Dee?”
“Hell if I know.” I smile.
Harold opens the door for us and we get out. Well, Gail gets out, I sort of bumble out. I'm full of grace.
Draping m
y arm over her shoulder, I lean in and ask, “If you’re prego, that means I don’t have to go through with this stupid bet, right?”
She laughs, “Hell no. If I am, I’ll need something to amuse me for the next 9 months as I get fatter and fatter and more bitter at the world.”
“You can be more bitter than you are now?”
She smiles. “You have no idea.”
I snort in disbelief as we enter the store. Discreetly, she finds her way to the back where I had instructed her the public restrooms would be. I wonder how long it is been since Gail actually pissed in a public toilet?
Once she’s out of sight I look around the store. The glare of fluorescent lighting and bad muzak is enough to make me nauseous. How can someone work with this all day long and not want to stab their own eyes out?
Walking as fast as I can past the rows of cheap perfumes that make me sneeze my damn head off, I find my way to the ‘padded aisle of shame.’ I haven’t had to come down this neck of the woods in years. That’s the one advantage of not having your baby making parts anymore. I remember, though, back when I did have to pick up tampons or liners, pre-cancer. I’d just search for the color of my tampons and grab them as fast as I could and then get out of there, hoping I’d gotten the right thing. Heaven forbid anyone knew I had a period every month. Yeah, I was pretty pathetic.
Since I'm not searching for light blue tampons, however, I have no idea what I am looking for. I’ve never had to take a pregnancy test before. Dylan was snipped, and the other four guys I’ve ever been with were all protected encounters. I can now understand why Gail has put this off so long. I can feel the eyes of every person in the store on me (even the eyes of the people ten aisles over). I look at the back of a test kit to read the instructions.
I'm on the second line of directions when an older lady turns her cart down my aisle and stops next to me to look at some Depends. Guess it could be worse.
“Expecting a little one, are we?” she asks as she drops a pack of the lady diapers into her cart.
The First 100 Kisses Page 15
