by Erin Spencer
I tap at the keyboard. London to LA. Departing tomorrow—Friday. Screw Clarissa. Screw Ethan’s case. And screw Francois. Well, maybe not, no screwing Francois. I can still be sensible and have fun. I need me some Bex time and Bex, well, she needs her some man time and I’m going to help her get it. Monday’s already a public holiday here, and I can squeeze in four vacation days. It’s August after all, and things are dead. A week in LA. How many dates can I get Bex to go on in that time? Go big or go home—seven for seven. Considering some of the conversations I overhear at the office about all these dating apps, it should be easy.
I reach into my Chanel handbag to retrieve my credit card. Ethan won’t care if I buy the ticket. Hell, he doesn’t even read the credit card statements. But, on second thought, I’m not going to use his money. Something about Francois, even if he is an intern dating lothario, has given me back a tiny bit of me. I’m going to do this my way. I used to juggle temp jobs during the day and a hostess gig at a Cajun restaurant in Atlanta. Before Ethan, before London, before I ever knew anyone like Clarissa, I survived just fine with my own money and purses from Target. And that was before Target was cool. I look around for a better price. With a layover in Zurich and a top up with miles, the price comes to £286 (damn those airport taxes).
The time on my phone says 1:23 p.m. So, 5:23 a.m. in LA, Bex is probably up by now. I know her too well, she wouldn’t have gone out; instead, she’d have fallen asleep halfway through an episode of Outlander.
“So soon?” Bex answers groggily after three rings.
“Hey, are they still doing all that construction at LAX?”
“Yeah, it’s a real shitshow.” Bex groans. “No one knows where they’re going and Ubers are everywhere,” she says with increasing alertness, the topic of LA traffic setting her on edge. “Why are you asking? And why are you calling me so damn early?”
“I need you to pick me up.”
“What? Now!” Bex says, fully awake.
“No, tomorrow. Friday at four thirty p.m. Don’t forget to wear makeup and don’t even think about wearing sweats. You never know who you might meet at the airport. Oh, and we’re going out tomorrow night. You’re officially back on the market, baby!”
Chapter Three
The Weeper
BEX
I’m driving to the airport in my freshly washed and vacuumed Lexus SUV. It’s an old one, the first hybrid model, peppered with a few dings and scratches, and still no AC, but with a good wash it looks presentable. Kind of like me, I half-laugh to myself.
Exhausted after a full day of errands, I run through my mental checklist of all the prep I’ve done for this last-minute surprise visit from Liv. The house is clean; the bedding has all been changed, and I even made Liv’s favorite ranch dip. Oh, and I bought a month’s supply of wine, which I doubt will be enough. And Advil.
Liv told me to put makeup on and to “not wear sweats.” She says this like I wear sweats all the time. Which I don’t. I wear workout clothes too. I believe “athleisure” is the name. I quickly look in the rearview mirror, checking to see if my cleavage situation isn’t too much. It’s been about a decade since I’ve worn this top, and well, let’s just say gravity can do a lot over ten years. Thank God, it still fits. Working from home with little to no social life apart from going to Zumba and chauffeuring Maddie around means my regular attire has me looking like a hobo who found some leggings in a dumpster dive haul.
I don’t know what Liv has planned, but honestly, I’m a little nervous. I can tell when Liv is in “go-mode” and she’s full throttle right now. She hasn’t lived in LA for a while and she doesn’t know what it’s like anymore. She has no idea what kind of hell it is to be single in this town.
Back when Liv and I lived in Atlanta, we hardly ever had a night alone. The amount of calls that came in to our answering machine nearly wore it out. We always ran out of tape (it was a long time ago). We gave out our number like evangelists give out bibles. Except we weren’t saving souls…we were saving money! I don’t think we bought a drink in four years.
We’d go out almost every night of the week, which always began with the same ritual: 7:30 p.m.—turn on the shower and turn up the music. One of us would bathe while the other put together outfits. The bathroom would become a fog of steam, perfume, and hairspray as we perfected our looks. 9:00 p.m.—out the door with two drinks under our belt and on a mission for trouble.
As I head to the airport in my best jeans and a skimpier than I’d like tank top, I wonder what it’ll be like going out with Liv now. Things have really changed since those carefree Atlanta nights. I feel older, but none the wiser.
LAX traffic is as anticipated, slow as molasses, and inching forward to the terminal I see Liv waiting for me curbside with her bulky suitcase. She must have packed her entire closet. But she’s wearing the same fitted leather jacket that she’s worn for ages—which is still fashionable. That makes me smile, and I realize then that nothing has really changed at all. Any worries I had about her visit instantly vanish and I’m overcome with giddy excitement.
As I pull up to the curbside, I roll the windows down and turn up the first song on the playlist I made for “Liv and Bex Take LA,” and sing along at the top of my lungs. “Get outta my dreams and into my car!”
“Hi!” Liv squeals and does a little jump up and down. She heaves her suitcase into the back seat then jumps in the front seat beside me yelling, “Shotgun!”
We throw our arms around each other and I inhale her familiar perfume. It’s hard to believe we’re in the car together after so many years and miles apart. When we were little, Liv and I would always run out to my mom’s car, racing to get the front seat. We could have easily ridden our bikes to the country club pool, but Liv liked riding in my mom’s Mercedes. Liv came from a one-car family, and that one car was a total beater, so she loved riding in our convertible any chance she could. We’d always yell “Shotgun” at the same time, but Mom would say, in that slow southern drawl of hers, “Honey, let Livy ride up front.”
And now, with Liv up front beside me, I know this week will be fabulous and just what I need.
“So,” Liv cuts into my reverie and says in an authoritative tone, “first drinks, then some food, then we review your updated profiles.”
Stop the train. Did I say fabulous? I take that back.
“What profiles?” I am suddenly afraid. Very afraid.
“Your dating profiles! Duh.” She looks down at her perfect manicure, which means she’s not looking at me. “I may have gone into your accounts and rewritten a few things.”
I shoot her a sideways glare.
“Well, Sprinkles2407 worked! God, I loved that cat. He was so fluffy.”
I make a mental note to change my password stat. My first cat’s name and old Tennessee address obviously aren’t foolproof.
We’re at a stoplight and I take full advantage, giving her an eight second death stare. “Liv, really? That’s a bit much. My profiles were just fine, thank you.”
“Your profiles were not ‘fine,’” she says, making air quotes. “They were terrible. Your photos didn’t even look like you. That one of you at Disneyland in front of the tea cups?” She gives me a questioning look.
“What? I was trying to look adventurous and fun!”
“Adventurous and fun? More like wind-blown and cross-eyed, with mustard on your shirt.”
“I had a corn dog that day. Sue me.”
“Bex, it’s time to move on from corn dogs and tap into your horn dog. Which is why you need my help. I found some much better pics from your Facebook account. I also rewrote your bio.”
All I can do is shake my head and smile in resignation. This is so Liv—revamping my life in the first fifteen minutes of hitting the ground. You’d never know she just got off a twelve-hour flight. Sensing my unease, she forges on in a tone that means business. “Okay, I can tell you’re not thrilled, but I’m here for seven days and I’m not going to leave any stone—or app—unt
urned.”
I look over at my best friend who’s flown all the way from London to be my wingwoman. She may be bossy, but I’ll always jump into the deep end with her.
I hadn’t been out for happy hour in what felt like ages and after a quick Yelp search, The Vacancy appeared on the list as a highly rated hot spot. I’d been there years ago and remember it being fun so thought it was worth a revisit. With food trucks out front on Friday nights, it’s a bit of a dive bar in a very refreshing, not Hollywood way. Plus, apparently they have a great happy hour. And Liv and I love our happy hours.
Once inside the dark and moody space we climb onto the maroon faux leather bar stools, hang our purses on the hooks underneath the bar, then put our heads together as we browse the specialty cocktail menu. It’s a well-coordinated exercise that we do in perfect unison, even after a long time away from each other. We’re like the synchronized swimmers of happy hours.
“What can I get you two?” asks a smooth voice from across the bar. We both look up to see an attractive forty-something man with a mop of dark hair, coco-brown eyes and a perfectly chiseled jawline. He’s wearing a button-down denim shirt that fits snuggly over his muscular chest and arms. I immediately give a quick glance to Liv with a hint of a smile.
Placing thick cardboard coasters in front of us, he continues. “Happy hour’s on until eight. All house wine and beer on tap are five dollars, well drinks are six. And everything on the specialty menu is two for one.”
“I love a twofer! Twofer!” I laugh too loudly while the bartender stands there waiting patiently for our orders. I catch myself awkwardly then turn to Liv. “What are you having, Liv?”
“Gin and Tonic with lime, please,” she says decisively.
Predictable, I think to myself, she always orders the same thing.
“Okay, and what’ll you have?” The bartender fixes his eyes on me, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. I run my finger down the menu, using a moment of pretend indecision to get a grip. I hope to God I’m not blushing. He is so cute. “I’ll have the Kentucky sour. Two, please! Double fister!” I say, awkwardly holding up two fists like I’m some kind of amateur boxer. He’s nice enough to smile and ignore my lame attempt at being witty, then turns to make our drinks.
Under her breath Liv hisses, “Okay, let’s tone down the weirdness a notch or twofer. You act like you haven’t seen an attractive man before. Did you just get out of lockdown in a women’s supermax?” She shakes her head in disappointment. “Bex, we need to work on your game.”
“Game! What game? I’m a single mom, I don’t have time for game. Besides, we just got here. Like, five seconds ago. What do you want me to do? A burlesque show? He’s not even my type.”
“I’m sorry, good-looking and nice isn’t your type?”
“No. Okay, well, he is good-looking and so far he does seem nice, but, Liv, come on, I know this is going to sound bad but I don’t want to date a…”
“Bartender,” we both whisper it at the same time.
I feel like shit for even saying it out loud. But, really, the late night lifestyle of a bartender just wouldn’t fit with Maddie and me.
“Which in this town means he’s probably an actor. No way,” I say with a groan.
Liv raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know that. He could be a food chemist that’s into mixology. He could be studying to be a sommelier. Hell, he could own the place.” While she rattles off these outlandish possibilities, her voice rises in pitch. “You can’t be so quick to shut things down before they even start.”
“I guess.” She does have a point. I’m always telling Maddie not to make assumptions about people before she gets to know them. I should be following my own advice, but I know where this road leads. A dead end.
The bartender places our drinks on the coasters and leans his elbows against the bar. “I haven’t seen you two here before. Are you local?” It’s the early side of happy hour and with so few customers around he’s got a little time to chitchat. Lucky me!
“Oh, I am, but I don’t get out too much. It’s been a rough…”
“I just flew in from London today. Thought I’d take this one out on the town!” She gives a conspiratorial smile to the bartender. “Not married, I see.” She gestures to his left hand. “Bex here is single too.”
Oh my God. This is so embarrassing.
“Thank you, Yente.”
“Fiddler on the Roof! I love that musical.” The bartender grabs a rag and wipes off the recently evacuated bar top to the right of me, humming what sounds like “If I Were a Rich Man.”
“Are you a singer?” I ask.
“I used to be. I auditioned for Fiddler years ago for summer stock. Met my ex-wife at that audition, actually.” He looks right through me, seemingly into his past. “Wow, strange to think of those times…Anyway, now, I’m a substitute teacher by day, bartender by night.” He takes a contemplative pause, which makes me curious for more of his story. There’s a lot going on behind those eyes.
I take a sip of my drink, intent on letting the conversation breathe for a moment. But Liv has other ideas. “Bex is divorced, too. And a musical theater geek. You guys have a lot in common!”
Subtlety isn’t really Liv’s strong suit.
“Is that so?” he says with a laugh. “Bex is it? I’m Brandon. Nice to meet you.” He extends his hand, and I give it a solid shake.
“And this is Yente. I mean, Liv,” I rib.
The moment is interrupted when Brandon is flagged down by a customer on the opposite end of the bar. “I need to get back to it.” He holds up a finger to the man, letting him know he’ll be over in a moment. “Um, I hope this doesn’t come off as strange, or overly forward considering we just met two minutes ago, but,” he pauses and looks right into my eyes, “would you be interested in getting a bite after my shift tonight? I’m off at eight.”
I freeze. Stunned. Speechless. He looks so hopeful. So optimistic. But I can’t. I just met him. He could be crazy. Of course, he’s crazy, he’s an actor! But he seems nice and genuine and seemingly not crazy. Maybe I should…
“No. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“What?” Liv interjects. “Can you give her a minute to think it over? She’ll get back to you.”
“Oh, sure. Okay. I’ll just go take care of that guy. Let me know if you need anything else.” Brandon turns away quickly with an air of defeat.
Liv swivels to face me and leans in close. “Bex.” She slow blinks. “I cannot believe what I just heard. No, scratch that. I can believe it and it’s got to stop. Now.”
“What? I just met him. How am I already supposed to have dinner with him?” I protest.
“Listen to me. You know what you’re missing? The yes factor. How long have you spent saying no to life, no to romance, or even potential romance, and no to just one date? It’s time for a U-turn to become Yes-Bex.”
One thing about Brandon I do know is that he must make a strong drink because Liv seems positively manic right now. Or maybe it’s the jet lag.
She continues with urgency, as if she’s telling me secret plans to invade Fort Knox. “For the next seven days while I’m in town, you’re going to say yes. Yes to opportunity, yes to stepping out of your comfort zone, yes to adventure. Don’t worry, I’ll be your wingwoman. But, from here on out, you say yes.”
Liv looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something as I let her words soak in. She’s right. I’ve fooled myself into thinking that I’ve put myself out there when, in reality, I’ve just dipped my toe in the pool. I’ve patted myself on the back for signing up for dating apps, but then I never go on a date. I’ve had friends beg to set me up with someone. I reluctantly agree, but when it comes to scheduling, I’m always “busy.” Poor Maddie has been used as an excuse time and again when, in fact, even Maddie has been encouraging me to date. And now, when I meet someone in the world, organically, like I’ve always wanted, the first word out of my mouth is “no.”
If I don’t stop sa
ying no to the possibility of love, how will anything change? Maybe it is time to start saying—
“Yes?” I smile. “Fine, you’re right. It’s time to add the Yes Factor to the equation.”
Once I told Brandon that yes, I’d love to get a bite after his shift, he’s been checking in with us at our little corner of the bar in between taking care of the steady stream of thirsty customers. We’re really clicking. Who knew real-life encounters could be so easy?
“Still okay with those Kentucky sours?” Brandon says, as he plucks the little umbrella from my glass and moves to tuck it behind my right ear. I’m a little startled, but this small gesture is so playful that I lean in and let him do it. Liv squeezes my left thigh under the bar.
“Yes!” I say a little too loudly. “Um, yes, thank you.” I raise my hand and touch the delicate paper of the umbrella to make sure it’s still there. I feel like a teenager again, wanting to squeal with boy craziness.
Brandon leans over the bar. “All right, looks like I’m done here. Liv, do you want to join us? I realize you’re only in town for such a short time. I don’t want to take you away from your Bex. Come with us!”
“Thank you, but I’m so tired from the flight and need to get some rest. Jet lag!” she says, with no trace of fatigue in her voice. “You two go on. Bex, I’ve only had one drink so I can drive your car home and Brandon can drop you off later.”
“Oh, no, just take an Uber. I’ll drive my own car. Brandon and I can just go separately.”
Brandon interrupts my babbling. “Great idea. I’ll bring her home later. But not too late.” Then with a wink. “I promise.”
“Um, okay,” I say to Brandon with a smile, although I’m starting to freak out. Is this really happening? “Can you give me a minute? We’re just gonna run to the restroom.”
In the privacy of the ladies’, I’m still not able to get it all out. “Wha…You…I can’t…” I utter in breathless staccato to Liv.
