LoveLines

by S. Walden

“Among a lot of other things,” I added.

  “We’re gonna find you a guy tonight,” Erica said.

  “Erica, I’m not interested in a one-night stand, okay? I’m thirty-one. I want a relationship. Hello? I’m a 31-year-old single woman who owns her own house. Do I come off as the kind of person who wants meaningless sex?”

  Erica blinked. “You need a few drinks. Then we’ll revisit this topic.”

  “Good grief,” I mumbled.

  We tipped the taxi driver and hopped out of the van in front of The Reel Café—our favorite dance club in Wilmington. I had to be careful not to flash anyone with the too-short dress Erica insisted I wear. She really didn’t have to convince me. I’d been working my ass off for months for this trip and was ready to show some skin. But I admit I felt the slightest bit trashy next to Erica, whose dress was much more subdued.

  “I’m a mom,” she said to me when I pointed it out in our hotel room. “There are certain things I just can’t get away with anymore.”

  “Really? Because I’m not buying it.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You were wearing a micro bikini on the beach today,” I said.

  We laughed.

  “Was not! It only looked ‘micro’ because of this gut,” she said, rubbing her hands on her belly.

  “You’re so full of shit, Erica. You know your body is rockin’,” I said. “So now tell me again: Why aren’t you wearing a teeny dress like mine?”

  Erica hesitated, her brush frozen halfway down the length of her golden hair.

  She sighed. “I want tonight to be all about you.”

  I said nothing, then burst into a fit of giggles.

  “What?” Erica asked indignantly.

  “I appreciate you not wanting to upstage me,” I wheezed. “I mean, we both know you’re the pretty one.”

  “Shut up! That’s not what I meant!” she cried, giggling.

  I laughed harder, then said dramatically, “Thank you, Erica, for giving me a chance tonight.”

  I repeated the statement to her now as we walked up the stairs to the rooftop bar. I could feel the thumping and pulsing of the music before we even got to the third landing.

  “Oh, hush up with that, already!” she said. “Now listen up.” She stopped short and turned to me. “I’m twenty-one and a business major. You?”

  “Umm. How about a history major?” I replied.

  “That’s boring,” Erica said. “And what do you know about history, anyway?”

  “Does it matter?” I asked.

  “It might.”

  I looked at Erica evenly. “I don’t think I’m gonna run into someone here who’s interested in having an in-depth conversation with me about Benedict Arnold.”

  “Whatever. I don’t even know who that is,” Erica said. “Be a marine biology major,” she suggested. “That’s so nature zen.”

  “What? I don’t know anything about marine life,” I replied.

  “Oooo! Be a film major,” Erica said. “That’s glamorous.”

  “Um, no. I don’t know anything about that either.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  “I know that Benedict Arnold was a famous traitor during the Revolutionary War,” I said.

  “You’re, like, the nerdiest cute girl I’ve ever met,” Erica replied. “Fine. Be a history major. But they’re gonna think you’re boring in bed.”

  I laughed as we squeezed our way across the deck to the bar. I ordered the first round: two vodka tonics. Yes, it was feeling like a vodka night. I needed to loosen up.

  Didn’t take long. After three drinks, I was ready to show my stuff on the dance floor. The crowded dance floor. Labor Day weekend in Wilmington is a hot, congested mess. Doesn’t matter where you go. And the rooftop bar—that had no air conditioning, mind you—was the place everyone wanted to be on Thursday night. It wasn’t even officially the holiday weekend yet, but the crowds were out in full force, milling around, occupying every square inch of that deck. People of all ages. Young college girls who dressed quite similarly to me. Single guys in their fifties hanging by the bar, unwilling to grow up. Thirty-somethings still young enough to get away with it.

  I grabbed Erica’s hand and headed for center stage when I heard The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Mo Money, Mo Problems” come on. Good beat. Good memories. Transported me right back to freshman year in college.

  I won’t pretend that I wasn’t completely flattered when three girls grabbed their boyfriends and hauled them off the dance floor shortly after I made my way onto it. I guess they didn’t like my suggestive moves. Or maybe they thought I had plans to move in on their men. Whatever. I just like to dance. And I’m really good at it. And Erica was all about directing traffic my way to allow me the opportunity to share my dancing skills with others.

  Some of the men were cute. Some were funny. All were way too young for me. None seemed to measure up to Erica’s standards. She kept switching them out like socks—trying them on me and deciding she didn’t like the style or color or length. But someone eventually caught her eye.

  For the record, I’m not good with sensing if someone is looking at me. Erica, on the other hand, is a master at it. She tapped my shoulder and leaned into my face, spittle flying from her mouth onto my cheeks and lips as she screamed at me.

  “There’s a really hot guy staring you down!”

  “Say it! Don’t spray it!” I replied.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna do you if you say dumb shit like that,” Erica replied. “This isn’t middle school circa ’94.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Now, when I say, spin around and take a look. Keep dancing, though. We don’t want it to be obvious.”

  I nodded and awaited Erica’s cue.

  “Now!”

  I spun around then remembered that Erica gave me absolutely no details.

  “Wanna tell me who I’m supposed to be looking at?” I asked when I faced her again.

  She giggled. “Duh. Sorry ‘bout that. He’s the guy sitting at the end of the bar with the pink shirt on.”

  “Pink shirt?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Like a pale pink. It’s a collar shirt. Cute. Preppy,” she explained.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t look metro if that’s what you’re afraid of. He’s scruffy wrapped in Brooks Brothers.”

  That sounded more enticing.

  “What else is he wearing?” I asked.

  “A killer smile.” She flashed her own. “Check it.”

  “Oh, you clever thing, you,” I said, but Erica didn’t hear me. She was too busy holding up her vodka and screaming at the top of her lungs to the opening notes of Ke$sha’s “Crazy Kids.”

  “I love this song!” she yelled.

  I couldn’t help being swept up in her I-wish-I-were-a-teenager-again mania and screamed with her. We bounced all around the uneven deck, fresh sweat pouring down our temples, slinky dresses plastered to our bodies, vodka flying out of our cups. I rolled my hips in the direction of my mystery man—put on quite the show, actually. I think vodka makes me hyper sexual. Someone could have mistaken me for a pole dancer. Well, minus the pole.

  I’d yet to see his face, but Erica positioned me for his prime ass-shaking view. She glanced over my shoulder and laughed, telling me his tongue was hanging out of his mouth.

  “Yeah, right!” I cried, and whipped around to see him.

  I froze. I didn’t even jump when Erica popped my ass. I just stared. Embarrassed.

  The smile crept slowly over Reece’s face. He lifted his hand and rubbed his stubbled jaw, trying to hide the grin. But then he changed his mind and lifted the same hand to me in a small wave. I couldn’t, couldn’t face him at work next week.

  I whirled around and flashed Erica a horrified look.

  “What?” she asked. “There’s no way you think he’s ugly.”

  I shook my head.

  “Then what the hell is it?” she asked. “And why are
n’t you going over there to talk to him?”

  “My co-coworker!” I choked out.

  Erica’s smile could have replaced all the lights downtown.

  “We have to go,” I said quickly.

  “Are you crazy? Go talk to him!”

  “You told me I couldn’t date my coworker, remember?”

  “That’s before I saw him,” Erica said. She peeked her head over my shoulder and waved.

  “Don’t do that!” I cried.

  I grabbed Erica’s hand and hauled her to the exit.

  “I feel like such a moron!” I moaned as we hurried down the stairs.

  “You oughta feel sexy as hell, because that’s what you are,” Erica replied. “You realize you made his night? His year, maybe?”

  “No. I just made myself look like a hooker,” I replied.

  I took a sharp right out the door to the oyster bar, excusing myself politely as I gently pushed through the crowd. The patio was filled with patrons who preferred live music over the DJ upstairs.

  “A hooker?” Erica laughed behind me.

  “That’s what I said,” I called over my shoulder. I thrust my hand behind me, and she took it automatically.

  “You would have had to proposition him for sex, honey,” Erica explained. “That’s a hooker move. Yours was a sexy, flirty move. Like, ‘Come and get it, but you know I’m’ll make you work for it!’”

  “Erica, please stop.” And then I stopped. Dead in my tracks. Erica bumped me from behind.

  “Traffic jam?” she asked.

  No, not a traffic jam. Bullet to the heart, more like.

  There he was. Sitting at a table in the far corner of the bar, sipping his usual drink with a tiny blond thing laughing beside him. I watched her say something, then lean her head against his arm. He patted her head playfully, and she swatted his hand away. He chuckled and pinched her cheek.

  He used to do that shit with me—tease me for being little. It was condescending and obnoxious, and I loved every bit of it. How can I explain? When I stood next to him, I was safe. He could envelop me in his arms, and I would disappear from the big, bad, scary world. He’d fight it off for me. Be my iron shield.

  “B?” I heard from behind, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Someone was moving in on my iron shield, and I ought to do something about it!

  “Honey, let’s go,” Erica said. She saw him, too, and she knew our favorite bar had just turned into a danger zone.

  “He doesn’t even like blond hair. He told me he didn’t like girls with blond hair,” I said.

  Erica walked around me and stood directly in my line of sight.

  “Move,” I demanded.

  “He doesn’t like blondes,” she said.

  “Then why is he with her?” I asked, peeking around her shoulder. She blocked my view again. “Move!”

  “This is booty, plain and simple. And you don’t need to see it,” Erica replied. She grabbed my hand. “We’re leaving.”

  It’s just like the unexpected explosion of a volcano—rage. It comes out of nowhere. One minute the village people are leading a quiet existence, going about their business, buying shit in the market, and then the next minute they’re petrified. Some are taken completely off guard. You can tell because their facial expressions offer no clues of distress. But some saw the explosion coming after it was too late. It’s cemented on their faces. Absolute fear.

  I wanted to see it on Brian’s face—absolute fear. I wanted my rage to petrify him. I was meek and mild during our breakup. I sniveled and wept in solitude. I never once had the emotional breakdown everyone around me thought I was owed. I didn’t freak out on him. I walked away with class.

  Yeah. I didn’t really feel like being classy at the moment.

  “Bailey?” Erica said. “Now.”

  “He knows this is my place,” I spat. “There’s, like, a trillion bars and clubs to go to in this town.”

  “Enough. We’re going.” Erica yanked my arm.

  I yanked right back and headed for Brian’s table.

  “Bailey!” Erica hissed, but it was too late.

  “Hi!” I squealed cheerfully.

  Brian looked up and frowned. He used to do that a lot—frown at me—expressing his disappointment in something I did or said. Or something I didn’t do or didn’t say. I had a lot to say at the moment. I imagined he’d frown through all of it.

  “Bailey, what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Having a girls’ night,” I replied. “What are you doing here?”

  He smiled patiently. “Well, obviously I’m on a date.”

  I extended my hand to the blonde. “I’m Bailey.”

  “Erin,” she replied, shaking my hand. “How do you two know each other?”

  “We used to fuck,” I replied.

  Erin’s mouth dropped open. Brian scratched the back of his neck and sighed.

  “We were engaged, and we used to fuck,” I went on. “But I guess I got a little too complicated for him, so he dumped me.”

  “Bailey, let’s go,” Erica said, popping up by my side. “Hi, Brian.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  “Wait,” Erin said. “You two were engaged?”

  I nodded—big, bright smile plastered across my face.

  “‘Were’ being the operative word,” I replied. “It was great for a while there, but I guess Brian needed a more perfect woman. You know the type: perfect body and smile. Says all the right things. Superstar blow job giver.”

  Erin’s eyes bugged.

  “A girl who’s got it all. One who doesn’t mess up.” I glanced at Brian, and then I leaned in close and spoke softly to his flustered date. “Don’t mess up.”

  She furrowed her brow at me, then looked at Brian. I followed her gaze and fastened my eyes right on his exasperated face.

  “I never got my Pompeii,” I said, low and even. “And you know I deserved every bit of it. But I’m not going to erupt all over you like I’m owed. Because I’ve already won. She’s not fucking you tonight.”

  This time I let Erica yank me all the way out of the bar and to the corner of Front and 18th Street.

  “Tell me again why we’ve done our last four beach trips here?” I said. “I mean, we know everyone in this goddamn town. Isn’t the point of a trip to get away? So we don’t have to see people?”

  “Bailey, tone down the bitchiness, okay?” Erica ordered. She dug around the inside of her purse for her cell phone. “And you know why. Noah, God love him, is a moron with our kids. I’ve gotta stay close until they get older.”

  I snorted, then took off toward another club.

  “Bailey!” Erica called, running after me.

  “I’m not ready to go back to the hotel,” I said, shrugging off her hand.

  “That’s fine. We can hang out, but if you go dark on me . . .”

  “Nobody’s going dark, okay? I just wanna get my dance on,” I replied.

  I spent the rest of the evening getting wasted and looking like a total slut on the dance floor. My goal was to erase two recent painful memories: shaking my ass for Reece and seeing my ex-fiancé on a booty date.

  When Erica and I emerged from the club at 2:30 A.M., a taxi van was waiting. A group of young men (one carrying a case of beer) cut in front of us and threw open the van door.

  “Oh, well,” Erica said. “Let’s find another.”

  The boy toting the beer spotted us. “Oh, my bad. You wanted this taxi?”

  “It’s cool,” Erica replied. “You guys take it. We’ll wait for another.”

  “Well, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come with us? We’re going to a film screening.”

  The others nodded, shuffling around the sidewalk.

  A film screening at 2:30 in the morning? Please. I shook my head. “Thanks, but we’re tired. We’re gonna go home.”

  “Nah! Come with us. It’s gonna be a fun time,” Beer Boy pleaded.

  “No no,” I replied. “You all
go have a good time.”

  He turned to his friend and muttered, “Fucking bitch.” A few of the boys snickered.

  Excuse me?

  And then something in my brain snapped. I watched that little college punk stand there, avoiding my face, gripping his bush-league beer while the taxi driver yelled at his punk ass posse to make a decision.

  “Hey, son!” I called in his direction. “There’s no need for that. No need for that kind of language.”

  He hung his head—literally hung his head—while I chastised him.

  “Bailey, let’s go.” Erica tugged on my arm.

  “Now, I’m sorry we turned you down, and I’m sorry if that embarrassed you, but maybe we don’t feel like ‘screening’ the bullshit home movie you shot for film class on your bullshit, cheap ass camcorder.”

  “Oh my God,” Erica said.

  “We got to this cab first. Then you and your dipshit friends come barreling down the sidewalk and steal it. What you need to be saying to me is ‘I’m sorry.’ And then you need to go brush up on the manners you clearly left at home when you came to college. Ain’t nobody gonna wanna fuck a little asshole like you if you can’t be classy,” I said.

  “Bailey!” Erica hauled me along.

  “Punk ass motherfucker!” I yelled over my shoulder. He flipped me off. I fought Erica as hard as I could. “Let me at him. One minute with that little shit! Just one!”

  “Bailey Mitchell!” Erica screamed in my face. “He’s a doofus! All right?! Calm. Down.”

  She practically threw me into the next available cab, daring me to say another word. We rode back to the hotel in silence. I seethed, fantasizing about all the other things I should have said to Beer Boy. Yeah, I was pissed he called me a ‘fucking bitch,’ but I really just used him to lash out about my feelings toward Brian. I wish I would have exploded all over him at the bar instead of reigning in my anger. At the mere thought of Brian, I burst into tears—going from irate to depressed in zero seconds flat. It was just the beginning of a long night.

  ***

  I sat nestled in the good beach chair, staring blankly at the ocean. I wore my oversized sunglasses to hide my puffy, red-rimmed eyes. Last night’s crying session was a doozy. Erica was too good to me, and I didn’t deserve a bit of it, especially since I told her her children were ruining my life.