The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Then Ethan’s Mainer test sends me off on a weirdly intense tangent: “You know what? No. If you support bacon in clam chowder, I say fuck that, and fuck you! Whoa.” I collect myself. “Too far. I apologize.”

  After that, I pitch my Saving Private Ryan–style New Englanders shoveling movie, even reenacting a dramatic scene with a full-blown slo-mo accent: “Nooooo! You’ll throw ya’ back out, Johnnyyy! Just use the snooow blowahhh!”

  My cheeks actually hurt from smiling when I finally cut myself off at the sight of the blinking light. “Okay, well. I’m Gretchen Wilder,” I say, beaming out at the cheering crowd. “Thank you, Portland!” I walk toward the steps, heart swelling. I did that! I feel like I could burst into song again.

  Amber frowns at me from the base of the stage, and I quickly swivel around and go back the way I came. “And now Amber!” I say, leaning into the mic once more. “Sorry. Forgot the show wasn’t over.”

  “Do you want to go yell at Jeremy?” I ask Carmen when the lights go up after Amber’s set. I thought she was terrific. But she was right. The audience didn’t get it.

  “Surprisingly, no,” says Carmen. “Apparently I just don’t care enough.”

  Hen checks her phone, her face brightening. “It’s Lizzy. I’ll be right back.”

  She runs off and Carmen cranes her neck, eyeing the bar. “Actually, there’s something I need to do, too. . . .”

  When she gets up, I lock eyes with Paula and Isaiah a few tables away. It’s awkward for about five seconds. Then they rush over to swarm me with a hug.

  “That was . . . something,” says Isaiah with a baffled laugh.

  I shrug sheepishly, looking back and forth between them. “I really am sorry. You must think I’m so weird.”

  “Eh,” says Paula. “I’m over it.”

  I bring them in for another hug—I guess I’m a hugger tonight—but Isaiah pulls back with concern. “Wait. Nacho was real, though. Right?”

  “Definitely real,” I assure him. “It all was, honestly. Sabrina was . . . mostly an outfit. Or maybe an attitude.”

  “I get that,” says Paula. “I have a kid in my class who wears a full Spider-Man suit whenever he’s having too much separation anxiety. I say whatever works for you.”

  “Aw,” I say with a little laugh. “Also, you were both on fire tonight. Way to make the competition boring. At this point, the only real question is who’s going to get the third spot.” The two of them share an odd glance. “What?”

  “I’m . . . actually going to have to bow out,” says Isaiah. “When I auditioned for that commercial, the casting people also had me read for a movie. I honestly didn’t think much of it. But . . . turns out, I got it. Paperwork just came through. It’s . . . well, it’s fairly life-changing.”

  “Holy shit,” I say, eyes wide. “What’s the movie?”

  “I’m not at liberty to get into it yet, but . . .” He hesitates, looking around. “Let’s just say I have a scene with a . . . former talkative, celebrity-gossip-obsessed Dunder Mifflin employee?”

  “No,” I say, my heart practically stopping. “Mindy Kaling?”

  Paula squeals. “We’re going to have a famous friend!”

  He laughs. “Anyway, the movie’s filming in Boston, so I’ll be around a little longer. But after that . . .”

  My face falls. “You’re leaving us, aren’t you?”

  Paula gives a sad little smile as he nods. “Off to LA . . .”

  For a minute, we all look at each other, the excitement bittersweet.

  But then some other comics from tonight start trickling over, and we open up our circle. I suppose my big speech might have been a bit dramatic for the Comithon participants I don’t know as well. But Lakshmi, Lenny, Haru, and Bill all assure me they were touched. We exchange compliments for a little while, recapping the highlights from different sets. Isaiah doesn’t bring up his news, as if not wanting to overshadow everyone’s big night. I think we all know it’s just a silly competition, but the stakes still seem high. You can feel it—all these different pairs of eyes occasionally drifting over to people from the audience as they cast their ballots on the way out the door.

  When the basket fills to the top, we watch Dolores pick it up and bring it to the office.

  She emerges a few minutes later, catching my eye across the room. “Wish me luck,” I whisper to Paula and Isaiah before excusing myself from the circle.

  “Dolores?” I say, my steps slowing as I reach her.

  “Hi. Gretchen, is it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling somehow more awkward now than I did singing to her up onstage. “I know. I’m really sorry. What I did was super strange. Trust me, I know. The whole thing just got out of control. And I never expected to love this place so much.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a lot to love,” she says, shrugging one shoulder coyly. But then she softens a little. “So. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” I say with a wince. “Does that disqualify me?”

  “Um . . .” She thinks. “I guess it doesn’t actually matter. I just counted up the votes. You . . . didn’t make the top three. Sorry. It’ll be Paula, Lenny, and Haru going up there next week, now that Isaiah’s out.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say, disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. “Honestly, I kind of figured my big speech destroyed any chance I had at that. But . . .” I look at her, hopeful. “Maybe I could still . . . try stuff out here once in a while? When the regular open mic nights come back again?”

  She looks me over, then breathes out. “If you can get me a note from your parents, I guess I don’t see why not.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I almost hug her but decide not to push my luck.

  “Dolores?” An older gentleman walks up to us then. “I don’t mean to interrupt, I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Oh. Hi, Randy.” She turns to me. “This is Marnie James’s uncle.”

  I perk up with a smile. “You know what? I’m going to let you two talk.”

  As I start to walk away, I notice Jeremy hanging back in the hallway, eyes fixed on me. All week, he’s been calling and texting. Now he’s giving me space out of respect, I guess. I probably should face him eventually, but I still feel such an odd mix of emotions, looking at him now. My steps grow more deliberate as I weave through people. And when I reach him, I stop and take a long breath. “So you know, I’m still mad.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, bracing the air between us. “For what it’s worth, I am trying to make it right. I already called Sabrina and apologized. And I would have done the same with Carmen, but she—like you—would not pick up her phone. And now she seems . . . busy.” He nods toward the bar, where she and Ted are back to making out like no time has passed since that first night.

  I let out a laugh of surprise before remembering I’m still mad.

  I glance at the exit that leads to the alley, where Jeremy and I spoke that same night in the snow. “I think the worst part might be that you encouraged me,” I say after a beat, not quite able to look at him. “I did need a push; that meant something. So for it to have been a joke? It’s kind of cruel, don’t you think?”

  “But it wasn’t a joke,” he says immediately, bending down to find my gaze. There’s an earnestness there that surprises me. “Or . . . joke isn’t the right word at least. Was I dishonest? Yes. But, I mean, come on. You walk up to my line, you hand me an ID with a girl I know on it. And then you go up on a stage and blatantly lie to everyone about who you are? How could I not find that just the littlest bit interesting? That was a really weird thing to do.”

  “I know,” I say, abruptly irritable. I realize I don’t totally have a leg to stand on, yelling at him about the lying thing. But his lie still feels worse to me. He held all the cards, right from the beginning. He never should have let it get this far.

  “Look,” he says. “I meant it when I said I saw a spark in you. And I tried to tell you this last week. As much as this might have started off as a game for me
. . . somewhere along the way, I changed. I mean it.” He takes a step closer, holding my stare. “I fell for you, Gretchen.” I take in a clipped breath, gazing up into those deep blue eyes, so intense and pleading. It would be so easy to give in to those eyes.

  But somehow, I just snort.

  “What?” he says, his face falling as I start to laugh.

  “Sorry, I honestly didn’t mean to—” I snort again, and I can tell that it’s here now: that mood that hits me once in a while, when something is so funny I can’t stop.

  “Gretchen!” he says. “Come on . . .”

  I can barely breathe. “Oh, Jeremy, just stop it,” I choke out. “Come on. You’ve kissed my cousin!”

  “Okay, I know that’s not ideal,” he says, “but there’s something here. Tell me you don’t feel it, too.” I’m actually growing kind of hysterical now, fanning my eyes to keep them from watering. Jeremy’s jaw tightens. “Okay, seriously, what’s so funny?”

  “What you said . . .” I shake my head, struggling to get the words out. “It’s literally the plot to, like, half the movies I like. The guy is always some jerk who’s been messing with the girl as part of, like, a bet or something. But by the end, he’s like, ‘Sorry for manipulating you this whole movie; I love you now,’ and she’s all, ‘Oh okay; well, in that case, that’s fine.’”

  I feel another fit of giggles coming on as he stands there, arms crossed over his chest. “May I remind you: we were both lying!”

  “Oh my God, I know!” I say, actual tears coming out now as I nod my head. “And I like that plot, too! Where they’re both—” I catch my breath, finally calming down. “Oh, I don’t know, Jeremy.” I shrug. “This was fun, but . . . maybe a web of lies just isn’t actually a great foundation for a relationship.”

  He sighs, brows knitting together. “I’m really not a bad guy, you know. . . .”

  “I weirdly believe that,” I tell him. And for his sake, I hope my aunt Viv was wrong. Maybe reformed bad boys can be a thing. “But . . . I don’t know what to tell you, Jer. This time, you still don’t get the girl. Ted, on the other hand.” I nod across the room, to where the making out has grown a little ridiculous, to be honest. “Ted gets the girl.”

  Jeremy laughs under his breath, and I’ll hand it to him: he’s taking this well.

  “So . . .” he says after a drawn-out beat. “I don’t know what your plans are after tonight, but you probably won’t see me around the club for a while. I’ve been thinking I might want to take some time off. Clear my head. Maybe try out screenwriting or something.”

  I smirk up at him. “A new filter through which to observe?”

  “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “Nope. Too eternally douchey.”

  He laughs. “Well, for what it’s worth, it’s been fun watching you grow at this, Gretchen. I really do think you have potential.”

  “You, too,” I say. “And I’m glad I finally caught your set this week. It was . . .”

  “What?” he says when I hesitate.

  I smile, shrugging. “Pretty decent.”

  Twenty-Three

  Super-Happy Time Dash | Three years since the wedding. Six months since that sprint through the rain. Or maybe just two and a half weeks after a stand-up set.

  Saturday night at Willard Beach Coffee, Ethan cleans the espresso machine for the last time. “I know you were making next to no money here,” I say from my perch on the counter, “but I’m still a little bummed the old barista’s coming back.” I take a swig from my PSL. “I’m going to have to start paying for these.”

  Ethan runs a hand through his hair and sighs out at the empty place, the door locked, the hanging sign flipped to Closed. “I guess it’s time for the next gig. . . .”

  “Speaking of,” I say. “I told my mom about you.”

  “Oh?” He seems pleased.

  “This is actually kind of embarrassing. She wants to hire you. As a photographer for Nacho’s birthday party coming up? It’s . . . Gatsby-themed.”

  “Um, a thousand times yes,” he says, removing his apron as he walks over to me. He leans into the counter, and I’m abruptly aware of my legs, dangling on either side of him, close but not quite touching. He eyes my phone, now buzzing on the counter a few feet away. “Do you need to get that?”

  I shake my head quickly, not wanting to spoil the moment, though I probably should check soon to make sure Paula doesn’t need another pep talk. Her last message came in maybe twenty minutes ago—a screaming Kristen Wiig GIF, which I think was meant to encompass both her feelings on opening for Marnie tonight and the fact that Isaiah just sent us a picture of his folding chair on set. Anyway, even if she’s nervous, I have absolute confidence in her. And I’ll be bringing a whole squad with me to cheer her on later.

  “So,” says Ethan, our eyes locked at the same height.

  “So,” I say, biting back a smile.

  This seems to be a game we’re playing—neither of us wanting to be the first to admit what’s happening here.

  Now that I feel this way, it’s strange to me that I ever didn’t. The realization came on slowly, then felt abruptly obvious. And then I worried I might have missed my chance.

  The day after my big speech at the club, I recounted the whole thing to Ethan as we returned our cart of yearbooks to the library. Walking the empty halls, I heard myself going on and on about how, despite my weird peace agreement with Jeremy, I was definitely not interested, and how I was so relieved that Sam and I were just friends. Ethan nodded along in his thoughtful way, seeming vaguely delighted to hear about my embarrassing public singing moment. And maybe a bit disappointed when I told him that I hadn’t made the final three. When I was done, he didn’t seem to want to talk about my love life. He just smiled and asked, “So when do you go back?”

  My phone’s buzzing has stopped, and now we’re just looking at each other in the quiet empty room. There’s been this palpable anticipation between us these past couple weeks. I’m pretty sure I’m not making that up.

  At the movies last weekend, while Sam and Natalie cuddled, and Pilsner and Grody loudly shared two different kinds of M&M’s, Ethan reached over and took my hand in the dark—ever so casually. And when we all decided to carpool over to Natalie’s after, with one too few seats in her Mini Cooper, I very coolly volunteered to sit on his lap.

  I’m telling myself he’ll break eventually. In fact, his expression is serious now. I wonder if this is finally it. My breath catches as he reaches out, brushing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Sorry,” he says, a glint in his eye. “You had a little . . . PSL.”

  My face falls.

  “Hey, are you free tomorrow?” he asks, grinning. “I was thinking we could bundle you up and hit the outdoors. Want to go skating?”

  I pretend to think. “Nope.”

  “Sledding?”

  “Nope again.”

  “Ice fishing?”

  I frown. “You go ice fishing?”

  “Nah,” he says. “I just wanted to see you to make that face.” I laugh, somehow extremely happy and frustrated all at once. I think I’m going to lose our little game. He snaps his fingers. “Hey, what about—”

  And that’s when I kiss him—a quick, soft brush of the lips that makes my head spin. When I pull back to scan his eyes, it’s clear that he felt it too. In the space of a blink, there could have been a thousand swirling cameras.

  So that’s what that’s about.

  “Oh thank God,” he breathes, pulling me into him. I wrap my arms around his neck, unable to keep from smiling. “What is it?” The words come out mumbled against my lips.

  “Nothing,” I murmur. “Just happy.” And it’s true. Waiting like this was killing me. Which, actually . . .

  I pull back, frowning suddenly. “Ethan!” I shove him. “Why did this take so long?”

  He shrugs. “Sam said you were processing.”

  My jaw drops. “He told you that?! Oh, he’s in big—” Et
han interrupts me with another kiss and I soften, only to shriek.

  Outside, Pilsner is puckering up against the storefront window, his palms pressed to the glass. Under the streetlight, Sam and Natalie are cracking up while Grody does that thing where he pretends to make out with himself, his back to us, hands going everywhere.

  “I guess we should have seen this coming,” says Ethan.

  “I’ll get it,” I sigh, but I don’t actually want to move. So I don’t.

  Ethan grins and leans in again, ignoring our audience. And when our lips meet, I get such a rush, I forget to care about the wolf whistles outside.

  “Ugh! Finally!” I hear Natalie say as someone calls, “Ow! Ow!”

  “Okay, but we really are cold!” chimes in Grody after a minute.

  We laugh and pull apart.

  “To be continued?” says Ethan.

  “Definitely,” I say, and I hop down from the counter to let them in.

  Outtakes

  From the recording app of Gretchen Wilder

  “Testing, testing. Hello, me. Me here . . .”

  “Jokes, jokes, jokes . . .”

  “Oh, actually. I recently came across the phrase ‘balls out.’ That could be something. I should run the origins by Sam. . . .”

  “Real talk. Were we too dismissive of the mullet?”

  “You know what herb isn’t polarizing? Fennel. Nobody likes fennel! . . . Yep, this is comedy gold.”

  “My boyfriend is legitimately proud of the fact that he might be related to Britney Spears. Possible bit there?”

  “Okay, so no text from Sam yet. But apparently ‘balls out’ means ‘with maximum effort.’ So, what . . . A guy was trying so hard at something he . . . took his balls out?”

  “Sidebar: I’m actually afraid Ethan may be planning a prom proposal, just as an excuse to dance. He’s had the song ‘You Drive Me Crazy’ suspiciously in his head. This is what I get for wishing for a marching band moment.”