“Yes!” said Andrew. “And it sucked! Jason bailed early, and I was stuck talking to a bunch of weirdo sycophants.”
“Oh, I’m sure you loved it.”
“Yeah, I would, except none of them were the least bit interesting. Not even, like, douchey-but-hilarious or anything. And it was disgusting out, so I wasn’t really trying to go bar to bar. Do you see all this?” He gestured at the expanse of hardwood floor, completely covered in neatly lined pieces of paper. Andrew said he couldn’t rearrange his work on a computer; it stressed him out. So he printed it out so he could hover over it physically while he panicked. She knew part of the reason he did it was for his blog and social media, where he posted Extremely Artistic pictures of his Extremely Artistic process.
“Yeah, you’re right. You have a lot of work to do. You should probably stay in.”
“Yes, Chel, that’s why I need a break from it.”
Chelsea slouched on the floor, leaning against the hand-shaped chair, and pushed slowly with her bare toes at one of the papers. “Soo much work…”
“Seriously, it’ll do you good to get out and actually do something. You’ve been mooning around over Mike for what feels like forever.”
“It does feel like that.” She put a hand to her head and a hand on her hip. “It’s not about him, though. I’m over him. Really. It’s the general malaise that comes from breaking up with your soul mate. That’s all. No big deal!” She shouted the last part at him dramatically.
He raised his perfect thick eyebrows and rolled his chair over to her, picking up the open bottle of Cabernet on the way. “Glass, lady.”
“It just seems so ridiculous now,” she said, picking up the conversation they’d been having before Andrew decided that the remedy was going out.
“What seems ridiculous, this moping? You’re right.”
“No.” She pushed his chair, and he rolled back a few inches. “That I broke up with Mike. I mean, I loved him. He was my best friend. Diana’s over here hiding from an abusive man who’s obviously compensating for some…”
“Shortcoming?” Andrew filled in.
She couldn’t help giving a laugh. “Sure. And I’m just this midtwenties brat who broke up with the perfect guy two years ago and still isn’t over it. And I broke up with him because we were too happy. Too settled.”
“Don’t rewrite history, love.” He cranked open a window and sat by it with his cigarette. “You left him because he wasn’t enough. You left him because you wanted a big life with a big love.”
“Yeah, and what am I doing? I’m failing at my craft, or whatever you want to call it, and struggling to make ends meet. Working twenty-four/seven, complaining as often, and definitely not having a better life.”
“You have no idea what your life would be like now. You could be miserable. And pregnant. Count your blessings.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“Plus, how do you know this Leif guy isn’t Diana’s Mike? Maybe she loved him only enough to marry him, and she should have kept looking.”
“No … you should have heard the way she talked about their beginning. That sounded like real love.”
“Well, I didn’t hear her. But I can tell you that if you want to talk about rewriting history, that is exactly what you’ve done with Mike. Whenever you talk about it nowadays, it’s all got this pretty pink lens on it. I was there, don’t forget. You two fought like stray cats and had sex like—whatever the opposite of a rabbit is.”
“Oh, come on, our relationship wasn’t bad.”
“I’m not saying it was. But what I am saying is that when you broke up with him and your acquaintances started making you seem like Ross and Rachel or Cory and Topanga, I saw it differently. As someone who saw your best and your worst together, I got why you broke up with him.”
Chelsea stared down at the brick-colored wine, struck a bit dumb by what he’d said. He took silent drags from his cigarette for a few minutes, letting her ruminate on it.
“You’re right.”
As if he’d known exactly when she’d say it, he said, “I know I’m right, Chelsea.”
She laughed again, then let out a groan. “I hate when that happens.”
“I know you do.”
Andrew’s phone rang, and he held up his middle finger at it with a scowl, then held up his pointer finger to Chelsea as he stood and took the call. It was some business contact he’d been waiting for hours to hear from. “Of course now he calls.” He walked into the next room, sounding professional, fifty percent more masculine, and not at all tipsy.
At that moment, Chelsea’s own phone buzzed, and she looked down to see a text. She slid open her phone and read:
Chelsea, it’s Diana. I apologize for being such a downer! Don’t listen to what I said. They’re not all jerks. I didn’t want to seem like a No-Hope Nancy to you.
She didn’t quite know how to respond, so she set it down and had another sip while she waited for Andrew to return.
Two minutes later, he returned. “I positively hate that guy. What happened while I was gone? Why do you look like someone just told you you’re pretty?”
“What?”
“You look pleased but confused, like you always do when you get a compliment. What happened?”
She held up her phone and watched his eyes scan the words. When he reached the end, he said, “If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is. Now let’s get your ass out on the town. We can go to Saint Marie’s first, then maybe—”
“I know you want to say Gin Bar.”
“No, tonight is about you!”
“Look, I’m not trying to, like, meet someone tonight. Honestly, just going out with you is a good step. Plus, at Gin Bar I can just dance without feeling like everyone there is hitting on any chick that moves and/or has a pulse.”
“What about that guy you met at work?”
“What guy?” Jeff. He meant Jeff.
“Hunky statue guy. Michelangelo’s David.”
“He wasn’t David. But”—she shrugged and smiled—“he was Jeff. Why? What about him?”
“Why don’t you call and ask him to meet us there? I’d love to get a gander at him.”
“No way. I can’t just call and ask him out!” Could she?
“Why not? He asked you out and you turned him down! Seems like it’s your turn, chickie.”
“No, no, no.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Andrew reached into her purse and took out her phone. “You call him or I will. I assume you still haven’t locked this thing.” He pressed a button, and the screen flared to life. “Nope.”
“Come on, Andrew!”
“Call him!”
“Okay, okay, okay.” She’d had just enough Chardonnay to convince herself that she was feeling risky. But the truth was, she wasn’t feeling risky; she’d been wanting to go back and rescind her refusal to go out with him more than once over the past few days.
“You got his number, I assume.”
“I did manage that, yes.” She looked through her contacts and found Jeff guy from work.
“Do it,” Andrew urged. “Just do it.”
If she didn’t, she’d never live it down with Andrew. She knew that. He was relentless about wimpiness. She should have just claimed not to have the number. Now that she’d admitted she did, she was stuck.
So she pressed it.
It rang two times before he answered. Her heart leaped to her throat. “Jeff?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Chelsea? From work? At Union Station?” God, she sounded like an idiot. Like she wasn’t sure of even one fact about herself. “So listen, my friend Andrew and I were going out for a drink, and we thought you might want to join us.”
“Your friend Andrew?”
“Yes, he’s a playwright. A really good one, very, very talented.” She looked over at Andrew, and he gave her the thumbs-up sign. “Once he almost had a date with Andrew Lloyd Webber even!”
“Don’t tell that story!�
�� Andrew hissed, but he was smiling.
“We’ll tell you all about it if you meet us.”
There was a long hesitation.
Long enough that Chelsea thought they’d lost the connection. “Hello?”
“Uh, yeah.” Jeff cleared his throat. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’m just … I’m not interested. I hope you’re not offended.”
Her face burned, positively burned. “No! No, of course not.” She felt sick. Her stomach twisted. She could not let on. She did not want Andrew to see her disappointment or have any idea how soundly she had just been rejected. “Another time, maybe.”
“I’m gonna run now,” he said. “See you at work.”
“Oh. Okay. Well. Bye!” There was no way Andrew was going to miss how flushed her face was, so she had no choice but to just gush. “His voice makes me so hot!” She hoped she wouldn’t puke. She really hoped the humiliation would let go of its grip on her gut and not make her puke.
“I can see that!”
“So. Gin Bar?”
Her act seemed to have worked. Andrew smiled. “Well, maybe we can just go there for one drink.”
“Okay. So I’ll just go home and change.”
“No, no, hell no,” Andrew said. “If that happens you’re never coming back out, and I know that.”
“I will! I just—”
“Need to get your bearings, need to recoup—no. Not happening. I’ve still got that dress of yours I spilled wine on a couple of months ago. You can wear that, and you’re already in heels. And God knows you carry around emergency liquid liner and red lipstick wherever you go, since you are not an idiot.”
It took an effort to keep up the conversation normally. “Hey, I forgot about that dress—did you get it cleaned, or am I just going out looking like the mess I am inside right now?”
“I got it dry cleaned, obviously. I just forgot to ever tell you or give it back.”
“Oh, perfect. Helpful.” She had more wine. You know what? Screw Jeff. He was a jerk. Who was that rude? No one she wanted anything to do with, that was for damn sure.
“Um, are you not about to wear it out? Seems sort of like I saved the day.” He started off to his room. “Text the lady back and tell her she got you out of your funk and that you’re going dancing!”
She finished her wine and formulated a response.
Di, your sorry was not necessary, but it worked out. My friend’s been begging me to go out all night, and I just decided to go for it.:) He’s convinced dancing at Gin Bar will get me the man of my dreams. Ha. Doubt it, but going anyway.
Diana answered after only a moment:
Ha! I remember the Gin Bar from my own days out on the town. Have fun, I’ll see you at work soon!
Chelsea smiled, wondering if she could be talking about the same Gin Bar, since it was primarily a gay hangout. Maybe it didn’t used to be.
Fifteen minutes later, her lips and eyes were painted, her dress was on, and she was kicking her leg back and forth, waiting for Andrew, who always took an age to get ready.
When he finally emerged, Chelsea said, “Y’done?”
Andrew laughed. “Shut up. Let’s go.”
With nothing but his keys left to be momentarily forgotten, they were on their way.
Chelsea had walked, so they took Andrew’s car—a shiny, new Mercedes-Benz that looked like a prototype set to release in about five years. They turned on music, which Chelsea turned down three times before accepting that Andrew was not going allow her to have a quiet night whatsoever.
This was always Chelsea’s problem lately, and she knew it. She took life so seriously, despite historically being a fun and excited human being. Since she was little, she was so energetic. For the last year, getting her to loosen up took a magical alignment of the planets.
Andrew had full say in his car, so he turned up the nineties station on Spotify. A little nostalgia never hurt things.
He looked over at her, and when he saw her on her phone he asked, “Seriously, how can you not get excited when Britney accidentally does it again?”
“No, I’m sorry, I just have to check the audition page again. Just real quick.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “If you stay on that thing all night, obsessing over Mike’s Facebook, I swear to God I will take it.”
“I’m not on his Facebook!” She hid the face of her phone so he couldn’t see the essay of texts Mike had indeed sent her.
But Andrew’s ability to read a concealed phone screen was like a superpower. “Oh my God. Chels, it really is Mike. You cannot sit here and do this all night. Ignore him. Ignore it. What’s he even saying?”
“He’s just upset. He’s really going through so much, and he just needs someone to talk to.”
Andrew made a face that meant he thought she had learned nothing.
“No, I’m sorry, you’re still right. I’ll stop.”
For the first time in God knows how long, she felt her shoulders release their tension. Her resolve needed to be stronger than her silly emotions or her body’s physiological manifestation of stress. She needed to Get Out There.
Andrew smiled at the strength in her voice. Chelsea tossed the phone into the backseat. “I’m not even going to bring it with me.” It wasn’t like it actually had happy connotations for her at the moment.
“Hell yeah, girl.”
* * *
THEY MADE THEIR circuit around town, grabbing a shot or two here, and a martini or two there, before winding up pretty early at Gin Bar.
The bar was practically hidden from the main drag, but she knew about a million people who said it was the best.
A large bouncer in all black, wearing an earpiece, let them in and guided them to an elevator, which let them out into an underground bar lit entirely with ultraviolet lights. It looked as if a bar had been formed out of a radioactive igloo.
Every girl who was there was in a bandeau dress and sky-high heels. Lots of engagement rings—girls just out with friends to have a good time without getting hit on. She knew the type. Most of the guys were dressed impeccably, all with tailored clothes. A gay bar in Northwest D.C. was practically like stepping into the pages of GQ.
When Andrew and Chelsea had met, she was the chatty one, the loud one, the one who could tell a dirty joke at a table full of guys. When they were younger, Andrew was the workaholic (even in school), the one in the shadow, the one who got ill from one cigarette. In the last couple of years, he’d loosened up and turned into a million different people’s Favorite Friend. For a while, overlapping, they had both been this way. They’d been total partners in crime.
Now Chelsea was the wet blanket, and she was sick of it.
“What do you want? First round’s on me!” Andrew shouted over the crescendo of the song.
“Um!” She glanced at bottles behind the bar. “Tanqueray Ten gimlet, please!”
“Rocks or up?”
She gestured upward with a thumb.
The bartender gave Andrew a nod when he ordered, then turned to make the drinks, taking Andrew’s Chase card with him.
Chelsea took a deep breath and decided that a night at a bar in Dupont Circle was not the time to have a deep, existential look at herself or to do any real reconsideration. There was time for that tomorrow, or any other day.
The drinks were handed to them, and they made their way into the crowd to look for an empty booth.
It was an extremely small space. Everything was dark at the same time as being blindingly lit, and you could tell immediately that with the lights turned all the way up the place would be unrecognizable. The atmosphere was built around its shadowed corners and well-lit cheekbones, and bottle service that included shining steel champagne buckets and a lineup of expensive vodkas. It was built around strangers sitting on strangers’ laps, and subtle rendezvous in the bathrooms with shiny, brassy, unnecessarily golden toilets, whether for drugs or sex or just an uncomfortable exchange.
They sat in an empty corner of cushioned vinyl f
or a while before an extremely handsome guy came up to Andrew. He invited them both to the VIP table behind the DJ booth.
Andrew looked at her, giving her the look that said, We don’t have to, but oh my God, did you see his beautiful face?
“Um, free booze,” she said, gesturing to get up.
He gave her arm a squeeze and said, “I love you.”
After a few more minutes of listening to Andrew flirt, Chelsea went to the bathroom. Both stalls were filled, and she was next in line. A moment of leaning against the wall, and she noticed there were two inverted sets of heels in the closest stall.
So no hope of that one emptying out anytime soon.
All she could hope was that the other stall contained a girl who was not vomiting into her own bare lap.
Luckily, a girl looking feeble on a pair of pumps emerged soon, arms out and supporting herself against the plastic door and partition.
“Thank youuuu,” said Chelsea, slipping in after her and beginning the bathroom-bar protocol:
Flush the toilet with one foot, since it wasn’t effectively flushed before. This wasn’t exactly not a challenge, especially in stilettos after a few drinks.
Gather three long rectangles of toilet paper and lay them on the toilet seat in a way that her mother had taught her ages ago.
Then use thigh muscles like a jockey to keep a good distance from the toilet seat anyway.
Finish check heels for stabbed white flags of surrender/toilet paper trails, and head out to wash hands and check makeup.
“Fuck” came a voice next to her at the other sink.
The girl was probably around five foot eleven, and beautiful. Her brunette hair was pinned and curled in a way that reminded Chelsea of 1940s cigarette girls. She wore a deep scarlet V-necked halter top that Chelsea recognized as a leotard from American Apparel. Her high-waisted black shorts were short but cute. The girl was trying to get hold of herself, clearly not in the habit of crying in bar bathrooms.
One Less Problem Without You Page 17
