On the Rocks(34)

“How does it compare so far?”

“So far they’re pretty similar. There are fewer fedoras here, and it’s nice to be able to walk places instead of dropping fifty bucks on cabs every night. It seems like a good time. So do you, by the way.” Well, blond Ryan wasn’t shy, that was for sure.

“And what makes you think that?” I asked, still trying to be flirty. No one who knew me would accuse me of being a good time. Not lately anyway.

I looked up and caught Bobby eyeing us from across the bar and making lewd gestures with his beer bottle. It was a wonder no one had snatched him off the market yet.

“Can I get you a drink?” Ryan asked as he gestured to the bartender.

“Anything except a filthy whore martini.”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Sure. I’ll have a Sauvignon Blanc, please.”

“You got it.” This was going surprisingly well considering I had no idea how old he was, what his last name was, what he did for a living, or why he was talking to me. As soon as I had those details figured out, I was pretty sure that I was still going to think that this was going well. As long as he didn’t tell me he moved to Boston because he broke up with his fiancée in New York City and wanted to travel.

He handed me a glass of wine. “So, I don’t mean to be nosy, but that guy you were talking to, is he your boyfriend or something?”

I almost spit my wine all over the bar. Not exactly something you want to do in front of a guy unless you’ve been on at least three dates with him. “No, not at all. We have a mutual friend, but we just met over Memorial Day.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure I’m not stepping on his toes.”

“Rest assured, you’re fine.” Interesting, I thought. Maybe there is such a thing as a guy code after all.

“Good. In that case, do you mind if I ask if you’re seeing anyone?”

There it was. The harmless question that hurt like a bitch. I’d have rather he’d asked me something less torturous, like, if I had ever had any venereal diseases.

“No, I’m not.” And that was 100 percent true. I hadn’t seen Ben in months. Had he asked me if I sometimes talked to my ex-fiancé, I’d have answered the question differently. Semantics matter.

“Well, I don’t know a whole lot of people here, and I’m going to be back and forth on the weekends. Would you mind if I got your cell number? Maybe you’d like to get a drink sometime.”

“I’d like that,” I said, and it surprised me to realize that I meant it. Look at me, I’m dating! I thought to myself. Grace would be so proud. My dating project was only just started, and I was already kicking ass.

“Great, so let’s have it.” He took his iPhone from the pocket of his cargo shorts and programmed my number into it. I leaned against the bar, tucked a frizzy lock of hair behind my ear, and continued to have the first adult conversation I ever had with a guy who potentially wanted to date me. We spoke for a half-hour that felt like three minutes before he excused himself to go say hi to his friends who were crowded in the corner. Not long after he walked away, Bobby returned to order another drink and, apparently, to poke fun at me.

“So now you’re going after guys who highlight their hair at home with Garnier Nutrisse or whatever hair care product Sarah Jessica Parker is hocking on TV?” he asked as he eyed Ryan off in the corner.

“First of all, those highlights are real, and second of all, it worries me that you can not only reference women’s home hair color products but also their spokespeople. I wouldn’t advertise that.”

“I’m out of work at the moment. I watch a lot of TV.”

“What channel, Lifetime? Because I doubt they’re paying to advertise that particular product on ESPN.”

“I fancy myself a Renaissance man, Abby.”

“I fancy you a metrosexual, Bobby.”

“I’m secure in my manhood.”

“That makes one of us.”

He laughed, the glint in his eye reminding me that he liked a challenge and that he enjoyed our combative conversations. If only Ben had been half as tenacious, maybe things would’ve worked out differently.

“See you later, Abby. Stay sassy,” Bobby said as he knocked twice on the bar before turning to leave.

“Count on it,” I replied as he sauntered away, his shoulder blades poking through the back of his dark green T-shirt. I felt myself smile for a second. If nothing else, Bobby was amusing, and there was nothing wrong with that. Especially these days.





Chapter 9



The Bitch Stole My Snack Pack




MY MOTHER WAS homecoming queen of her high school. I know this because she tells anyone who will listen. Even the checkout girl at the grocery store knows she was the head cheerleader, the most beautiful girl in town, and the one voted “Most Likely to Succeed.” She was undeniably pretty and knew it—she used it to manipulate everyone around her into giving her what she wanted. One thing she was not voted was “Most Likely to Get Knocked Up by Her Boyfriend Senior Year of College.” She married my father and had me a few months later, her twenty-two-year-old waist suddenly a distant memory, just like full nights of sleep and her dreams of being a newscaster and making her own money. Unlike most babies, I didn’t come into this world as a joyous monument to my mother’s future. I came into it as the reason for the sudden destruction of her past. A past she was by no means ready to let go of.