On Rotation(71)

“Damn, girl, you trying to get pregnant?” Nia asked when I stepped out of my bedroom in my new dress.

I spun around to show off all the angles.

“No,” I said smugly. “Just reminding Ricky exactly who he’s taking out tonight.” I paused, patting my stomach affectionately. “At least until we eat. This dress is not going to be very forgiving.”

Nia laughed.

“Where’d you get it? It’s definitely a freakum* dress, but classy. I need me one of those.”

I sent Nia the link to the dress, then solicited her opinion on which of my four pairs of heels I should wear. She showed me a picture of the new pair she’d just purchased (purportedly the “comfiest stilettos in the world”) and, when I expressed my skepticism, opened a YouTube video review. We watched it, pausing every few seconds to say, “Oh my god, shoes,” then pulled up the classic 2006 “Shoes” video to round it out. It felt like Nia and I had reverted right back to our old patterns, but better now, because her happiness was genuine.

Of course I was late after all that. Five minutes before I was meant to leave, Nia and I were still draped across the couch and laughing, and I hadn’t even put on eyeliner.

“Hurry!” Nia shouted after me when I rushed into my room to finish up.

La Ventana was packed when I showed up, eighteen minutes into our reservation. They had definitely gone for an Instagram aesthetic, with clean, white tile walls and woven baskets of ivy hanging from the ceilings. The wall across from the bar was painted with a large relief of Machu Picchu as viewed through an open window.

“What’s the reservation under?” The hostess, a pretty, willowy woman wearing dark red lipstick, asked.

“Probably Ricky? Gutiérrez?” I asked, my eyes darting across the room in search of him. The woman nodded in recognition and made for the bar. I trailed after her, my steps measured in my heels.

“We don’t seat until the whole party is here,” the hostess explained. “I could’ve sworn he was right there . . .”

It was no wonder she was having trouble locating my date. The woman leaning over Ricky had big, blond Texas hair, and from behind she obstructed our view of him entirely. Once he came into view, though, I wished I could turn back and run. Even with the Beauty Pageant Washout practically shoving her chest into his face, Ricky looked comfortable. He swirled his glass languorously, looking genuinely engrossed in their conversation, nodding along to her boring-ass story about waiting too long in the line for the Willis Tower. Suddenly, the effort I’d put into my little getup felt cheap.

“Mr. Gutiérrez?” our hostess, bless her, said. Ricky glanced up and gave us a sunny smile, his eyes darting to me and reflexively flicking up and down my body.

“Angie,” he said, sounding a bit breathless. “Wow, you look . . .”

“Well, I’d best let you go, then,” the big-haired woman said, giving me a look that was everything but appreciative. She was older than I had assumed from first glance, but clearly maintained, her eyebrows arched in that slightly villainous way that could be achieved only with regular Botox. A recent divorcée, or maybe a bored trophy wife, looking for a hot, ethnic young thang to show around her boudoir?

Pamela Anderson’s Uglier Stunt Double turned back to Ricky.

“Thanks for keepin’ me company, Ricardo,” she said.

“Sure thing, Polly,” Ricky said. “Have a good time in Chicago.”

Calm down, I thought, trying not to jump away from the hand Ricky placed at the small of my back. They were just chatting. It’s normal to talk to strangers at bars; that is half of why bars exist. And sometimes in those conversations, you even exchange names. Seriously, who brings a child into the world and names them Polly—

“You ubered here, right?” Ricky said after we had been seated and handed our menus. “Their cocktails are really good. You should have one.”

I looked up at Ricky as he flipped through the overpriced drink menu. I wasn’t dumb. I knew what Ricky looked like. Most hot-blooded heterosexual women would probably find him very pleasing to look at, and look they did, all the time. I was okay with that; as Ricky was already aware, I got hit on in public too. But if it had been me sitting at the bar, waiting for him to show up, I wouldn’t have entertained any company, especially not company that looked like it was five seconds away from launching its tongue down my throat.

But then again, it was like Tabatha had said. Ricky wasn’t my boyfriend. Sure, we were enjoying each other’s company, but he had no obligation to turn down external interest if and when it came. If Polly from Out of Town decided she wanted to have some of Ricky’s Tapatío with her papas, he had no reason to decline.

“Everything okay?” Ricky asked. He placed the menu down firmly on the table. “You’re quiet.”

I smiled, knowing it wouldn’t reach my eyes.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Badly, apparently. Ricky’s eyebrows knitted together with concern.

“Bad day at work?” he asked in hushed tones.

I thought of Bernice whipping her sheets off to reveal her stump like a magician unveiling their vanished assistant and smirked to myself.

“No,” I said. “It was good, actually.” I made a show of going over the drink menu. “I’ll just get a red wine.”