Just One of the Guys(4)

I eat some more nachos and finish my beloved Scorpy. Maybe I should try being as bold as Lindsey, the sex-kitten waitress. After all, she’s been here for a minute and a half and a really nice, good-looking firefighter has her number.

“Sorry about that,” Trevor says.

“Sorry about what?” I say casually, looking out again at the restaurant half of Emo’s. There’s the New York Times model. He is so handsome. His bone structure suggests an icy reserve, if such a thing is possible, not like Trev’s instantly loveable face.

Another Scorpion Bowl appears before me, as if by magic. No, not magic. Stu, the bartender—who noticed me when Lindsey the waitress did not. Good old Stu. Too bad he’s married and sixty years old. Otherwise, I’d be all over him. I take a grateful sip, wince as my taste buds protest, then swallow. I need the booze, frankly. It’s not every night that I nearly choke to death and get dumped, after all.

“So what did your dumb-ass boyfriend say, anyway?” Trevor asks, taking a slab of nachos for himself.

I pause. The Scorpion Bowl demands that I answer honestly. “He said I’m not attractive enough.”

Trevor stops chewing. “What an ass**le.”

I smile. Another show of loyalty. “Thanks.” Taking a chip devoid of any cheese or olive, I break it into crumbs and arrange them in a pattern on the table. This is good, because if I look up, the room spins a little. Scorpy the Second suggests that I pick Trevor’s brain. After all, Trevor is an expert on women. And, Scorpy continues, hasn’t Trev known me long enough to be honest, if nothing else? “Trevor, tell the truth. Am I…pretty?”

His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Of course you’re…well, okay, maybe pretty’s not the right word. Striking. How’s that?”

I roll my eyes. “Kind of crappy, to be honest. Striking. As in striking out, as in ‘When will A-Rod stop striking out in the post-season?’ Or as in a protest, as in ‘We’re striking because conditions suck.’”

Trevor grins. “Let’s switch you to some water, what do you say?”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Tell you what, Chastity?”

“Well, you slept with me. You must have found me attractive, right?”

Trevor freezes, his beer halfway to his mouth.

“Columbus Day weekend, remember?” I continue. “My freshman year of college. You—”

“Of course I remember, Chastity,” Trevor says, his voice low. “I just wasn’t aware that we were going to discuss it. It’s been, what, twelve years? Maybe I could get a little warning next time.”

“Don’t get all prissy,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “So?” My tone is nonchalant, but my face, I note, feels warm. Scorpy II tells me not to worry.

“So what?” Trevor says, his face stern.

“Well, you must have found me somewhat attractive, right?”

“Of course I found you attractive,” Trevor says carefully, shifting his gaze to a point to the left of my head. “You’re very attractive.”

“But…” I prod.

“But nothing. You’re attractive, okay? You’re unconventionally beautiful. Don’t let that scrawny little weenie make you feel insecure.”

“I’m not. Just wondering—if men find me attractive.”

“Well, I’m wondering if you need something a little more substantial than nachos. How about some dinner? Want a burger?”

“I’m not hungry,” I say around the last mouthful of nachos.

Trev runs his hand through his wavy brown hair, hair I’ve always loved. Thick, rich, wavy and tousled, the color of black coffee, silky smooth…I’d better stop. He’s looking at me oddly. “So what do you want from me?” he asks.

Four children. “Just be honest.”

“About what?”

“About men and me.”

There must be something in my expression that makes Trevor take pity on me. “Chastity,” he begins. “Men love you. You’re lots of fun. In fact, you’ve always been one of the—” He breaks off suddenly.

“What? One of the what? One of the guys? Is that what you were going to say? That I’m one of the guys?” My voice is shrill. And possibly a little loud.

“Uh, well, in a good way, you know?”

“How is that good?” I demand.

Trevor winces. “Well, you know a lot about sports, right? And many men enjoy sports.” I groan; Trev grimaces. “And you play darts and pool and stuff like that. Um, we all had a good time doing that triathlon with you a couple years ago. The MDA thing?”

I sigh and reach for my Scorpy, but Trevor has moved it out of reach. He pushes a glass of water toward me instead. I roll my eyes…one seems to get stuck…and look once more at Mr. New York Times. I wish I was married to him. I wonder if there’s a way I can convey this somehow. Look over here, buddy. Marry me. He smiles at something his white-haired companion says and continues to be unaware that his soul mate sits just yards away.

Just then, the pretty, slutty, number-giving-out waitress reappears with yet another Scorpion Bowl. Even in my tipsy state, I realize that Trevor is right and I shouldn’t drink another drop. Then, realization dawns in a glorious sunburst. Someone is sending me a drink!