On the Rocks (15 page)

“I’m trying not to think about it,” I said. “My mother reminding me that I’m fat doesn’t help with that.”

“You’re not fat. And I doubt your mother meant to call you fat either. She’s probably just trying to motivate you in her own way. She thinks you’ll feel better about everything if you feel fit and beautiful. Anyway, I’m here to tell you, don’t worry about it. A lot of people put on a few after they have bad breakups. I certainly did back before I met Mac.”

“I guess.”

“I’d rather you focus on fixing the you on the
inside.
Once you do that, I think you’ll be surprised to realize that the weight will take care of itself. Get back out there and meet some people, at least try to. You might not find a Prince Charming, but it can still be fun to kiss some frogs. You know what I’m saying?”

“I do. I know you’re right.” She always was.

“Let’s order. I’m starving,” she said, opening her menu.

“Me too,” I sighed, looking down at my thighs. “I guess I’ll just get a salad.”

I stared at the bread basket, resisting the urge to devour a roll. I wasn’t about to do a juice cleanse, but it wouldn’t kill me to lay off the carbs for the next few weeks either. Aunt Patrice read my mind and, as usual, said exactly what I needed to hear.

“Life’s too short, Abby. Eat the goddamn bread.”

Chapter 10

I Put Her in My Phone as Crosby, Stills, and Nash

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I reported for my first day of work. I spent the entire morning unloading boxes in the storage room, and the afternoon affixing price tags to the bottom of various pitchers, platters, and boxes of wine charms. Lara stayed in the front of the store working the register and dealing with customers, leaving me alone in the back, but I didn’t mind. It felt nice to have a purpose without the pressure of having to make small talk. It was just me and my box cutter, and I couldn’t have been happier.

I realized that working two days a week was turning out to be a perfect summer gig. It was great to finally have a routine, and for some reason going to work in Lara’s little store gave a much-needed boost to my self-esteem. It was now the middle of June, and Newport was starting to feel like home. I didn’t get lost when I ran, I didn’t wake up in the morning feeling like I was in a strange bed, and I didn’t feel like I was still in the “getting to know you” phase with the guys. They were now officially my friends, and I hoped that once I was allowed out of the stockroom, Lara would become one as well.

I figured if Ryan had called me right after we met, that would have seemed too forward, and I was convinced that after the first week had passed I’d hear from him. I had been cautiously optimistic on Monday, hopeful on Tuesday, confused on Thursday. Then I started checking the personals to make sure that Ben hadn’t taken out an ad declaring me a man-eater and telling guys to stay away.

“Hey, Abby, did you ever hear from the blond guy you met at the bar last week? What was his name? Ryan?” Grace asked as she smoothed moisturizer over her legs on Friday night while sitting on our couch. Bobby was rummaging through our cabinets, trying to block out the girl talk and find himself something to eat, while I stood at the stove and tried to make dinner for us, which wasn’t saying a lot. The only thing I knew how to make was pasta. I figured if I threw some basil and tomatoes into the mix, it would at least be edible. I hadn’t been to Bobby’s house yet––there was no reason to since he spent most of his time at ours––but I was pretty sure his cabinets contained nothing but packs of cigarettes and mouse traps.

The first thing Grace asked about now every time we spoke was for an update on Ryan. It had only been two weeks since I’d begun trying to date again, but meeting Ryan made me believe that maybe there was someone else out there for me. It was the best I remembered feeling in a long time, so I didn’t mind being patient, but he was beginning to push it a little.

“Not yet,” I admitted as I rummaged through a kitchen drawer looking for a spoon with a handle long enough to shove into the pot of water without burning my hand.

“Did you give him your number or your email?” she asked.

“My number actually. I don’t want to hide behind email. I figured it was more mature to encourage an actual conversation. Aren’t you impressed?”

“I am. The teacher gives you an A plus.”

“Why, thank you. I’m trying to be positive, but I’m starting to get a little paranoid. Is it possible I’m being rejected by people I don’t even know? Is that what I’ve been reduced to?”

“Nah, I’m sure you’ll hear from him. He’s probably just busy or something,” Grace said as she examined her thoroughly moisturized legs. “Can I help?” she offered as she made her way into the kitchen. I handed her a container of cherry tomatoes I had picked up at the grocery store when I went on what seemed like my thousandth beer run.

“Sure, cut these, I guess,” I said as she took the container from me and began to slice them in half.

“He’s not busy. You won’t hear from him,” Bobby said as he removed a can of Budweiser from our refrigerator. If he didn’t stop drinking our beer, I was going to start charging him. He was at our house all the time and spent most of it eating and drinking anything that wasn’t toxic.

“Why in God’s name would you say that?” I asked, surprised that he had the nerve to weigh in on something that didn’t concern him, while drinking one of our beers, no less.

“Because if you’re wondering why a guy hasn’t called, it’s because he’s not going to call. You so clearly need my help with this, it’s ridiculous. What did you ever do before you met me?”

“Slept better at night for starters, and made fewer trips to the grocery store,” I said as I took a box of pasta from the cabinet and dumped spaghetti into boiling water, causing the scalding liquid to splash all over the stove. How some people could find cooking enjoyable was beyond me. “And you know what? I’m firing you and Wolf as wingmen. He said he was going to set me up with his friend Paul and never did. Why offer to help if you’re going to flake out?”

“Relax! I’m sure he’s working on it. Just keep your fingers crossed that this guy doesn’t highlight his hair like the dude at the bar,” Bobby said from the stool at the kitchen counter. I really wished I could find some way to keep him quiet, but sadly, short of stabbing him, I wouldn’t be able to shut him up with anything less than duct tape or a muzzle, neither of which was handy at the moment.

“He does not highlight his hair!” I said, not sure why I felt the need to defend him.

“Okay, sure. Grown men over the age of thirty are still natural platinum blonds, right. Just like Grace over here is tan all year long without weekly appointments at the fake-and-bake salon.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grace said as she finished chopping the tomatoes.

“Why can’t you just admit that some people, obviously not you, swam in the deep end of the gene pool instead of wading in the kiddie pool like you did?” I asked Bobby.

“No, no. That’s fine. We will stick with male Barbie being au naturel. I’d bet if I saw him in the locker room, I could prove your theory wrong, but I’m on your side, so I’ll let this one go.”

“I hate you,” I said.

“Whatever. Now, here is the million-dollar question: did you Google-stalk him?”

I wrinkled my brow in confusion, not understanding what he was getting at in the slightest. “No. Why would I do that?”

“He’s Google-stalked you, I assure you.”

“So what? I don’t think anything comes up if you Google me.”

“Wait, you’re telling me you’ve never Googled yourself?” Bobby asked.

“No. Why would I? I know me. I don’t need the Internet to tell me about myself.”

“Well, for starters, every guy you’ve ever met has Googled you. You have no interest in knowing what they find when they do?”

“I’m boring. I’m a teacher, not Paris Hilton. I’m not all that concerned about someone finding a sex tape on the Internet.”

“That’s the first thing someone does after meeting you. I guarantee it,” he said.

“So I’m being screened basically? Is that what you’re saying?” I admit I Internet-stalked Ben, but it never occurred to me that maybe cyber-stalking was a two-way street. Again, maybe I am that stupid.

“Absolutely. Which is why you need to make sure when you Google your name no absolute freaks show up. If the first few options for ‘Abigail Wilkes’ are all train wrecks, he won’t even keep looking. He’ll just fold his cards, forfeit the hand, and you will never hear from him again. I guarantee that’s what happened. He’s gone.”

“That’s insane. You know how many people out there probably have the same name as I do?”

“Great point! Let’s see what comes up when we Google you, Abby.” Bobby grabbed my iPad off the counter. “Is it weird that I’m excited to do this?”

“Yes,” Grace and I replied simultaneously.

I watched as Bobby entered my name into the search engine and felt the color drain from my face when he began laughing uncontrollably.

“What?” I asked as I lunged for the iPad. “What are you laughing at?”

“You were on the debate team in junior high?” he asked as he scrolled through the article he was reading. “Oh, this is amazing. It explains so much, now that I think about it. You are unusually good at verbal sparring.”

“So what? I was trying to broaden my résumé so that I could get into a good college. I don’t apologize for that!”

“Not only were you on the debate team, you were the captain of the debate team! This is bad enough, because it screams geek squad, but this picture—Abby, this picture is just fantastic,” Bobby said sarcastically.

I finally managed to snatch the iPad away from him and froze in horror at the image staring back at me. There I was, front and center in the picture of our debate team, right after we won the district championship. I was smiling broadly with the gold medal hanging around my neck, which in and of itself would’ve been okay. The real problem was that eighth grade wasn’t exactly kind to me. I had full-blown acne, braces, and frizzy hair that resulted from a misguided attempt to home-perm my hair one afternoon when I decided I wanted to look like Bernadette Peters for reasons that still escape me. It was awful. It was the reason I avoided mirrors for a solid six months that year and the reason my mother canceled our charge account at the local drugstore. And now this picture was on the Internet, for all eternity. It was official: I was going to die alone.

“That is so not fair, I’m twelve years old in that picture! I’d love to see what you looked like at that age. No normal guy would ever use that picture as a reason to not contact a grown woman!” I cried, hoping that what I was saying was true.

“I agree with you, but here’s what we learned from this little Internet search: one, you’re smart and not afraid to argue with people, and two, you were probably tormented in junior high and in all likelihood have deep-seated insecurities as a result. See? Now I have a better idea of who I’m dealing with.”

“Well what do you suggest I do? Petition Google to remove any pictures of me taken before high school? I cannot stand that this is what the world has been reduced to. This type of information should only be revealed to someone once you’re in a serious relationship. It shouldn’t be common knowledge for any shallow moron to see.”

“That’s why Facebook is the single best thing to happen to the dating world. You can control what pictures you put up there. You can control what information you release for all the shallow morons to see. If you know one person in common, you can weed out all the randoms and find the exact person you’re looking for, so you’re positive before you email that you’re not writing a muppet with a unibrow or adult acne. You see what I’m saying? Facebook shall set you free,” he said flatly.

“I’m not on Facebook anymore. In fact, Mark Zuckerberg is lucky I don’t sue him for aiding and abetting an asshole.” I now hated Facebook the way most people hated telemarketers. The day I deactivated my account I swore I would never visit the site again. Now, once again, Facebook was biting me in the ass like it was mad at me. Which is odd, because I swear I never did anything to it.

“Which is why you won’t hear from him. He’s assuming that any girl who’s not on Facebook, or worse, who’s on it but won’t post any pictures, is ugly. He thinks you look like Shrek. Unless you get back on there and post a hot picture of yourself, never plan on hearing from any prospective blind dates, ever,” he replied.

“It’s not blind. I met him at the bar, remember? You were there!”

“That’s a technicality. The bar was dark, he was drunk, and he had probably hit on twenty girls throughout the course of the night, and the only things he remembers seeing—at best—are your ass and your profile. Trust me, he has no clue what you look like. He was just tossing a wide net, well aware he’d be throwing back the bottom-feeders. He probably didn’t even put you in his phone under your real name.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? How else would he have programmed me in there?” I asked.

“He looked up your real name on Facebook and then reprogrammed your number in his phone under any number of useful mnemonic devices to help keep the chick catalog straight in his head. I mean, Grace has been calling him The Guy from the Bird Bar. Maybe you’re in there as Bird Bitch. Who knows? Guys who are actively dating will rarely use real names. It’s way too hard to keep all the girls straight, and if you accidentally mix up stories or names you look like a womanizer, and there’s no coming back from that. It’s just easier this way. I met a girl named Tara Crosby once, or was it Tina? Anyway, I put her in my phone as Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I wonder what happened to her now that I think about it,” he said.

“And that was how you remembered who she was?” I asked, shocked that guys in their thirties adopted such immature tactics.

“Yup. If she drunk-dialed me a month later, I wouldn’t have remembered who Tara was. But Crosby, Stills, and Nash, that would’ve rung a bell. I once put a girl in my phone who was only visiting for a weekend as LN, which stood for Last Night. I doubt Blondie came up with anything that clever, but you get the gist.”