On the Rocks (28 page)

“So this is where you live,” Bobby said as he followed me inside.

I suddenly felt very self-conscious about my apartment and the fact that I had done nothing to prepare for company. I noticed everything that was wrong with the place: the counters were dusty, the green-and-white throw pillows on the couch were jammed into one corner where I had been lying on them last night, stacks of old magazines littered the coffee table. For a second, I thought about suggesting we go to a bar around the corner, but since he was already inside, throwing him out so he didn’t notice that the towels in my bathroom hadn’t been washed seemed a bit silly. Especially since he had seen me with wet hair and no makeup for most of the time we had known each other.

This must be what being married is like.

I tossed my bag on my navy blue couch and dropped keys in a small dish on a console in the hall. Bobby followed me into the kitchen and placed the mystery bag on the floor as I flicked the light switch on the wall. I reached up into one of the wooden cabinets over the Formica counter and removed two heavy wineglasses, then turned to remove the bottle of wine from the rack in the corner by the utility closet.

“I hope you don’t mind red,” I said. “It’s all I have, and before you go raiding my fridge like you do at the beach, let me assure you, I don’t have any Budweiser.” He stared at me smiling, but didn’t say anything. “What? Seriously what?” I asked, looking down at myself. One thing I knew for sure: pink taffeta was not see-through. So at least I had that going for me.

“Let me finish my statement before you freak out, okay?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, I just wanted a drink,” I said as I tilted my head toward the heavens (or in my case, the floor of the apartment above me). “Why, God? Why will you not even give me the simple things I ask for? I’m ready to admit there might be some master plan I’m unaware of that has me enduring the idiots you parade through my life like show ponies, but a drink in my own apartment? That’s too much to ask for without being tormented by a member of the opposite sex?”

I’ve been known to have a flair for the dramatic.

“So much for you letting me finish. You didn’t even let me start, you drama queen.”

“Fine. Start. Whatever,” I replied, curious as to what was about to come out of his mouth.

“What I was going to say was, you look nice tonight, outfit aside. I hate when girls go to weddings and do something crazy to themselves. They think they look prettier if they paint their faces with clown makeup and break out the curlers and stuff. There’s nothing scarier than a pretty girl who looks like an alien version of herself.”

“Thank you. I will send your regards to the highly skilled hair and makeup professionals who worked on me for three hours this morning.”

“Stop,” he said, almost as if he was slightly irritated. “You do that a lot, you know that?”

“Do what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Deflect compliments with self-deprecating humor.”

I exhaled, as that was nowhere near the top of the list of offensive things I thought he was going to say. I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “I’m sorry. It’s force of habit. What should I have said?”

He tilted his head to the side as he thought. “I don’t know. ‘Thank you’ would have sufficed.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

This wasn’t the first time someone had pointed out to me that I did that. Ben used to point it out to me all the time. Maybe it was insecurity; maybe it was nerves. Maybe I really did have hair and makeup people work on me for three hours before they deemed me worthy of leaving the salon. Was that really so hard to believe?

“Thank you. Really.”

“You’re welcome. Now that that’s out of the way, why don’t you let me get the drinks? You go get out of that thing and put on some normal clothes.”

“Good idea,” I said with a smile as I handed him the bottle. “There’s a corkscrew in the top drawer next to the stove. I’ll be right back.”

I walked down the hall past the front door and the bathroom and into my bedroom. When I closed the door, I found myself wondering if maybe what I had been looking for had been here the entire time. Maybe the concept of Bobby and me wasn’t completely crazy. We got along great, we both appreciated verbal sparring and combative banter, and we both agreed that Dark ’n’ Stormys are one of the most underrated cocktails on planet Earth. Since when can those things not be considered a sufficient basis for forming a relationship?
What are you
,
crazy?
I thought as I immediately pushed the idea from my mind. My friendship with Bobby was by far the healthiest relationship I’d ever had with a guy, and I refused to ruin it by developing feelings for him. I shook my head and reminded myself that I was just trying to feel a little less lonely after the wedding, and that the concept of ever getting romantically involved with Bobby was a train wreck waiting to happen. Besides, he was a better dresser than I was, and I had no interest in dating a man with a better wardrobe than I had. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t gay and just didn’t know it yet.

I unzipped my dress, kicked it off into the corner of the room, and changed into some much-welcome sweats. Before I had time to take the earrings out of my ears, I heard banging in my kitchen, and then the unmistakable sound of a cocktail shaker in action.

When I went back to the kitchen, the mystery bag was open, and the bottle of wine was sitting on the counter. Next to it was a bottle of tequila, a bottle of triple sec, a box of salt, and a container of lime juice that had apparently been squeezed before being packed into Bobby’s portable Mexican cocktail kit. He was shaking a metal shaker like a maraca when I entered.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Forgive me, but I didn’t think wine was going to be strong enough for you,” he said as he danced and shook his money-maker around my kitchen. “You had a rough week, so I thought I’d bring over a proper cocktail. How do you like your margaritas? I probably should know that by now.”

“On the rocks,” I said. It was appropriate when I thought about it. On the rocks: my cocktails, my personal life, my mental state. If I had a car I’d make that my vanity plate.

“On the rocks it is,” he said as he popped ice cubes out of the tray he had removed from my freezer. He dropped cubes into the wineglasses and filled them with the now properly chilled cocktail, and handed me one. “Voilà,” he said as he handed me the glass. “Listen, I don’t mean to kick you when you’re down, but I couldn’t help but notice what you have in your freezer.”

“I had a rough breakup, I told you.”

“Do you actually have all thirty-one Baskin-Robbins flavors in there? Is every Girl Scout troop in Boston coming over to make sundaes? Or is that actually all for you?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Ah, lawyering the lawyer. Okay, be that way. I don’t think you really need all that comfort food anymore considering how much better you’re doing since you met me. Maybe it’s time to throw them away . . . toss them right down the garbage chute with that dress.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. Cleaning out my ice cream stash would be like getting rid of old friends. I pushed the thought from my mind. That would be tomorrow’s horror.

“Don’t think about it. Do it,” he said he collapsed on my couch. I followed him, stopping to grab the stereo remote control off my oval wooden coffee table. I hit Play, and the CD player came on.

“Ella Fitzgerald, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah, I love her.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel like you live in a Pottery Barn or something?”

“Not until this moment, no. Anyway, you listen to the Beastie Boys at the beach. You cannot judge my choice in music.”

“I’m not judging. I actually like jazz a lot. There’s a club in the Back Bay I go to sometimes on Saturday nights. They have an awesome jazz band. You should check it out sometime.”

I should check it out. Sure, Bobby
,
that’s what I should do. Go sit in a dark bar where people aren’t allowed to speak
,
alone. That’s the way to meet someone. Thanks for that.

“How was the wedding? Did you have fun?”

“It was okay,” I muttered. “Going alone was kind of a buzz-kill, but otherwise it was fun.”

“Why didn’t you bring a date?”

“What? Are you serious? You’ve had a front-row seat to my dating catastrophes this summer. Who should I have brought with me? The pink-pants-wearing architect was out of the question because I couldn’t fit a fire extinguisher in my purse.”

“I don’t know. You could’ve brought a friend or something.”

A friend? What
,
like you? Did he just ask me why I didn’t bring him to the wedding? Am I in Oz?

“Nah, I didn’t want to bring a friend to a family event like that where I’d be preoccupied tending to my sister half the night. Works out well for you, though. If I had, I might have gone out somewhere afterward, and you’d have packed your boozy travel kit for nothing.”

“Good point.”

“Wanna see what’s on TV?” I asked as I switched off the CD player and turned on the Sony flat screen hanging on the wall facing my couch. I sat down next to him and flipped through the channel guide.
Pretty Woman
was playing. Jackpot.

“What is it with girls and this movie?” he asked with genuine interest as he shifted his weight to turn toward me. “Every girl I know has seen it about a thousand times and is still perfectly content to watch it every single time it’s on. It must be like how geeks feel about
Star Trek.
”

“We prefer the term ‘Trekkie.’ Thanks.”

“You were a space geek? I should’ve known. I was more of a
Star Wars
guy, for obvious reasons. I bet you rocked some nice Princess Leia braids.”

“Nah. Princess Leia was a whore. Everyone knows that.”

He laughed. “Seriously, though. What’s with the female obsession with this movie?”

“I don’t know,” I said as I genuinely thought about it. “I guess it’s like the ultimate Cinderella story.”

Yes. I did just hear the words that came out of my mouth. I hate myself.

“It’s about a hooker who keeps her rent money in her toilet tank. Are you mental?”

“No, it’s not really about her being a hooker. It’s about a fairy tale. She says so in the movie. It’s about being rescued, and overcoming obstacles, and meeting Prince Charming. It’s about hope and about finding love in strange places. It probably doesn’t seem like it on the surface, but it is.” I sighed. “You know what they say: when you’re not looking, you’ll find it. This is the quintessential example of that.”

“Well, whatever. I don’t care, really. I like the movie. Mostly because Julia Roberts is a complete babe.”

He took our empty glasses off the table and returned to the kitchen to whip up another batch of what was admittedly a damn good margarita, as “King of Wishful Thinking” played over the opening credits.
Wishful thinking indeed.

“So, can I ask you a question?” he asked as he returned with our refills and resumed his position on the opposite end of the couch.

“Sure.”

“What happened with the guy, what’s his name? Biff?”

“His name’s Ben. And you knew that,” I growled.

“Seriously, the mystery of what happened to you guys is killing me. Why did you guys break up? Just tell me.”

I paused before I spoke, but the wedding had made me more self-reflective than usual, and the truth was, I wanted to talk. I was tired of carrying it around with me. So very, very tired. “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear to God I don’t even really know. That’s the worst part, the fact that he left me so utterly confused.”

“I’m not defending the guy, but people break up with their girlfriends in all sorts of weird ways. We aren’t really into the emotional nonsense, you know?”

I hesitated before I said it, not sure if I wanted to let Bobby into this part of my life. What was I now, a pushover for a guy with a sense of humor and a margarita kit?

Yup.

“Fine. You win. The thing is, I wasn’t his girlfriend,” I said as I stared at him, waiting for my words to register.

“I don’t get it,” he said. So much for that.

“He was my fiancé,” I admitted, cringing from having to say that out loud.

“Whoa. Get the fuck out of here. You were engaged to that guy?” The look on Bobby’s face was one I won’t forget for as long as I live. It was a combination of his usual impishness, mixed with shock, awe, and I think a little regret that he had been pushing me so hard to tell him what happened. I quite enjoyed seeing it.

“Was. Briefly. Yes.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say about this.”

“That makes you no different than anyone else in my life. There’s nothing to say.”

“I think you should be happy about it. He doesn’t even live here anymore.”

“I know. I’m finally at the point where I’m okay with everything,” I said as I yawned and curled into a ball in the corner of the couch. My eyes were heavy.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but let me just add that talking to him won’t help you move on. Maybe that’s why you’ve been having a hard time with your little dating project. You can go out with as many guys as you want, but if your head’s not in the game, it’s just a waste of time. He’s probably got a full-blown girlfriend out there already and is just stringing you along for if and when he has to come back east. You know, some girl who trims cacti for a living or something. Who knows? But you don’t deserve that.”

I barely heard the last part, or the conversation that Viv has with the salesgirls in the snobby store when she tells them that they made a big mistake (big, huge!) not waiting on her. I fell asleep with the lights and the TV on, and with Bobby nestled in the corner of the couch at my feet.

Like a dog.

I woke at 10:30
A.M.
with multiple layers of wedding makeup smeared all over my face and, sadly, all over my couch cushions. The TV was off, the glasses were gone, and so was Bobby. I rubbed my hand against my forehead to brush the hair out of my eyes and felt something odd. I reached up and removed a blue Post-it note taken from a pad I kept in my kitchen. I examined it.