On the Rocks (35 page)

“I don’t think breaking into his office was a good alternative.”

“I figured I’d just pull up his email and delete it. No big deal.”

“Sorry to point out the obvious, but I’d bet he had his BlackBerry on him. Deleting something from his computer wasn’t really going to solve your problem.”

“That’s great, Abby. Freak me out even more than I already am.”

“Sorry. But for the record, these are problems girls didn’t have before email. I mean, how many people would accidentally address, stamp, and mail an envelope to the wrong person?”

“Please not now, Abby,” she snapped. “I can’t listen to another diatribe on how much you hate modern technology. It’s not helping.”

Sheesh
,
fine.
I decided that I’d stop talking about it, but I made a mental note to silently crusade for the return of actual handwritten love letters. Romeo and Juliet might have both ended up dead, but it wasn’t because of a misdirected email.

“Did you get caught?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“No, but I saw something else on his computer. He left an instant chat on his Google account on his screen. He was talking to his wife.”

“Well, they’re still married, so talking isn’t all that strange,” I said, trying to find some encouraging words for her. “Especially if they’ve started divorce proceedings, they’re going to have to talk to each other.”

“It wasn’t that they were talking. It was the content of the conversation.”

“You read it?” I asked. I don’t know why this surprised me.

“Of course I read it.”

Okay,
I thought to myself.
Add electronic mail fraud to Grace’s list of legal violations for the day.
Good thing she worked at a law firm. She was going need a hell of an attorney to get her out of this.

“And?”

“And he was telling her how much he loved her and how much he was looking forward to reconnecting during their weekend in Bar Harbor. He’s not leaving her, he’s taking her away for the weekend! Why would he come over last night and say all the things he did if he was then going away with his wife for the weekend? He told me it was over. He told me we were going to be together. He sent me lobsters!” she wailed. “It’s not even like she doesn’t know about me. We spoke on the fucking phone!” The sight of Grace crying unnerved me. It didn’t happen often. In fact, for most of high school I wondered if she even had functional tear ducts, or if she just lived in a perpetual state of dehydration.

“I’m so confused,” I admitted, feeling stupid for being surprised again. I had hoped Johnny was finally going to live an honest life. I had given him the benefit of the doubt, and once again, he had made a fool out of my best friend. I wanted him shot.

Bobby shook his head and leaned forward in his chair. “Grace, this has to be enough. He’s lying to you and he’s lying to her. I don’t believe a word that comes out of that guy’s mouth, and I honestly can’t believe you do at this point.”

Grace was too smart to be acting like this, but love will make you do insanely stupid things, not the least among them, breaking into your boss’s office to delete damning email evidence.

“I know. This was the last straw. After everything he put me through, after how awful I’ve felt about myself dealing with this whole thing, I’m not going to do this to myself anymore. I waited for him to get back, and then I went into his office and I told him point-blank that I was tired of being an afterthought and that I’d never forgive him for making me think he was leaving his wife when he wasn’t.”

“Good for you. It was long overdue, Grace. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true,” I said as I got up to hug her. “I had hoped things would change, but they won’t. You deserve so much better than this.”

“I know. I told him that it was over and to leave me alone. I’m tired of being strung along.” Grace was shaking so badly I thought she was going to throw up. “How did I end up here? He’s been stringing me along for two years. Two years of my life, gone.”

“Listen, I know you don’t want to hear this, but this is a good thing. You weren’t going to be able to get out of this on your own. Maybe this is what you needed to make the change. I hate to bring this up now, but do you think while you’re taking your mental health leave slash fake vacation you could poke around at other firms and see what’s out there?”

I wasn’t sure if this was the right time to throw further upheaval into the life of a notorious control freak, but sometimes it’s better to just rip the Band-Aid off. Of course, if I was wrong, she was about to have a meltdown the likes of which couldn’t be solved with every bottle of Smirnoff on the island.

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone will be interested in even speaking to me if they find out the circumstances surrounding why I want to leave. It’s a big black mark on my résumé.”

“Your personal life shouldn’t make a difference. You’re a good lawyer. That’s what people will care about.” Theoretically, this should be true. I doubt Lara’s husband had a hard time replacing his secretary after his affair became public.

Just then Wolf walked into the house, took one look at us, and with his inborn German attention to detail, knew instantly that something was wrong. “Why’s everyone so sad? It’s such a beautiful day!”

“Grace broke up with her boyfriend,” I said.

“The lobster guy?” he asked, incredulous. “Why would you ever break up with the lobster guy?”

That was
so
not a normal way to describe someone’s boyfriend.

“What am I going to do?” Grace sobbed.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, little Gracie,” Wolf said sympathetically. “Let’s go hammer ourselves! That will help,” he suggested.

“The term is ‘get hammered,’ not ‘hammer yourself,’ ” Bobby said. “Saying ‘hammering yourself’ means you’re going to beat yourself with an actual hammer.”

“I see,” Wolf said with a nod. “And to say ‘get hammered’ means to drink lots of booze?” he asked.

“Yes,” we said in unison. I looked at Grace as she downed her vodka. She was well on her way to hammering herself. I couldn’t blame her.

Wolf reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone, and proceeded to type something. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I keep a list of all the idioms I mix up so that I can learn them. The Apple people should probably look into this. American idioms, there’s not an app for that.”

Grace stood without saying a word and grabbed her purse. “I don’t care what you want to call it, but yes. Let’s go hammer ourselves.”

It seemed rude to say no.

W
E HAD BEEN IN
41 N
ORTH
for all of three minutes when Grace broke away from us and beelined for the bar, or more specifically, for the drinks that would be found at said bar. She was newly single, heartbroken, and determined to make everyone believe that she didn’t give a damn about either.

“Is she going to be okay?” Wolf asked. The bar was packed with a bunch of Navy guys who were stationed at the base in Newport, and Grace was holding court in the middle of them.

“She will be. I think,” I said.

“Okay, if you say so. Do you guys want to dance?” Wolf asked.

“I’m going to get a drink first,” I said. I decided I needed a few more drinks in me before I was ready to hit the dance floor.

“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” Bobby yelled over the noise of the crowd as the two of us made our way over to the bar. Since my meet-and-greet with Ben, I felt like Bobby was being slightly protective of me in a big-brotherly sort of way. I liked it. I never had a big brother, and lately, I’d wished I had one. At least I wouldn’t have had to worry about a big brother stealing my wedding dress.

“How do you really think Grace is doing?” he asked as we ordered drinks. “Do we need to worry about her keeling over from alcohol poisoning tonight or what?”

Truth be told, I wasn’t sure. I glanced over at her working the room like she was competing for the Ms. Newport pageant. “I think she’s fine. You know, faking it like only a good woman can.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Suit yourself,” I said with a smile.

“You could single-handedly undo about fifteen years of praise with your quips, you realize that?”

“Fifteen, huh? That would mean that you were . . .”

“Do you want to play this game?”

“No, not particularly.” I had learned a few things over the course of the summer. Bobby was as good a verbal boxer as any.

“Didn’t think so.”

“So what’s the latest and greatest? Any update on the job front?”

“Hah, job hunt. The last one I was interviewing for fell through, unfortunately. I imagine things will be pretty slow now until after Labor Day.”

“Hmmm. Labor Day,” I sighed, realizing that summer was lumbering toward its close. Soon I’d be heading back to Boston and my little apartment and my new class of bright-eyed five-year-olds. I wasn’t looking forward to leaving the beach, but at the same time I couldn’t wait to get back to my old life and actually live it again.

“You were right,” I said to Bobby as we jostled with other people trying to get the bartender’s attention. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but you were, so I guess there’s no harm in my admitting it. You were right, I was wrong.”

“That’s not surprising. I’m always right. What exactly was I right about?” he asked.

“That guy from the Red Parrott, the one who never called me.”

“He
did
highlight his hair! I knew it,” Bobby said as he swayed to the music.

“No, I’m talking about why he never called me, although yeah, you were probably right about the dye job too.”

“How’d you find out? What, did you come out and ask him or something?”

“Yup,” I said.

“I was kidding. Did you really ask him?” He laughed, his eyes wide.

“Yeah. I mean, what do I care at this point? I ran into him, and he admitted that he couldn’t find me on Facebook, so he ran. I probably didn’t do much to make him think he made a bad decision by yelling at him in the middle of a bar, but whatever.”

“You’re hysterical sometimes. Crazy, but hysterical. Anyway, who cares? I repeat: that guy was a loser.”

“I guess I just didn’t want to think that guys were that shallow. I know better now, thanks to you.”

“You didn’t think he was shallow? Abby, he
highlights
his hair.”

“I guess,” I said as I took a sip of my beer. “Thanks for helping to show me the ropes. I wouldn’t be doing as well as I am right now without you.”

He blushed and flashed an awkward grin as he ran his hands through his dark hair. I wasn’t trying to embarrass him, but I was pretty sure that was what I had just done. Apparently, I couldn’t even give praise to a member of the opposite sex without eliciting some sort of adverse reaction. I should come with a warning label and an epi-pen.

“Well, he was a tool anyway,” he said. “You can do better. You know, like the mailman.”

“Yeah, Ryan never told me I looked like J Lo for starters.”

“And that should be the standard against which all future guys are measured. I’m glad I was there to witness that. You really do attract some gems, don’t you?”

“It’s a unique talent.”

“At least he didn’t light anything on fire.”

“No, but there’s no saying he wouldn’t have hacked me to bits on his boat.”

“Good point.”

“Thanks.”

We turned away from the band and surveyed the crowd. The music was blaring, and people were dancing frenetically—singly, in pairs, in groups. It was a mob scene. My head started to throb, and I realized I was turning into one of those people who hate really loud music, no doubt yet another sign that I was getting old. Next I’d be clipping coupons from the PennySaver and chasing kids away with baseball bats for making too much noise at 8:00
P.M.
. There was something to look forward to. Like my first colonoscopy.

When I opened my mouth to speak again, Bobby was waving to someone on the dance floor. Bobby’s latest target was easily in her midforties and sucking on her straw in a way that no lady should ever suck a cocktail straw. Then again, no lady would ever be gyrating alone on a dance floor in a Lycra dress, flirting with a strange guy at least a decade younger than she was. So clearly, this lady was a tramp.

“What do you think of her?” Bobby asked under his breath.

“What do I think of her? I think she looks like a very nice old lady. She probably makes really delicious chocolate chip cookies and tells good bedtime stories. What do you mean, what do I think of her?”

“Do you think she’s hot?” he asked without taking his eyes off her.

“I think she’s having hot flashes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m going to go dance with her,” he said as he cracked the knuckles on his left hand.

“She’s old enough to be your mother!” I squealed in shock.

“She’s eyeing me, and she looks like she’s a good time. You chill here. I’m going to go test the waters.”

“You must be joking.”

“No, I’m not.” He looked at me with a straight face. “See, Abs, older women can be a great time. They don’t want anything from you. They’re not thinking that maybe you’re the future father of their children, or if you can afford to buy them a nice house in the ’burbs, or even if you’re going to call them tomorrow. They just want to have fun.”

It was an interesting point. It must be a lot easier to have fun with guys when the pressure is gone. I wondered if I could find some way to make that possible at my age, like electroshock therapy or hypnosis or something.

“Why aren’t you ever worried about being rejected? I could never do what you do because I’d be too afraid of being snubbed. It’d kill my confidence.”

“That’s the difference between guys are girls. Girls, if rejected, will wonder what’s wrong with them. Guys, if rejected, will wonder what’s wrong with the girl who isn’t interested. You need to think more like a guy.”

“It must be so nice to be that delusional.”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

“Fine, go ahead. Leave me here to fend for myself.”

“You’ll be fine. You wait here for Mr. Right, or even Mr. Kind-of-Acceptable-if-You-Only-Hang-with-Him-in-Rooms-Where-the-Bulbs-Are-on-Dimmers, and watch me show that there lady how it’s done.”