Forgotten: A Novel (30 page)

The pub has an Irish-bar-out-of-a-box feel to it
(hunter green wallpaper, dark oak bar, mirrored Guinness signs behind it, a
whiff of stale lager), but we like its laid-back atmosphere, cheap pints, and
occasional Irish rugby team.

Greer is sitting on her usual stool flirting with
the bartender. The Black Eyed Peas song “I Gotta Feeling” is playing on the
sound system. She orders me a beer and a whiskey shot as I sit down next to
her.

“Hey, you promised one drink.”

“A shot’s not a drink. It’s just a wee introduction
to drinking.”

Greer is from Scotland. She has long auburn hair,
green eyes, porcelain skin, and an accent that drives men wild. Sometimes I hate
her.

Tonight she’s wearing a soft sweater the color of
new grass that exactly matches her eyes and a broken-in pair of jeans that fits
her tall, slim frame perfectly. I’m glad I took the time to blow out my
chestnut-colored hair and put on the one shade of mascara that makes my eyes
look sky blue. Nobody wants to be outshone at their almost-thirtieth-birthday
party.

She clinks her shot against mine. “Happy birthday,
lass. Drink up.”

I really shouldn’t, but . . . what the hell?
Tomorrow
is
my birthday.

I drink the shot, and take a few long gulps of my
beer to chase it down.

“Thanks, Greer.”

“Welcome. So, tell me about this very important
interview. Is it for a post-doc position?”

A post-doc position? Oh, right, that bad job you
get after your Ph.D. Biggest downside to the fake-student personality? Keeping
track of my two lives.

“Nope . . . Actually, I’m thinking of going in
another direction. It’s a job writing for a music magazine.”

“Well, well, the bairn’s growing up.”

Greer is always tossing out colloquial Scottish
expressions like “bairn” (meaning child), “steamin’ ” (meaning drunk), and her
ultimate insult, “don’t be a scrounger” (meaning buy me a drink, you miserly
bastard). Depending on the number of drinks she’s consumed, it’s sometimes
impossible to understand her without translation.

“Had to happen sometime.”

The bartender, Steve, brings us two more shots that
Greer pays for with a smile. He only charges her for about a quarter of what she
drinks, but since I’m often the beneficiary of his generosity, who’s
complaining?

She pushes one of the shots toward me.

“No, I can’t.”

“A wee dram won’t hurt you.”

“There’s no way anyone actually says ‘wee dram’
anymore. That’s just for the tourists, right?”

“I canna’ break the code of honor of my country.
Now drink up, lass, before I drink it for you.”

I upend the shot and nearly choke on it when Scott
claps me hard on the back. He’s a history major I met about a year ago at, you
guessed it, a wine and cheese. We bonded while arguing over who had deeper
knowledge of U2 and the Counting Crows (me, and me). His athletic body, sandy
hair, and frank face are easy on the eyes, and given our mutual single status,
I’m not quite sure why we’ve never hooked up. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s
twenty-two, which puts him on the outside edge of my half-plus-seven rule. (30 ÷
2 + 7 = 22. A good rule to live by to avoid age-inappropriate romantic
entanglements.)

Scott orders another round. When it comes, he
slides shot number three my way. I protest, but he flashes his blue eyes and
wide smile, and talks me into it. Into that, and the next one. When Rob and Toni
arrive a little while later, they buy the next two. And when those are gone, the
room gets fuzzy and I lose count of the drinks that come next.

The rest of the night passes in a flash of images:
Rob and Scott singing lewd rugby songs. Toni telling me she had a pregnancy
scare the week before. Me blabbing on about how I’m going to nail my interview
tomorrow, just nail it! Greer
Coyote Ugly
–ing it on
the bar as Steve plies her with more shots. Someone dropping me off at my door,
ringing the doorbell, and running away giggling. Joanne looking disappointed and
resigned, then putting a blanket over me.

I lie on our living room couch with the room
spinning around me, happy I have so many good friends, and an awesome job
waiting for me to take it.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I bring my watch to
my face so I can see the glow-in-the-dark numbers. 3:40 a.m. I guess it’s today.
Hey, it’s my birthday.
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday
to me, happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to me.