Groomless - Part 1 (17 page)

“Would you like to—” She started to open the folder but his phone beeped and he returned to it, tapping away.

He laid it aside again and she continued patiently.

“Since we’ve been together six months as of last week, we’re right on schedule to look at an apartment together. Isn’t that…the timetable you mentioned?” She heard her voice rise uncertainly at the end of the sentence when he gave her no nod of encouragement, no indication of interest. His shuttered expression remained and they sat in silence, awkwardly. The wine arrived and she sipped it without tasting it.

“Now, Brittney,” He began rather sternly.

Kevin’s phone beeped and he reached for it. She covered his hand with hers, trying to seem like it was affection and not almighty aggravation.

“Could you leave that thing alone long enough to finish a sentence?” She asked tensely.

He tugged his hand and phone back and sighed.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, genuinely concerned.

“Corinne just wanted to know if it was over.”

“What’s over?”

“This dinner.”

“Who is Corinne?”

“That’s what we need to discuss. I’ve been seeing her for a few weeks now and we’re pretty hot and heavy. I never meant for any of it to happen, obviously. She just showed up with the dry cleaning one day at the office and I couldn’t help myself.”

Britt clutched at her stomach, feeling that sip of wine roiling with panic.

Oh my gosh! I can’t believe this is happening.

“Corinne wants to know if it was over…” She said woodenly. “She’s in a hurry for you to break up with me so you can—what?”

“Now, Brittney. Let’s be civil. We had a nice time together but it didn’t work out.”

“You cheated on me.”  Her voice was hollow, dull with disbelief.

The folder in her hand felt impossibly foolish, conspicuous. She felt her face redden, certain everyone on the terrace knew that she was being dumped. She had gone there with a sheaf of apartment listings, prepared to merge their finances and futures and start a life with Kevin. She was going to have to walk out of here single, not on the road to happily engaged and cohabiting couple hood. What would she do with the file folder? The thought of it seemed terribly important. If she left it on the table, unwanted, wouldn’t the server or bus person look at it and think, pityingly, oh that woman had no idea? If she took it with her, should she leave it in her car as a hideous reminder, carry it into her apartment to glare at her from a countertop until she tormented herself by reviewing that perfect rooftop garden just once more?

Livid, humiliated, she felt her hands start to shake. She gripped the folder until she saw her own knuckles go white.
              “It just happened, Brittney. She’s a terrific girl, lots of fun, very carefree, gorgeous. Here, I have a picture on my phone if you’d like to—”

Whack! Britt smacked him on the head with the manila folder. Startled, he gaped at her.

“There’s no call to resort to violence. I thought you were a reasonable person. I see that I’ve overestimated you.”

“Fuck you, Kevin. Although since she already has, I can’t imagine what you think Corinne wants from you besides money. It’s certainly not your incredible prowess in the sack.”

She snorted, threw the folder across the table, the pages leafing out and fluttering to the table and the deck at their feet. Appalled, he knocked over his chair and stalked out. Britt was even more embarrassed now. She had no idea where she got the temerity to whack her cheating ex with a folder and tell him off. She was the sort who suffered in silence, not the kind who stood up and threw things. She was both shocked and perversely proud of her behavior. She put a hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter. It wasn’t like her at all. Not one bit. She looked around to see and, yes, everyone was looking at her. Flushing, she took a sip of her water and decided to brazen it out.

When the server came and trod on the real estate printouts, Britt shrugged. Instead of the bottle of wine she expected, the server brought a large margarita in a frosted, salty glass. Britt’s eyes widened. She wondered fleetingly if this was standard restaurant protocol…someone has a birthday, the waiters sing; someone has a public breakup, bring out the margaritas. She took a long, grateful drink, savoring the sharp lime and the burn of the tequila.

“Compliments of a gentleman at the bar.” The server said.

Britt looked to her right and saw that her entire tableau had been visible to the denizens of the bar through a window onto the terrace. She shook her head slightly and drank deeply.

Chapter 3

She raised her glass in a general toast to the bar patrons. One man gave her a mock salute and she smiled. Setting her drink down, she stood, a little wobbly already after downing half a massive margarita on an empty stomach. She made her way to the bar and approached the man who had saluted her.

“Thanks for the drink.” She said.

“You looked like you could use one. Although maybe not as much as that poor bastard you beat up.” He joked.

“That poor bastard was cheating on me and picked our anniversary dinner to break the news.”

“He’s lucky that’s all you hit him with. We have a bet going, me and the bartender. What was in the folder? I said it was probably pictures of wedding cakes or something for your reception. The barkeep here swears it’s wedding dresses.”

“Apartments. We were meeting to celebrate six months together and pick out an apartment to rent.”

“Ouch.” He said, shaking his head.

“We already ordered and, jilted or not, I have two meals coming. Care to join me?”

“Absolutely. What am I eating?”

“My so-considerate ex ordered lobster because he knew I’d be stuck with the check and I guess they didn’t serve bars of actual platinum here.”

“Nice guy.”

“The very best. Do you like lobster?”

“It’s okay. I’m more of a carnivore. Your guy was a bottom feeder, I guess.”

“Well played. You can have my steak. I’ll eat Kevin’s damn lobster.” She said.

“No, I think you’ve had enough indignity without getting stuck eating his fish.”

“It’s a crustacean.”

“If you have to dip it in that much butter to get it down, it’s fish. Trust me.”

“I take it you aren’t a sushi fan.”

“Not so much.” He said. “I’m Jack.”
              “Nice to meet you, Jack. That margarita is easily the best thing that’s happened to me today.”

“Glad I could improve your day. Has it all been bad or just this latest bit?”

“My boss kept trying to feel me up, my best friend made fun of my pretend roof garden and then my boyfriend’s mistress texted during dinner to ask if it was over yet. In the interest of full disclosure here.”

“That’s a lot of information you just gave me…what was your name?”

“Britt. I’m not usually an oversharing person. I don’t even really go in for social media…all that dirty laundry. I just decided to air mine on the terrace of Tamarind instead of on Twitter.”

“You’d need way more than one hundred and forty characters to tell this story.”

“See, it’s a good thing I’m not live tweeting the breakup.”

“I think that’s a sound decision. Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“A man who knows Shakespeare and margaritas. You’re quite the discovery, Jack. Here’s my table. What’ll you have to drink? It’s my treat.”

“Whiskey sour.” He told the server. To his credit, the waiter didn’t seem in the least dismayed by the abrupt change in dinner date.

“So what do you do, Jack, besides providing liquor to damsels in distress?”

“I’m a guitarist. Sort of an artist, too.”

“Hmm….are you in a band?”

“Isn’t everybody?”

“Not the people I know, actually. They’re primarily in accounting and marketing and the like.”

“Wild crowd you run with.” He sipped his whiskey.

“I’ve never had one of those. Mind if I try it?” She asked, starting in on her second margarita and feeling a little bold.

Jack held out the highball glass and she snagged a cherry floating on the surface and licked the sharp whiskey flavor off the sugary cherry and bit into it, the sweet juice gushing into her mouth. Smiling, she took a drink of his whiskey sour, the blaze of alcohol scalding her throat as she swallowed. Shaking her head with a cough, she handed the glass back to him.

“Thanks anyway.” She croaked. “I’ll stick to what I know.” She drank down the rest of her margarita.

“You just made my night a lot less boring.” He said.

“That may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She laughed.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“So douchebag wasn’t much on the flattery I take it. I can do better than not boring though. How about beautiful?”

“I like it even if I don’t believe it much.”

“I could show you how beautiful you are but the food isn’t even here yet. That would be presumptuous.” He grinned.

Britt couldn’t ignore the tingling in her palms, the rush of excitement she felt when he said that. A sort of enthusiasm she hadn’t felt about moving in with Kevin, her erstwhile boyfriend of half a year. She blatantly ogled Jack, just reveling in the sight of him, sitting there across from her. She wondered if everyone in Tamarind thought that a man as fine as him certainly didn’t belong at a table with someone like her, some accountant in a tight dress who was obviously trying too hard. For once, she didn’t really care what anyone else thought.

They talked a bit more…he told her about his favorite guitarists and she admitted that she liked Santana “except for the long guitar riffs” which made him laugh.

“I’ll have to initiate you, teach you to appreciate the greats. I saw Kenny Wayne Shepard a couple years back. He’s my idol.”

“Is he…a country singer?”

“A blues guitarist, why?”

“That name…he has three names, I figured he was country.” She giggled.

“I think I need to stage a music intervention. But it looks like our food’s here.”

The server delivered the lavish meals and, at Britt’s request, replaced her empty margarita glass with red wine. She sipped it with approval.

“This looks delicious.” He said.

“So do you.” She blurted out and then laughed too loudly.

“Want a bite of my
crustacean?”
He offered, dunking a morsel of lobster in the drawn butter and offering it to her.

Without hesitating, Britt opened her lips and let him feed her. The lobster was tender and sweet, salty with slick butter. She licked her lips, meeting his eyes.

“Now I want a bite of that steak.” He said. She cut him a bite and held it out to him. He bit the meat off of her fork. She felt a sudden chill creep along her skin, a jolt of something suspiciously like desire.

“So what are you doing hanging out at Tamarind?” She asked.

“Oh, just cruising for women. I hear they get a lot of breakups out on the terrace.” He said breezily.

“Seriously.” She said.

“I was meeting a buddy of mine about the band, trying to see if we can lay down some tracks.”

“Any luck?”

“We’ll see.” He said. “I’ve been playing since I was in school. How long have you been…”

“Accounting? Since I graduated and got my CPA.” She said. “And before you ask, yes, it is super exciting.”

“It sounds that way.”

“I work for a consulting firm. I do the payroll and expenses and tax stuff. It’s pretty easy, actually, and the pay’s good.”

“So you don’t have the massive rush in April when everybody hasn’t filed their taxes yet?”

“Ugh, no. Not for me. I don’t do drive-thru 1040’s, although I did in college to get experience. People try to deduct the stupidest things. I mean, not to be judgmental, but Viagra is NOT a business expense.” She giggled.

Jack laughed along with her.

“And all these real estate agents trying to deduct their highlights and Spanx and arguing with me that it’s about presenting yourself as the public face of the business. It was crazy. The worst one, though, was the guy who was deducting thousands of dollars from trips to Sassy Sadie’s Lounge and swore that strip clubs were a business expense. He was a trucker. It’s not like he was entertaining clients to close a business deal. It was just near the truck stop!”

“Well, imagine you’re trying to break into the music business and get all these bar gigs where you play for free, just hoping someone in the crowd will download your songs or hire you to play a bar mitzvah or something and wham! You get his right in the face with underwear. Men’s underwear.”

“Did that really happen?”

“More than once and they were NOT clean.” He guffawed.

“Does this only happen if you’re the frontman or do the drummers and stuff get pelted with underpants, too?”

“That’s where being the frontman, as in, out in front, has its disadvantages. Sure, you get all the phone numbers and all the attention but you also get all the tighty-whiteys with skid marks, too. I’m like a human shield for the drummer in that way.”