On the Rocks (13 page)

My phone beeped again.

Sorry, that actually wasn’t for you.

So much for that.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Ben was always quite the sweet-talker. I loved when he whispered sweet nothings meant for somebody else into my phone.

Oops. I thought the message was from somebody else.

Good one, Abs, no way he’d see through that.

I was ashamed of myself and the fact that I still gave him the power to upset me from the opposite side of the country. I turned my phone off, something I only did on airplanes, threw it in my bag, and started walking again. If nothing else, at least I would spend happy hour with people who didn’t tell their ex-fiancé by mistake that they were thinking of them when they weren’t. At this moment, that was all I wanted.

I
WALKED INTO THE BAR
and scanned it for my new pseudo-friends. Wolf was glued to a TV, wearing a German soccer jersey, and Bobby was holding court at the bar, which from what I knew of him so far wasn’t all that surprising. I reluctantly went and stood next to him, happy to have someone to talk to so that I didn’t have to stand in the corner by myself or jump into the middle of the European soccer fans and risk being trampled if the refs made a call they didn’t like. One thing I knew for sure: you didn’t screw around with Europeans and their love of soccer.

“I’ll have a martini, filthy, extra olives,” Bobby said to the bartender as I dropped my bag on the floor next to his feet. He immediately looked up at me and smiled. “Well, look who it is. What’s up, Abby?”

“Filthy? What kind of way is that to order a drink?” I asked. I was never a martini drinker myself, so I was unsure of the protocol for ordering one, but I was pretty sure saying you wanted a drink made filthy was not in the bartender’s manual.

“It just means extra dirty, like not just a dirty martini, a filthy dirty martini. That’s the way I like my cocktails. And my women. Nice to see you, by the way.”

They should study this guy’s brain for science.

“I’ve never met anyone who could turn ordering a cocktail into a sexually explicit event. Why can’t you just be normal?” I heard myself ask the question and then realized how silly it sounded. He had a Y chromosome. What chance of normalcy did he really ever have?

“You know, if you think about it, you should be able to order your cocktails in more, shall we say, diverse ways. I should be able to order a dirty, filthy, slut martini without
someone
making a comment,” he said, completely serious.

“And I’d like to order a man who’s half-normal and only half-bat-shit-crazy, but that doesn’t seem to be possible either, so I guess you and I will just have to suffer through our mutual disappointment.”

“I’d like a really slutty martini on the rocks, hold the olives. How does that sound? Maybe I’ll invent new cocktail names. Do you think there’s any money in that?” he asked.

“I doubt it. But you’re not working anyway and there’s no money in that either, so if you want to be entrepreneurial, who am I to stop you? Maybe you could go on
The Apprentice
and see what Donald Trump thinks of your idea. He could sell it in the bars in some of his hotels. I’m sure his super-wealthy clientele in their thousand-dollar suits would be more than willing to drop twenty bucks on a drink called a Slutty Martini.”

“See, now you’re talking.”

“I was kidding.”

“I bet you someone thought that a cocktail called Sex on the Beach wouldn’t be a hit either and look how fast that took off.”

He actually had a point. There was also a drink called the Fuzzy Navel. I wouldn’t have thought that would be popular either, and yet college kids all over the country were probably licking them off girls’ stomachs in bars as we spoke. Bobby would probably invent the next big thing, become a gazillionaire, and spend the rest of his life trolling for girls in the bars all over the Eastern Seaboard with the tagline “I invented the Slutty Martini.”

There’s simply no justice in this world sometimes.

I ordered a beer, and when I turned back around, Bobby was still standing there, munching on an olive.

“Don’t you have someone to hit on?” I asked.

“There’s no rush. I’d rather talk to you right now. Besides, I’m sure I’ll find someone. It’s still early!”

“Lucky me.”

“I talked to Grace before. Unlike you, she actually enjoys talking to me.”

“There’s no accounting for taste. And anyway, I think her taste in men is quite obviously flawed, no?”

“Ahh, that jackass of a boyfriend of hers. Though I don’t know if I can really call him a jackass anymore. It sounds like he’s making some real efforts lately. She seems happy for the first time in a while where he’s concerned.”

“I guess. I want her to be happy, but then again, I think she deserves so much better. I hate watching her go through this. Part of me wants them to break up because I think it’d be better for her in the long run, but I feel bad saying that. It’s like, if it happened, I’d be sorry I wasn’t sorry, you know what I mean?”

“You women are complicated creatures. Do you hear yourself?”

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, guess what?” I said, my excitement audible in my voice.

“You’re going to tell me why your last relationship blew up? Was it another guy? Another woman? Wait, did you have another woman?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but none of the above. I did, however, get the job. And the funny thing is, I know the owner from high school.”

“Is it a guy?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Because the only thing better than trying to pick up girls while they’re at work is picking up a colleague
at
work,” he answered flatly.

“I bet Grace would have some opinions on that topic. Dating in the workplace, bad idea.”

“True. If you do and you find out you’re just some dude’s slam piece, you’re screwed.”

“Grace is not his slam piece! Don’t talk about her like that, especially since I have no idea what a slam piece is.”

Bobby laughed and placed his pornographic cocktail on the bar. “Okay, see I just learned something new about you. You’re ferociously loyal. That’s a good quality. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult Grace, and I’ll make sure I never do that in front of you again.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” My mind started to drift, and for a second I completely checked out of the conversation we were having.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind, Abby?” he asked as he waved his hand in front of my face to get me to refocus on the present.

“It’s nothing.” I sighed. It was the truth. It was nothing, and yet at the same time it was everything.

“It’s pretty obvious it’s something. I’m standing right here. Why don’t you tell me whatever it is that has you so preoccupied.”

“If you really want to know, I’m trying to figure out why the guys you want to stay around never do, and the ones you want to get rid of stick like pissed-off mice in glue traps. Why is that?” I asked. As hard as I tried to push thoughts about Ben to the back of my mind, they refused to stay there. There were so many of them bouncing around inside my head, I was surprised I could hear myself think at all.

“Am I supposed to be the mouse in this scenario?” he asked, confused.

“What? No. You’re not the mouse,” I answered, still distracted.

“Because I’m trying to be your friend here. I don’t think comparing me to a rodent is the basis on which healthy friendships are started.”

“I was thinking about all guys, guys in general. Not just you.”

“Ahh, okay then. Well, maybe we’re gluttons for punishment. Or maybe we like a challenge, so the girls who tell us to get lost are the ones we become most interested in.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Guys are simple creatures. It’s the girls who are crazy and complicated. Chew on that for a while, and when you’re ready to admit that it actually might be that simple, you know where to find me,” he said with a wink as he grabbed his martini and ambled over to a crowd of people on the other side of the bar.

I fished my phone out of my bag, hoping no one would notice it was turned off and I was only pretending to check it to appear busy, when someone over my shoulder said, “The scary thing is, that dirty slut martini might actually take off.”

I turned and saw a stocky, friendly-looking guy with shaggy blond hair and dark eyes standing next to me. He was drinking a draft beer and smiling broadly, revealing a dimple in his left cheek.

“Believe me, I know. He’ll probably end up having a bar named after him or be inducted into some kind of liquor hall of fame.”

“Still, I don’t know that I’d ever order a cocktail like that in front of a lady. Especially one I just met. With my luck, she wouldn’t hear me correctly, would think I just called her a filthy slut, and throw a drink in my face.”

“Do people still do that? Throw drinks in guys’ faces?” I asked, sincerely interested. I figured that move went out with hair-twirling.

“I have a friend who gets it at least one a month.”

“He must have a way with the ladies.”

“A way to piss them off, yeah, definitely,” he joked.

I smiled a genuine smile. This guy seemed nice, and as far as I could tell, he didn’t have a forked tail or cloven hooves, so talking to him seemed harmless enough.

“I’m Abby,” I said.

“Ryan,” he replied as he shook my hand. “Are you from around here?”

“I’m from Boston, but I’m spending the summer here. You?”

“Yes and no.”

“Consider me intrigued,” I said as I took a sip of my drink. It was the best flirting move I could come up with on the fly now that I knew that straw-sucking wasn’t an option.

“I just moved here from New York, so technically I’m from around here, yes, but I don’t know anything about the area. I usually spend my summers in the Hamptons, so this is new for me.”

“How does it compare so far?”

“So far they’re pretty similar. There are fewer fedoras here, and it’s nice to be able to walk places instead of dropping fifty bucks on cabs every night. It seems like a good time. So do you, by the way.” Well, blond Ryan wasn’t shy, that was for sure.

“And what makes you think that?” I asked, still trying to be flirty. No one who knew me would accuse me of being a good time. Not lately anyway.

I looked up and caught Bobby eyeing us from across the bar and making lewd gestures with his beer bottle. It was a wonder no one had snatched him off the market yet.

“Can I get you a drink?” Ryan asked as he gestured to the bartender.

“Anything except a filthy whore martini.”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Sure. I’ll have a Sauvignon Blanc, please.”

“You got it.” This was going surprisingly well considering I had no idea how old he was, what his last name was, what he did for a living, or why he was talking to me. As soon as I had those details figured out, I was pretty sure that I was still going to think that this was going well. As long as he didn’t tell me he moved to Boston because he broke up with his fiancée in New York City and wanted to travel.

He handed me a glass of wine. “So, I don’t mean to be nosy, but that guy you were talking to, is he your boyfriend or something?”

I almost spit my wine all over the bar. Not exactly something you want to do in front of a guy unless you’ve been on at least three dates with him. “No, not at all. We have a mutual friend, but we just met over Memorial Day.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure I’m not stepping on his toes.”

“Rest assured, you’re fine.”
Interesting,
I thought.
Maybe there is such a thing as a guy code after all.

“Good. In that case, do you mind if I ask if you’re seeing anyone?”

There it was. The harmless question that hurt like a bitch. I’d have rather he’d asked me something less torturous, like, if I had ever had any venereal diseases.

“No, I’m not.” And that was 100 percent true. I hadn’t seen Ben in months. Had he asked me if I sometimes talked to my ex-fiancé, I’d have answered the question differently. Semantics matter.

“Well, I don’t know a whole lot of people here, and I’m going to be back and forth on the weekends. Would you mind if I got your cell number? Maybe you’d like to get a drink sometime.”

“I’d like that,” I said, and it surprised me to realize that I meant it
. Look at me
,
I’m dating!
I thought to myself.
Grace would be so proud.
My dating project was only just started, and I was already kicking ass.

“Great, so let’s have it.” He took his iPhone from the pocket of his cargo shorts and programmed my number into it. I leaned against the bar, tucked a frizzy lock of hair behind my ear, and continued to have the first adult conversation I ever had with a guy who potentially wanted to date me. We spoke for a half-hour that felt like three minutes before he excused himself to go say hi to his friends who were crowded in the corner. Not long after he walked away, Bobby returned to order another drink and, apparently, to poke fun at me.

“So now you’re going after guys who highlight their hair at home with Garnier Nutrisse or whatever hair care product Sarah Jessica Parker is hocking on TV?” he asked as he eyed Ryan off in the corner.

“First of all, those highlights are real, and second of all, it worries me that you can not only reference women’s home hair color products but also their spokespeople. I wouldn’t advertise that.”

“I’m out of work at the moment. I watch a lot of TV.”

“What channel, Lifetime? Because I doubt they’re paying to advertise that particular product on ESPN.”

“I fancy myself a Renaissance man, Abby.”

“I fancy you a metrosexual, Bobby.”

“I’m secure in my manhood.”

“That makes one of us.”

He laughed, the glint in his eye reminding me that he liked a challenge and that he enjoyed our combative conversations. If only Ben had been half as tenacious, maybe things would’ve worked out differently.

“See you later, Abby. Stay sassy,” Bobby said as he knocked twice on the bar before turning to leave.