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Rated: 18+ · Book · Relationship · #1300453
Happenings inside a bar on the East Side of Manhattan one Friday evening during Happy Hour
         
New York City’s summer air was stagnant. No cool breeze blew in off the rivers and bays. No refreshing wind careened through the canyons of skyscrapers or rustled the trees in the park. There was no refreshing breath of air to take in when leaving home or office. In fact, there was almost no air at all. Walking down the street felt like entering a preheated oven, probably the reason so many people took off, leaving the city and heading for the mountains or the beaches, on Friday afternoons. Those stuck in the baking city ran for the nearest air-conditioned cab, subway, bus, or watering hole.
Patrick Slattery called it a week a few minutes after five o’clock. Sitting at his desk in his fifteenth-floor office at the headquarters of J. Carroll Whitehouse, an up and coming investment bank on West 48th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues in Manhattan, Slattery, a thirty-nine-year-old native New Yorker, had been with the company since its beginnings nearly fifteen years ago. Now he was an executive vice president raking in a six-figure salary, living in a glorious home in Pelham, right across the border from the Bronx in Westchester County.
He closed his laptop, spun his chair around, and looked out the window across the East River to Brooklyn. He could tell by just looking that it was hot. Half-naked men and women jog-walked up and down Third Avenue. He stood and took off his suit jacket; he was not going to need it outside, not now or later. He had a big night planned. His wife Hillary and he were taking their two young children, Melanie, age seven, and Brandon, age five, to see Tarzan on Broadway. Patrick didn’t much care for Tarzan as a musical, but was willing to bear it if it made his children happy. They would meet him in the city tonight, at a large and popular pub/restaurant called Watts on Third Avenue, where Patrick sometimes went for a drink or two with his friends from work before catching the 6:35 express train out of Grand Central to Pelham.
He locked his office door at about ten after five, picked up his briefcase, and walked through the quiet rows of cubicles, where only a few minutes ago, dozens of people had been bustling about. On Fridays, it was every man for himself. Half of Patrick’s co-workers were rushing home to get to the beaches or the mountains. Patrick scurried up the hallway, checked his watch, and headed for the elevator, when a familiar face coming out of another doorway broke his stride.
“Hey!” Patrick said, smiling. It was one of his closest co-workers, the young and always busy Jake Spratt. Jake was new to the office, having relocated from somewhere down south thirteen months ago—Patrick didn’t really know from where. He had that cowboy swagger and a light southern accent. Jake had worn a cowboy hat last year at the company picnic when he was a new employee.
“Hey, Patrick, what are you doing here so late on a Friday?”
“The wife and kids are coming into the city tonight; we’re going to see a Broadway play,” Patrick explained as they continued towards the elevators. “I’m going down to Watts to wait for them. Hey, why don’t you come down and join me for a drink? It is happy hour—two for one beers and half off any cocktails.”
Jake nodded. “Sure. That sounds like fun.”
A few blocks away at Grand Central Terminal, two young NYU college students, Max Lindstrom and Michelle Miller, pushed their way through the dozens of other people shoving their way into the terminal, heading toward Lexington Avenue. They, too, were headed for Watts Pub and Restaurant, their favorite dinner spot since coming to Manhattan from Michigan City, Indiana three years ago.
Max stopped a second before reaching the door out to Lexington Avenue to search his satchel for his sunglasses. Michelle looked at him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I need to protect my eyes from dangerous UV rays,” Max said, sarcastically, putting his aviator sunglasses on and smiling.
“Oh, please.”
He had bought the sunglasses with her in Las Vegas a year earlier because he claimed they made him “look like a Playgirl model.” She sometimes hated when Max acted conceited, but Max hadn’t exactly had the best luck in relationships.  He’d been in two major relationships in his life—one with a woman in high school before he came out of the closest when he was 18, the other a frat boy in their sophomore year of college who decided to start dating women again last winter. Since then, Max had given up hope of finding a man and stopped primping. He let his Caesar haircut grow out and gained ten pounds. Today he wore a brown and white graphic button down shirt, a pair of cargo shorts from The Gap, and five-dollar flip-flops.
“What?” Max asked, noticing Michelle still staring at him. “Are we going to dinner or not?”
Michelle sighed, shook her head, and walked into the hot summer air. Max followed closely behind. They had been best friends since they were seven years old. They met on the playground during recess when Michelle made Max eat a bug for a chocolate bar. Max ate the bug, but didn’t get the chocolate bar. Instead, he got a trip to the nurse and detention. His actions shocked tomboy Michelle, who had pegged Max as a wimp. The two had been attached at the hip ever since. Michelle tossed her long, wavy blonde hair and noticed Max looking across the street. He was checking out a young, muscular guy in a baseball cap, cargo shorts, and wife beater t-shirt.
“Why don’t you just go and tackle him?” Michelle joked.
“Shut up,” Max said, still focused on the guy across the street.
“Why don’t you stop checking them out and start talking to them?” Michelle suggested.
“What if they aren’t gay?”
“Oh, they’re gay,” Michelle said, turning and looking at the guy herself. “Definitely gay.”
Max stopped, prepared to cross Lexington Avenue, and stared at Michelle. Michelle looked back at him, wondering why he looked so annoyed.
“Was that a gay joke?” Max asked angrily.
“Uh, duh.”
Michelle looked away and began to cross Lexington Avenue. Max glared at her back, then let it go and followed.
“You know gay jokes are offensive,” Max scolded as he chased Michelle.
“Hurry up, I’m starving,” Michelle said, waving Max on without turning around.
Watts Pub and Restaurant took up nearly a third of the block on Third Avenue in the East 50s, starting at the northwest corner.  The restaurant was surrounded by an outside patio that rounded the corner and continued the length of the sidewalk. Halfway up Third Avenue, a maroon carpet led through the patio to the main entrance, which was moot in the summer, as the entire wall of the restaurant was made up of glass doors opening to the patio. Inside the restaurant, a dining room and bar took up nearly the entire back wall facing Third Avenue. Perpendicular to the avenue were the doors to the bathrooms, the door to the kitchen, and dozens of trinkets normally found in pubs—old license plates, neon signs advertising different beverages, a dart board, and two flat screen plasma televisions showing sporting events. Heather McMahon didn’t even notice the place when the cab pulled up in front of it. She felt stupid when she asked the cab driver where it was, only to have him point to the huge sign spelling out the name. She paid the cab driver, got out, straightened her long white cotton skirt, and looked around for a second before taking her cell phone out of her bag and making a call. She tossed her dirty blonde hair, put the phone to her ear, and waited for someone to pick up.
“Greg?” she said, hearing the voice on the other line. “I’m here; where are you?”
Gregory Kilakisis was crossing Third Avenue about a block and a half away when Heather called. He sprinted across three lanes of traffic, narrowly avoiding being hit by a bus, then answered her.
“I’m a block away. Wave so I can see where you are.”
Heather waved her hand as high as she could and looked in all directions, but didn’t see Greg, who was now sprinting down the block toward her. She was facing the opposite direction.
“I don’t see you,” Heather said, frustrated.
“Turn around.”
Heather spun around and jumped in surprise. Greg stood not two inches from her. He smiled at her, his white teeth sparkling, laughter dancing in his baby blue eyes, mid-length blonde hair shimmering in the hot sun.
“I hate it when you sneak up on me like that,” Heather said, leaning in to give Greg a hug.
Greg and Heather had always been popular among their close-knit group of friends at their college on Long Island. They had dated once, but it didn’t work out, and after some minor drama, went back to being friends. Since graduation, they’d remained the center of their social group. Heather’s apartment on Roosevelt Island, paid for in part by a trust fund set up by her well-to-do family, had been the scene of many parties since she moved in last fall. Greg, who had moved back home to a basement apartment in his parents’ house in Bayside, Queens, had come up with the idea to get together tonight.
“So why are we here again?” Heather asked, already bored.
“Because Chris needs to get out of his house and stop feeling sorry for himself,” Greg said.
Chris Nila was from Bellerose, Queens, not far from where Greg lived. Considered the brain of the group, Chris was known as “the answer to the question nobody asked.” Chris graduated with a degree in political science and looked like he was on track to begin a high-profile political journalism career, but things came to a screeching halt when he was forced to quit his job at a local organization six months ago. His boss had framed him for stealing $50 from the organization’s coffers. All his friends and family, and even his co-workers, knew Chris wasn’t a thief, nevertheless, Chris feared his boss would outsmart him and he’d wind up convicted of a crime he did not commit, so he left. Since then, Chris had had no luck finding work. His mother accused his old boss of blacklisting Chris’ name, but Chris thought luck just wasn’t on his side.
“Hey!” a voice boomed from behind Heather’s head. Heather spun around to see Chris standing there with two more of their friends—Caledon Porter, known as Cal, and Rebecca Larson, better known as Beck. Cal and Beck were best friends with one of the most intimate plutonic relationships ever seen. They lived together in a Brooklyn apartment. Beck had never really gotten along with Heather, but the two put on cordial faces for the sake of their friends. Cal, the offspring of a neurosurgeon father and district court judge mother was the epitome of an American young man—gorgeous blue eyes, black hair, perfect body, and as rich as a European prince, but unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t act the part, living comfortably in a small Brooklyn apartment and struggling paycheck to paycheck rather than taking money from his well-to-do family—much to the chagrin of Beck, who was happy having her investment banker daddy pay her bills. She found Cal’s way of doing things a little odd.
“Hey, Chris,” Heather said. She said hello to Cal, took a deep breath, and turned to the equally uncomfortable Beck. “Hello, Beck.”
“So good to see you, Heather,” Beck said, giving her a hug. “All of you.”
They backed away from the hug then Beck pointed to Heather’s cheek. “Oh, I smeared your makeup. Well, that’s the problem with the cheap Walgreens stuff.”
“Yeah,” Heather said, taking a compact from her bag and checking her face. “This stuff smears the second it comes into contact with greasy skin.”
The boys ignored the bickering girls and headed inside. The girls followed.
Max and Michelle reached the corner as Heather and Beck began walking into the bar. Max got a glimpse of the guys as they walked in. “Don’t we know that guy over there?” Max asked, gesturing to the front door of the bar.
“Know who?” Michelle asked, lifting her sunglasses to look.
“That guy who just went inside.”
“I don’t know, Max; he’s inside now.”
Michelle walked toward the entrance. She got to the door, turned around, and saw Max trying to peek through the open patio doors of the restaurant.
“You can check him out inside!” Michelle yelled.
Max looked around at the people on the patio. He smiled in embarrassment, but no one was really paying attention. He followed Michelle inside, where they waited for a hostess to seat them.
“Welcome to Watts. Two?” the hostess asked Michelle.
“Yes.”
“Patio or dining room?”
Michelle turned to Max and asked, but got no response. “Max!” she screamed.
“What?”
“Patio or dining room?”
“I don’t care.”
Michelle turned back to the hostess. “Patio,” she said.
The hostess led Michelle and Max through the doors to the sidewalk and sat them at a table for two alongside the tiny felt fence that separated the tables from the pedestrian sidewalk, about ten feet from the main entrance. As they sat down, two men passed them on the other side of the barrier.
Patrick and Jake talked shop as they walked past the sidewalk patio, in through the door, and straight to the bar. They didn’t notice Max and Michelle being seated.
“You want a beer?” Patrick asked Jake as he sat at the bar.
“Sure,” Jake said, sitting on the stool next to him.
“Two Yuenglings,” Patrick said to the young bartender.
There were a few seconds of silence before Jake, beginning to feel awkward, opened a dialogue.
“Do you come here often?” he asked Patrick, looking around and studying the bar.
“Sometimes after work for a drink or two before I go home,” Patrick said. “I catch a later train and just hang out here for an hour or so.”
Jake was confused. Patrick had a beautiful house in Pelham with a wife and two small kids; why would he want to hang out in a bar in Manhattan? He didn’t say anything, but Patrick knew what he was thinking.
“Sometimes I need to be alone. I need time away from my family,” Patrick explained, answering the question Jake never asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife and kids with every inch of my being, but I got married young, right out of college. Sometimes I feel like I missed out on something.”
Jake nodded. He understood what Patrick meant.
“What time is your wife supposed to meet you here?” Jake asked, subtly reminding Patrick that he still had a family to go home to.
“Around seven,” Patrick said, looking at his watch. “We’re taking the kids to see Tarzan.”
“The musical?”
“Yeah,” Patrick responded, unenthused.
“You don’t seem that excited about it,” Jake noticed.
Patrick grinned, picked up his beer, and took a sip.
“I’m not a big fan of musicals,” he said. “Especially ones based on some freak swinging through the jungle on vines.”
Jake chuckled. The bar had gotten pretty crowded in the last few minutes. Patrick saw a familiar face walk through the front door—Theresa Barnett, a co-worker who worked one floor down in the Whitehouse office. Barnett was about the same age as Patrick—African-American, an excellent dresser with dark straight hair that hung down to her shoulders. Patrick had only recently gotten to know her, catching her in the cafeteria during lunch. They sometimes sat with each and talked about work. Theresa walked toward the bar, looked over, and spotted Patrick. She smiled and waved. Patrick waved back as she walked over.
“Hey,” Theresa said, giving Patrick a hug.
“Hey, Theresa,” Patrick said. “What are you doing down here?”
“It was too hot to walk or stand outside and hail a cab to Penn Station,” she explained. “I saw ‘Happy Hour’ and said to myself, ‘Perfect,’ and here I am.”
“Theresa, do you know Jake?” Patrick asked, introducing her.
“I’ve seen you around the building,” Theresa said, shaking Jake’s hand. “Good to meet you.”
“You, too,” Jake said, jumping out of his stool, grabbing his beer and offering the stool to Theresa. Patrick called the bartender to take Theresa’s order—a vodka tonic.
“So what brings you guys here?” Theresa asked.
“Jake’s hanging out with me until my wife and kids get here,” Patrick explained, “We’re going to see Tarzan.”
Theresa raised her eyebrows and nodded. “I hear it’s a good show,” she said.
“He doesn’t much like musicals,” Jake said, smiling.
The bartender gave Theresa her drink; she thanked him, sipped, and then responded.
“Oh, you’ll like it,” she said, dismissing Patrick’s distaste for musicals.
“It’s for the kids,” Patrick said. He sipped his beer. “Once you have kids, what you like doesn’t matter anymore.” He said it quietly, but loudly enough for Theresa and Jake to hear.
Theresa rolled her eyes. Jake shot Patrick a puzzled look.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Patrick said. He looked around the room and spotted Chris, Greg, and the gang sitting at a far end of the bar. “Look at them,” he said. “College kids enjoying their youth. No responsibilities, nothing to tie them down. For them, life is great.”
“Life sucks,” Chris Nila said, slouching on a bar stool on the other side of the bar.
“Oh, stop complaining and drink your tequila,” Greg said, handing Chris a shot glass. Heather, Beck, and Cal also took shots as they circled a depressed Chris. Greg dashed salt on everyone’s hands, and together, they all took their shot. Chris made a bitter face, reached for a lime, and sucked violently on it to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. He shook his face, took a deep breath, and exhaled.
“I don’t get it,” Chris continued. “I was always the brain. How can I not get a job?”
“It’s not all about brains, Chris,” Greg said, picking up a mug full of beer.
“A lot of it is luck, Chris,” Beck chimed in, standing behind Chris, holding her drink in her hand—some crazy concoction the bartender wasn’t even sure how to make. “You know that. Some people are luckier than others, but your day will come.”
“I just feel like such a failure,” Chris said. “I mean, I’m twenty-four years old. What have I accomplished?”
“You wrote the script to my final radio project,” Beck said, “which I got an A on.”
“You taught me everything I needed to know about the United States government,” Heather explained, “and because of that, I passed my poly sci class.”
“You reformatted my laptop,” Cal added, “and then taught me how to do it.”
“You graduated college,” Greg concluded. “The only man in your family to do that, Chris.”
Chris looked at his friends. Beck’s final project for her radio class required her to write and produce a radio drama; not fond of writing, Beck turned to Chris, who wrote a fifteen-minute script that Beck later produced into an A project. Heather was failing her political science class and Chris tutored her to a passing grade, Cal needed his computer fixed, and Greg was right—he was the first man in his family to finish college. That, itself, was an accomplishment, they all were. Yet, Chris didn’t feel good about himself.
“Where did all that get me?” he asked his friends. “I can’t get a job, and I can’t make any money.”
Heather rolled her eyes and turned around. She pulled Cal over. “How long do we have to listen to this tonight?” she whispered.
Cal gave her an annoyed look. “Deal with it, Heather,” Cal snapped. “He was there for you when you needed to complain, wasn’t he?”
“Cal, I don’t think—” Heather started, her voice getting louder.
Cal pulled her to the other side of the bar.
“Dance,” he commanded as he started moving his hips.
“Excuse me?” Heather asked, confused.
“Dance, so Chris doesn’t think we’re talking behind his back,” Cal said.
Heather looked around. No one else was dancing.
“Cal, it’s Incubus,” she said, referring to the music.
“I don’t care; bust a move,” he said, swaying to the music.
Heather looked around nervously and then looked at Cal, who shot her a commanding look. She raised her hands in front of her and began swaying from side to side, nervously looking around to see if anyone was staring at her.
“I know you’re used to having the spotlight shining on you, Heather,” Cal began. “Lord knows that’s where it was yesterday, and we can put it back on you tomorrow, but right now, we got a good friend with a history of severe depression and suicidal thoughts, in need of his friends to just listen for one night, so I ask you, implore you—if you have one sympathetic bone in your tanning bed-baked body of yours—show a little support for him tonight. Just tonight.”
Heather didn’t have time to digest the insults Cal threw at her. She was too busy trying to hide from the good-looking guys who she was sure were wondering why that crazy bitch was dancing to an Incubus song. All she wanted was to stop dancing, reapply her makeup, and look cute again.
“Okay, fine; can I stop dancing now?” Heather pleaded. “I look retarded.”
“You’re going to stop complaining?” Cal inquired as he stopped moving.
“Yes, yes—no more complaining, yes,” Heather said, aching to stop embarrassing herself.
“Good,” he said.
Cal and Heather had been in full view of Max and Michelle, out on the patio. He had already decided on what he was ordering, so he studied every guy he could find and graded them on whether or not he’d hook up with them. He spotted Cal dancing in the corner and realized he was the one he’d seen enter the bar earlier.
“I’m thinking I’m just going to have a salad,” Michelle said. “It’s too hot to eat anything else.”
Max wasn’t paying attention. Michelle closed the menu and began fanning herself with it. She put it on the table and grabbed her hair, tying it up in a ponytail to let the sweat-soaked skin of her neck and shoulders breathe.
“That guy—that’s the guy I think we know,” he said, pointing to Cal, “dancing over in the corner.”
Michelle took a quick peek and recognized him. Caledon Porter, a man she had seen as a potential husband and father of her children six months ago, before she broke off the relationship when he kept putting off introducing her to his family. Michelle felt he didn’t think she was good enough to meet his family, which Cal denied, but he took too long to tell her the truth—that he was embarrassed by his family’s greed and ignorance. When he finally told her, she didn’t believe him. She still had feelings for Cal and had sworn that should she run into him again she would take it as a sign that they were made for each other, forgive him, and get back together. She hadn’t ever dreamed, however, that she would.
“Oh, my God, Max!” she screamed, swinging back to face him.
“All right, I’m sorry; I’ll stop,” Max said, thinking she was tired of him talking about guys.
“No, Max, do you know who that is?”
“That’s why I keep asking you.”
“That’s Cal,” Michelle explained, her face beaming. “Caledon, from New Jersey, remember? With the apartment in Brooklyn?”
Max gave her a blank stare. He remembered the guy, but couldn’t remember the details. “Was he the one with the rich family who used to take you on the cheapest dates?” Max inquired.
“Yes, that was him,” Michelle said.
“So why don’t you go and say hi?” Max asked.
Michelle’s face exploded with mortification. “I can’t just go up to him and say hi,” she said, looking over at Cal again. “I broke his heart.”
Max rolled his eyes. He could hardly imagine she “broke his heart.”
“I tore it to shreds—little tiny pieces of heart all over the place. Probably took him weeks to clean it all up and put it back together,” Michelle remarked, looking at a skeptical Max. “If he isn’t still gluing it back together.”
“Yeah, all right, you’re a heartbreaker,” Max commented sarcastically. He looked back at Cal, who was dancing with Heather. Max frowned, titling his head to the right. He listened to the song that was playing—Incubus.
“He’s dancing to an Incubus song,” he said, perplexed.
Just as Michelle turned back to look, the waitress came to the table and blocked Michelle’s view. She tried to look around her, but to no avail. The waitress asked for their order, and Max ordered a burger and a Coors Light, Michelle wasn’t paying attention, still trying to look to where Cal was for a last glimpse. She needed one last look to fully prove to herself he was there.
“Michelle, what do you want to eat?” Max asked, trying to get her attention. “Michelle!”
Michelle jumped and turned around. Max gestured with his eyes toward the waitress.
“Oh,” Michelle said, trying to organize her thoughts. “Oh, um, grilled chicken salad with Caledon dressing.”
The waitress stared at Michelle, puzzled. Max dropped his face into his left hand and turned his head in disbelief, trying not to laugh.
“We have Caesar dressing,” the waitress said.
“Yes, isn’t that what I said?” Michelle wondered, looking at the waitress, then Max.
The waitress didn’t respond. She wrote the rest of the order down, clicked her pen closed, smiled, and walked off. Michelle looked at Max, confused. Max’s face was still in his hand, and he let out a quiet laugh.
“Did I say Caesar right?” Michelle asked.
Max didn’t respond, but took his face out of his hand, and covered his mouth and looked out toward the street, laughing louder.
Back in the bar, Theresa and Jake tried to convince Patrick he wouldn’t rather still be in college. Theresa told anecdotes about her obnoxious college roommates, only to muse over how much fun she’d had with them, totally rendering her point moot. “I’ll tell you what I don’t miss,” Jake said. “The endless amounts of crappy pizza I ate because I was on a tight budget.”
“You didn’t go to school in New York, did you?” Theresa remarked.
Jake shook his head. “Texas A&M.”
Theresa cringed. The pizza must’ve really sucked.
“I agree with Jake,” Theresa said, nodding her head in his direction. “It’s good having money, your own place, and not having to take a demeaning job to buy books for class.”
“Aren’t you single and living alone on Long Island?” Patrick asked, tilting his head.
Theresa gave him an annoyed look. “Yes, thank you,” she said. She looked down and snickered after an awkward silence that felt like forever in her mind. “Nobody’s life is perfect, but I’m really happy with mine, for the most part.”
Patrick looked around the room.
“Did you used to imagine that one day you’d be rich, have a nice car, big house, good job, and a lot of money?” asked Theresa.
Patrick raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“You have all that now,” Theresa continued. “Look at it that way.”
“I still don’t have all that,” Jake joked.
Patrick continued to look around the bar.  He turned toward the group of college students. His leaned slightly to the right and narrowed his eyes as he noticed Beck. Beck, surprised, recognized Patrick. She waved and slowly walked toward him.
“Who’s that?” Jake asked.
“Rebecca. She lives next door to me in Pelham and babysits my kids,” Patrick explained.
Beck nervously said hello. Patrick reciprocated and asked how she was doing.
“I’m good,” Beck said, awkwardly. “I’m hanging out with some school friends.”
“How is school?” Patrick asked. “You having a good time, doing a lot of partying and stuff?”
“Um, yeah, I guess,” Beck said, looking at Jake and Theresa, whom she had not yet met.
“Good, enjoy it,” Patrick said. “Word of advice—it passes really quickly, and one day, you’re going to wish you were back here, in this time, with your friends.”
Theresa rolled her eyes.
“How are Mel and Brandon?” Beck asked.
“They’re good,” Patrick said. “They’ll be here later. We’re going to see Tarzan tonight. Michelle’s bringing them into the city to meet me.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun,” Beck said.
Patrick rolled his eyes. He was seriously considering asking Beck to go in his place, but he couldn’t put her on the spot right here. Beck’s awkwardness grew as she realized she would be pretty buzzed in a few hours when the kids she babysat for came into the bar.
“Oh, these are my coworkers, Jake and Theresa,” Patrick said, finally introducing Beck.
“Hello,” Beck said smiling. Theresa and Jake smiled and greeted her. “Well, I’d better get back to my friends.”
“Okay, well, it was great seeing you,” Patrick said.
“You, too,” Beck said.
Beck strolled back through the crowd to the other end of the bar, where Chris was nursing an amaretto sour and talking to Greg and Heather. Greg sat next to Chris on a barstool. They were facing each other, while Heather had propped herself between them on an empty stool. She sat quietly, twirling a glass of wine in her hand, making it obvious to everyone that she wasn’t the least bit interested in the conversation. Greg rested his head on his left hand, deep in conversation with Chris, struggling to hear his best friend over the noise of the bar.
“None of you call me anymore,” Chris said. “Beck and Cal go out all the time—they never call and ask me to hang out.”
“Would you go?” Heather asked, frustrated.
“That’s not the point,” Chris responded, after a few silent seconds. “It’s nice to at least be invited.”
Greg gently kicked Heather’s leg and gave her an angry look. He’s right, Greg thought. They don’t call him, or anyone, anymore. Not that Chris should be upset over it, but he understood why he was, and Heather’s response would only make Chris more sore, which was not the point.
“Don’t kick me,” Heather demanded.
“Sorry, it was an accident,” Greg said, noticeably unapologetic.
Cal returned from the bathroom and grabbed his beer on the bar. Beck was walking back over to them.
“Who was that?” Cal asked, looking at Patrick.
“That was Pat Slattery,” Beck explained.
“Oh, somebody’s got a sugar daddy,” Heather said sarcastically.
Beck sighed, tossed her hair, and smiled. She looked into Heather’s eyes. “For once, Heather, can we not talk about you?”
Heather smirked. Behind her, Chris chuckled as he picked up his drink. He sipped and raised his eyebrows at Heather, who had turned to give him an angry look.
“I baby sit his kids back home in Pelham,” Beck said.
“Oh, that’s the guy you babysit for?” Cal asked, pointing at Patrick. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Beck shrugged. Greg jumped out of his chair, startling Beck, who was standing next to him.
“Dude, a pool table just opened up!” he shrieked. “Who wants to play?”
“Not drunk enough yet,” Chris said, staring into his drink.
Cal also declined, and Heather explained that she really didn’t know how to play pool.
“Don’t you have to hit the black ball or something?” she asked ignorantly.
“Oh, Heather, you love hitting black balls,” Beck quipped. She leaned down and whispered, “Just don’t put them in your mouth.”
Heather gasped and looked at Beck, offended. Chris chuckled again, unsuccessfully trying to keep from bursting into laughter. Beck stood and walked with Greg over to the pool table, about fifteen feet from the bar.
“Hey, Beck, see the stick? Don’t stick it up your—” Heather yelled.
“Heather!” Cal snapped.
Beck grabbed a cue stick, turned around and pointed her middle finger at Beck, then went back to play a game with Greg. Cal leaned against the bar where Chris sat.
“That was noticeably uncivil, even for Heather and Beck,” Chris commented.
“Unvented anger, PMS, and summer heat will do that to you,” Cal said, watching Beck and Greg rack up the balls on the table. “Plus, they’ve been drinking.”
Beck leaned against the pool table, chalking the cue, while Greg racked the balls, lifted the triangle, and walked around the table to the opposite side. “You want to break?” he asked.
“Not really,” Beck said, placing the chalk on the frame of the table.
“Eight ball?” Greg asked again, lining up his break.
Beck nodded. She tossed her hair and watched Greg line up his break. Greg leaned over the table, aiming at the cue ball and hit it. The cue ball slid across the table, slamming into the racked balls, sending them in every direction. The seven-ball fell into the corner pocket. By the time the balls stopped, not one was less than seven inches from where it started in the triangle.
“Nice break,” Beck said, checking out the table for the best shots. “I’m stripes then, right?”
“Yep,” Greg said, leaning up against a nearby wall, holding his stick like a king holding his sepulcher. Beck kept her eyes on the cue ball, looking for the best shot. She decided to send the thirteen-ball to the side pocket. As she set the shot up in her mind, she looked over to the bar, where Chris, Cal, and Heather were talking. Chris was attentive, but he looked sad, drained, defeated. For a second, she completely forgot about the game and stared at Chris, studying his sadness.
“Are you going to shoot?” Greg asked. “Beck?”
Beck jumped to attention, looked down at the table, and clumsily hit the cue ball, knocking three balls around, but not getting any in. She stood up, focusing on Chris, who was still talking to Cal. Greg lined up a shot and took it—the two-ball in the corner pocket. He studied the pool table carefully, plotting his next shot, and noticed Beck, leaning against her stick, watching Chris and Cal at the bar.
“I feel bad for him,” Beck said.
“Who?” Greg asked, studying the table, only partially paying attention.
“Chris,” Beck answered. “It’s not right; I don’t understand why he isn’t working for, like, the Washington Post or something.”
“I don’t think he applied to the Post,” Greg said, trying to line up a shot at the five-ball near the side pocket.
Beck gave Chris a look. “I mean, I don’t get it. At first, I thought maybe he wasn’t good at finding a job; maybe there was nothing impressive about him,” she explained. “But he’s Chris. If I owned a newspaper or TV news station, I’d be pleading with him to be a reporter for me. I don’t think the president knows as much about politics as him.”
“The president doesn’t know much of anything, Beck,” Greg said, turning his head as he leaned across the table to take another shot.
“Yeah, well, Chris does,” Beck said.
“You’re saying that because you’re one of his best friends. He can do no wrong in our minds. We love him for what he is. We naturally think he’s great, just like he thinks we’re great, and we all think we’re each great—well, maybe not Heather.”
“It’s not just because we’re friends,” Beck said. “I can see negatives in him. It’s just because, you know—he’s Chris. He’s awesome.”
“Awesome?” Greg wondered aloud as he took his fourth successful shot in a row. After the nine-ball went into the corner pocket, Greg froze. He looked at Beck, a huge smile of surprise on his face. He stood up straight and let out a chuckle. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “You like him.”
“What? No!” Beck said.
“Yes,” Greg said, walking over. “You like him. You have a crush on Chris. How long has this been going on?”
Beck turned her head and looked Greg in the eyes. She wanted to drop the conversation. She had harbored feelings for Chris for years, but had always kept them quiet.
“How come you never hit on him or tried to go out with him?” Greg asked. “He would’ve gone out with you.”
“Out where?” Beck asked. “I don’t want to go out with a guy where I’d have to pay.”
Greg’s intrigue turned quickly to disgust. “Is that why you’ve not told him?” Greg asked. “Because he’s not rich?”
Beck shook her head; she didn’t want to talk about it.
“It’s because he’s not rich,” Greg continued. “Beck, what’s wrong with you?”
“Is it my turn yet?” she asked.
“No,” Greg said angrily. “Still mine.”
He walked to the far end of the table to set up his next shot. He glanced up at Beck, giving her a tense, angry look that could kill a thousand horses. Beck looked down at the floor, embarrassed and angry with herself.
Outside on the patio, Michelle fanned herself with the small drink menu sitting on the end of the table. She lifted her hair and fanned the back of her neck, which was soaked in sweat. The sun made an appearance as it passed between two skyscrapers.
“Maybe the patio wasn’t such a good idea,” Michelle said.
“Sweaty is sexy nowadays,” Max said, leaning back in his chair and sipping his Coors Light.
“Maybe for you,” Michelle said.
“Is that a gay joke?” Max asked with a smile.
“Duh,” Michelle said. She looked back inside and got a good view of Cal.
“Why don’t you just go say hi?” Max suggested.
“I was looking to see if our food was coming,” Michelle said, trying to cover the truth.
“Yeah, uh, the kitchen’s over there,” Max said, pointing to the opposite end of the bar.
Michelle sat quietly for a few seconds. She jumped out of her chair. “I got to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Max said. He leaned back, watched her walk toward the bar, and shook his head.
Michelle went through the doors that opened onto the patio, heading in the general direction of Cal and his friends. The bathrooms were just beyond. She passed Patrick, Theresa, and Jake before Cal noticed her. He looked surprised and quickly looked away. He wasn’t sure whether to look, say hello, or smile. He looked for Beck to give him an idea of what to do, but she was playing pool. Cal looked toward the ceiling, ignoring Michelle as she strutted by. She slowed her pace as she passed Cal, pretending to scan the room for the bathrooms, even though they were directly in front of her. Cal stared at Beck, trying to get her attention without glancing at Michelle, although it was inevitable that he and his ex-girlfriend would eventually make eye contact. Beck finally looked up, noticed Cal’s stare, and titled her head, as if to ask, “What’s up?” She glanced at Michelle, now slowly walking in her direction, and realized who she was.
“Holy shit,” she said softly, yet loud enough for Greg to hear.
“What?” Greg asked, lining up his next shot.
“I’ll be right back,” Beck said, putting down her cue and gliding toward Cal without making it obvious to Michelle, who had passed her and was headed into the bathroom, resigned to the fact that Cal wasn’t going to look at her or talk to her.
Beck stopped next to Cal, who stared at her, waiting patiently to hear what his best friend told him to do.
“Was that?” she asked.
“Yes,” Cal said. “That was Michelle.”
“Who’s Michelle?” Heather asked, shamelessly butting into Cal and Beck’s conversation. Beck turned and squinted angrily, giving Heather a “back off” message.
“Michelle, from Indiana. She goes to NYU,” Cal explained. “We dated a while back, and she broke up with me because I never told her I was rich.”
“You never told her you were rich?” Heather wondered. She sipped her drink and looked straight ahead of her. “I would’ve thrown your ass in the harbor.”
Beck rolled her eyes and head, threw her arms in the air, and turned toward Heather.
“Oh, Heather!” she snapped, looking for a comeback. “Just—shut up!” She sighed heavily and headed back to the pool table.
Heather didn’t flinch, unsurprised by Beck’s outburst.
“From Indiana, eh?” Heather continued, as if nothing had happened.
Cal nodded.
“Corn-fed girls,” Heather commented. “Hot.”
Cal nodded faster, and his eyebrows rose in agreement.
Michelle stood in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She was shocked at how upset she was that Cal hadn’t noticed her. She didn’t think she would be upset over something that stupid. She felt a lump in her throat. I’m about the cry, she thought. I don’t cry over stuff like this. She couldn’t go back to the table and face that judgmental queen Max after what just happened. She had one more chance. Cal would still be at the bar when she left the bathroom. She would try one more time. If she was unsuccessful—well, let’s play it by ear, she thought. She stood near the bathroom door long enough to make it seem like she’d actually had to go to the bathroom and to gather her thoughts and remind herself of the plan. She put herself together, psyched herself up, and opened the bathroom door. She walked out slowly, strutting as sexily as possible. Just as she cleared the doorway, she felt her shoe slide forward. She let out a yelp, tilted her head back, and fell straight to her floor, her buttocks breaking the fall. Just as she had wished, unfortunately, everyone in the bar had noticed her and watched her fall. Beck broke out in laughter over by the pool table, but quickly turned away from Michelle to hide it.
Cal pretended not to see, but let out a giggle when Heather said, “Oh, my God. Bitch fell on her ass.”
Michelle declined an offer from an older man to help her up. She rose to her feet, tossed her plan into the recycling bin in her head, and rushed back to the patio to get to her table. Along the way, one guy asked if she was all right, but she didn’t respond, wishing not to relive the last few seconds. Michelle reached her table, sat down, grabbed her fork, and began digging into her salad, face down, hiding herself from view.
“How did it go?” Max asked, a smile on his face. “Did he say anything? Were you floored?”
“Shut up!” Michelle snapped as Max burst into laughter. Michelle tossed a piece of bread at him, hitting Max dead in the chest, then leaned her elbow on the table and rested her head in the palm of her hand. That was more than embarrassing, she thought, it ended all chances of rectifying my mistake of dumping Cal.
Back at the bar, Heather and Chris both stopped laughing when they realized they were sitting next to each other the whole time. Heather looked at Chris; he was smiling. She smiled with him as she tilted her head slightly.
“You’re smiling,” Heather said.
Chris nodded, still smiling.
“I like when you smile,” she continued. “You need to do it more often. You don’t smile enough.”
“There isn’t much to smile about,” Chris said his smile disappearing as she looked toward the back wall.
“There is right now,” Heather said. “This, this moment, this is something to smile about.”
Chris looked back at her, smiling. She was right.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Heather asked, rhetorically, of course.
“Do I have a choice?” Chris said, half-joking.
“No,” Heather said. “I think you’re obsessed with this job thing. Sure, it’s been a year, but this isn’t easy. For some people, it takes years and years; decades even, to get what they want. I think you need to stop worrying about the years ahead and start concerning yourself with the present. Live for now, right now—here, with us; me, Cal, Greg, Beck, and Cal’s ex girlfriend falling on her ass by the bathroom.”
Chris smiled again, letting out a small giggle.
“Yeah, but my family—” Chris started.
“Oh, screw them,” Heather said, tossing her head from side to side. “All you ever complain about is how your family looks down on you. You let it get to you. If your family insists on putting pressure on you to get a job, you need to get away from them. They don’t care about you if they’re more worried about where you work than your welfare; besides, something tells me that pressure they’re putting on you is more a fear than a reality.”
Chris lowered his eyebrows. She’s right, he thought. I just think they’re putting pressure on me because I feel like I’d do it if I were they.
“Still,” Chris said, “I feel like I let everyone down.”
“Let who down?”
“You guys,” Chris explained.
“Is that what this is about?” Heather asked. “You think you let us down?”
“Pretty much,” Chris said.
“Chris, honey, no,” Heather said, more emphatically than normal, “You haven’t let any of us down, especially me. Are you kidding? When I met you, you were a mess. I thought you’d be dead in a few years. I felt like I should get to know so I’d have a reason to go to your funeral. Now look at you—graduated college, one of most intelligent people I know. I agree; it’s not right what’s happened to you. It sucks, and you should have a great job making great money, but you didn’t let me down. If anything, the world let me down for doing this to you.”
“Really?” Chris responded.
“Yes,” Heather continued. “I love you. We all love you. You’re one of us, and you’ll get something. You’ll be something great. I know it. I have faith in the world.”
“You surprise me sometimes, Heather,” Chris said.
Heather smiled. She knew she came across as a condescending bitch, but that was really a defense mechanism. She never wanted to be weak or vulnerable, unlike Chris, who was more than willing to appear vulnerable if it helped. Heather wanted Chris to know her true colors—that underneath her bitchy armor, there was a soft, gentle person who truly did care.
“Just keep your chin up,” Heather said. She lifted her eyebrows. “And what better way to keep your chin up than by doing shots?”
Heather spun around on her barstool and signaled the bartender. “What’s the strongest shot you got?” she asked.
“Goldschlager,” the bartender responded. “It’s from Switzerland.”
“Heather, no,” Chris said. When he was a kid, he saw his mother pass out after drinking Goldschalger. Heather didn’t have nearly the tolerance for hard liquor as his mom.
“C’mon, how bad could it be?” Heather insisted.
Chris shrugged. This should be entertaining, he thought to himself. The bartender poured two shots of Goldschalger on the bar. Heather leaned over and stared at the shot, confusion, fear, and interest on her face.
“What’s in that?” she asked, pointing to the flecks floating in the drink.
“It has little gold pieces,” Chris explained. “They cut your throat on the way down so the alcohol is absorbed directly into the bloodstream. Gets you drunk super fast.”
“Seriously?” Heather asked, a worried look on her face.
“Sure,” Chris said.
The bartender set the two shot glasses in front of Heather and Chris. Heather picked up her glass as Chris picked up his.
“To life!” Heather said, lifting the shot glass.
“To life,” Chris repeated. He couldn’t wait to see Heather’s reaction. They tipped their heads back at the same time. Chris finished first, slamming the glass down on the bar. Heather looked ahead of her, her eyes bulging, and squinting as she tried to ride out the taste. She put the glass back on the bar, tossed her head, leaned back, lost her balance, and slid off the bar stool, falling to the floor with a noticeable thud. Chris leaned looked down. Cal, standing behind Heather, jumped in surprise and looked down.
“Whoa!” he yelled, trying to hold back a laugh. He looked at Chris. “Is she all right?”
Heather grabbed onto the bar stool, gained her bearings, and rose to her feet. She tossed her hair and sat down as if nothing had happened.
“Okay, well, that was something,” she said. She took her fingers and held the front of her nose, trying to stop her head from spinning.
“I told ya,” Chris said.
Patrick was in the middle of conversation with Theresa and Jake when he felt his BlackBerry vibrate in his left pocket. He knew before he even grabbed it that it was his wife calling. He took his BlackBerry out of his pocket, considering what would happen if he didn’t answer it. She doesn’t know where I am, he thought. She can go to the show, and I can stay here. He dismissed that option and answered the phone without thinking more about it.
“Hello, dear,” he said, answering the phone.
“Hi, honey. I just parked the van on the East Side, as you said, by your office. We’re on Lexington and 50th; where are you?”
“Walk up to Third Avenue and head north a few blocks; I’m at a place called Watts.” Patrick responded, before he changed his mind. “Having a few drinks with co-workers waiting for you.”
“Watts?” Hillary asked.
“Yes,” Patrick responded.
Hillary told him she’d be there soon. Patrick did not want to leave the bar. He ordered another beer. That’ll buy me a few more minutes, he thought. “They’re on their way,” Patrick said.
“Well, looks like Happy Hour is just about over,” Theresa commented.
The bartender handed Patrick a pint and took money out of the pile Patrick had laid down earlier in the evening. Patrick picked up the pint and sipped. “One more round.”
“Your family is coming here?” Jake asked curiously.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “My wife won’t stay for a drink. She doesn’t like to bring the kids to bars.”
“C’mon, you should be excited,” Theresa exclaimed. “This is going to fun—a night with your kids. They’re going to have a great time.”
Patrick shrugged. Maybe she’s right, he thought, I do miss my kids when I’m at work. He sipped his beer and glanced at the door. Every moment without his wife and kids was one more moment being young. He, Jake, and Theresa got back to talking about work before Hillary, dressed in a beige, button-down blouse and matching cotton skirt down to her ankles walked in with a young blonde girl and a younger, dirty blonde, bright-eyed boy—Melanie and Brandon. They spotted their father in the crowded bar and ran for him, Hillary lunging at them before she realized they were headed for her husband. She smiled as Patrick opened his arms, welcoming his children.
“Daddy!” they screamed as they ran. Patrick picked up his daughter, gave her a kiss, and then placed her on the floor. He picked up his son and held onto him, looking in his eyes.
“How’s Daddy’s little soldier?” he asked his son, a bright smile on his face.
“When are we going to see Tarzan?” Brandon asked, excited about the show.
“Right now, champ!” he beamed, putting his son back on the ground. Hillary walked over, smiling brightly, and kissed her husband on the cheek.
“Hillary, these are some friends from the office—Jake and Theresa,” he said, introducing his co-workers. Theresa and Jake graciously greeted Hillary with a “hello” and “nice to meet you.”
A few feet away, Cal and Beck stood by the bar, chatting about Greg’s blowout victory in billiards. Beck noticed Cal looking toward Michelle’s patio table. He moved suddenly. Michelle and Max were leaving.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Go talk to her,” Beck snapped.
“You think I should?” Cal asked.
“Do you think you should?” she asked.
Cal stood quiet for a few seconds, looking at Michelle, who was grabbing her bag. She looked at Cal and noticed him looking at her, but she didn’t make any motions toward him and began heading for the exit onto the sidewalk.
“I’m going to go talk to her,” Cal said, turning to Beck.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Beck said, as Cal walked away.
“Where is he going?” Greg asked.
“To fix his mistakes,” Beck responded. She looked away from Cal and over to where Patrick was sitting with Melanie and Brandon. She panicked for a second. I have to hide, she thought, I can’t let them notice me; I’ve been drinking.
“Oh, God!” she said loudly, turning to hide behind Greg, Heather, and Chris. Just as she moved, she heard a child call her name over the music. Damn, she thought. They saw me.
“Mommy, look; it’s Beck!” Brandon screamed, pointing to Beck. Hillary looked where Brandon was pointing. Beck, resigned to the fact that she had been spotted, turned and headed to the familiar faces smiling brightly, pretending to be elated at seeing the kids.
“Hey, guys!” she grinned as Melanie and Brandon ran over to hug her.
“What are you doing here, Beck?” Melanie asked.
“I’m hanging out with some of my school friends,” Beck responded, trying to hide that she was buzzed.
“We’re going to see Tarzan!” Brandon exclaimed in excitement.
“Yeah?” Beck asked excitedly. “That’s so cool!”
“When are you coming home?” Melanie asked. “We miss you.”
“I’ll be home in two weeks, Mel, for Father’s Day,” Beck explained. She leaned down and whispered in Melanie’s ear, “We’ll go swimming in Dad’s pool, okay? We’ll make water balloons and throw them at your brother.”
“Cool!” Melanie said, smiling.
Hillary walked over to reclaim her children and allow Beck to get back to her friends.
“See?” Theresa said to Patrick. “As soon as they walked through that door, you forgot everything you said before. You’re happy with your life the way it is, and you know it.”
Patrick didn’t respond. He just smiled at her and Jake, who nodded in agreement.
“All right, kids, let’s go,” Patrick said, throwing another dollar bill on the bar for a tip. “Brandon, what does Tarzan say?”
Brandon loudly imitated Tarzan’s famous cry, and Theresa, Jake, and Beck smiled and laughed. Patrick picked him up and headed for the door, saying goodbye to Beck and his co-workers. Hillary followed behind, waving. Less than a minute later, they were walking north along the Third Avenue sidewalk, passing Michelle and Max.
Theresa watched them leave and smiled. She looked at her watch. “I’d better be going. If I don’t catch the 7:16, I’ll have to switch at Jamaica, and I just hate that.” “Me too,” Jake said, putting his empty beer glass on the counter. “Well, I don’t have to switch at Jamaica, but I do have a train to catch.”
“Penn Station?” Theresa asked.
“Yeah.”
“Share a cab?”
“Sure.”
Theresa put down a few dollars on the bar for a tip, as did Jake. She smiled and thanked the bartender and she and Jake walked out the front door. Jake ran toward Third Avenue to hail a cab. On the way out, they passed Cal, who had stopped Michelle a few feet from the front door of the bar, next to the first set of double doors that opened onto the patio.
“Hey,” Cal said.
Michelle looked up, startled. Max stood between them, in the crossfire of the conversation. “Hey yourself,” she responded coldly.
“I knew it was you before, when you walked by,” Cal explained. “I didn’t really want to talk to you.”
“Oh, thanks,” Michelle said, offended.
“I mean, I didn’t know what to say,” Cal said. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened, but—”
He stopped and looked at Max, standing between him and Michelle. He turned to Michelle the question in his eyes.
A pause, then Michelle asked, “Can you give us a minute?”
Max sighed and nodded his head. “Fine, I’m going to go pee.” He headed for the bathroom.
“Anyway,” Cal continued, “I’m sorry for what happened. I feel stupid and I’ve been thinking about it recently, so it’s funny that I ran into you here.”
“Think nothing of it,” Michelle said. She wanted to be the bigger, stronger person; she wanted to end the conversation and leave, but her heart was telling her not to. She didn’t want to do what her heart said. She wanted to have the last word. He broke it off and she wanted to get back at him. Her heart and her ego were at war inside of her.
“I wish I hadn’t ended it like I did,” Cal said. “I was wrong. I was wrong to lie to you. I was wrong to not trust you.”
“You thought I would only like you for your money,” Michelle said. “I liked you before I knew your family was loaded; what would’ve changed?”
“I don’t know, Michelle,” Cal said. “I’ve had bad experiences, so I panicked.”
“Well, I’m sorry about your past, but this is good; you’ll learn from this,” Michelle said. “I got to go. I got a train to catch.”
“Don’t you live in the East Village?” Cal asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s Friday night; there are plenty of trains to the East Village,” Cal said. “Why are you in such a rush?”
Michelle looked in his eyes, remembering what attracted her to Cal in the first place. He was the only man she’d ever met who was never intimidated by her, the only man she had ever dated willing to call her out when she tried to snake out of an uncomfortable position, and the only man she had ever dated for whom she’d buckle. “They’re doing track work on the Lexington Avenue line.”
Caledon was a lifelong resident of New York and knew the subway like a book. “They’re doing track work on the busiest subway line in the city on Friday night before the first full weekend of summer?” Cal questioned. “That seems a little crazy, don’t you think?”
“Caledon Porter, are you accusing me of lying?” Michelle asked, leaning over until her face was only a few inches below his.
“I know you’re from the Midwest and all,” Cal said, “but you’ve lived in New York long enough to know that if the Lexington Avenue line is out, you can just walk up to the F train on 63rd Street, take it downtown to Second Avenue, and walk the three blocks back to your apartment.” He leaned closer to Michelle, his mouth three inches from hers. She closed her eyes, thinking he was about to kiss her, but he didn’t. “Besides, you weren’t going to leave without Princess Toadstool over there,” he said, gesturing to Max, who was coming out of the bathroom.
Michelle popped out of her daze and saw Max walking over. He looked at Cal and Michelle. “What did I miss?” he asked.
Neither Cal nor Michelle responded.
“You took quite a long time to find your way to the bathroom before,” Cal explained. “One thing I remember about you; you’re not a great actress.”
Michelle raised her eyebrows, shocked by Cal’s blunt comment.
“I know you were trying to get me to talk to you,” he said, “and to be honest, even had you not done that, I probably would’ve tried to get your attention myself.”
“Michelle—” Max started.
“Go away,” Michelle said, cutting him off, realizing Cal knew her feelings and shared them, just as she had hoped.
“I’ll wait for you on the sidewalk,” Max said, walking away.
“You’re right,” Michelle said. “I was trying to get your attention. I was devastated when I found out you lied to me, Cal. I didn’t know what I had done. I got over it by convincing myself that you were just a complete jerk, but you’re not a jerk; you’re wonderful, caring, sweet, courteous—I’m running out of adjectives; say something.”
“I was a jerk,” Cal agreed. “You weren’t wrong about that. I made a stupid decision, and I was a jerk, but now I want to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”
Michelle stood silent for about ten seconds. Cal was a little antsy. He figured she would’ve responded right away, and the fact that she didn’t worried him. He looked around to see if anyone knew he was about to be rejected, and then looked back at Michelle, put his hands out, and shrugged, silently pushing her for an answer. She moved a few seconds later, quickly leaning in, grabbing Cal’s head, and kissing him passionately. Max, out on the sidewalk, looked on in disbelief. Beck noticed and elbowed Greg to look. Greg turned, which got the attention of Heather and Chris as well.
“Uh, oh,” Greg said. “Pimp daddy is back.”
“Ain’t that the bitch who took a flop by the bathroom before?” Heather asked.
“Yeah,” Beck responded.
Michelle pulled away from the kiss first, slowly. Cal opened his eyes and looked at her. She backed away, slowly, one foot at a time, her hand moving away from Cal’s face, a big smile crossing her face.
“You still have my number?” she asked.
“Of course,” Cal said.
“Call me later.” She turned and walked out the front door, where she met Max.
“What the hell was that?” Max asked.
She didn’t respond and continued walking up Third Avenue, ignoring his inquires, the smile evolving into a chuckle.
“Michelle!” Max demanded, annoyed.
“Hey!” she snapped, stopping and looking at her best friend. “I’ll tell you on the train.”
She put the giant smile back on and walked onward, Max in tow.
Meanwhile, inside the bar, Cal walked back to his group, a similar smile garnishing his face.
“What happened?” Beck inquired.
“We’re going to try again,” Cal said, sitting on a stool next to Heather, who was leaning on the bar. “This time I’m not going to be stupid and jump to conclusions.”
“She wants to get back together?” Beck asked, surprised.
“Well, of course she does,” Heather said. “She probably has dollar signs dancing around her head.” She drunkenly bounced her fingers up and down, circling her head, then put her arm up in front of her and mimicked pulling the lever of a slot machine. “I mean, ka-ching!”
Everyone stood silent for a minute. Heather tried to sit up straight.
“Wow, liquor goes right to my head,” she commented, realizing she was, in fact, drunk.
“Among other places,” Beck said, gesturing toward Heather’s backside.
Heather looked at Beck, attempting to focus on her, but to no avail. She looked at Chris and tried to put together words. Chris looked at her, smiling, waiting to hear what jumble came out of her mouth.
“What did she say?” Heather asked, moving her head around violently, stumbling over her words. “Did she, she just call my ass fat?”
Chris began laughing. Greg followed suit, happier to see Chris laughing than amused by Heather’s drunkenness. Heather stood and started to tell Beck off. Beck backed away, laughing as Heather tripped over the leg of the barstool. Cal caught her and slowly guided her back down to sit on the stool.
“Heather, honey, let’s just sit here and relax,” Cal said.
“No!” Heather demanded. “She says I’m fat. I’ll bash her head against concrete.”
“She didn’t say you were fat,” Cal said.
“Okay, fine; only because Cal says so,” Heather said, stumbling over every other word. “And he’s so cute making out with the girl who fell on her ass.”
Chris sat next to Heather, his hands on his chest, leaning over in hysterics, struggling to breath.
“What’s he laughing at?” Heather asked. “Honey, you laughing at me?”
Chris took a deep breath and looked at Heather. “I just love you,” he said. “I love all of you. This has been a great night. I feel so much better.”
“I’m glad,” Greg said. “That was the plan, and it’s been a great night for everyone. Cal got his girl back, Beck saw her neighbors from home, Heather—well.”
“Heather got drunk!” Heather said, throwing her arms up in the air, excited.
“She sure did,” Greg said. He gestured to Cal. “Let’s make sure she doesn’t get in a cab by herself,” he whispered.
“Are you worried she’ll get raped by the cab driver?” Cal asked.
“No,” Beck said. “I think he’s worried she’ll rape the cab driver.”
Cal nodded. He leaned back toward Heather, who had her arms up in front of her, doing the bump and grind to the song playing on the stereo: “Blinded by the Light,” by Manfred Mann’s Earth Band. Chris had finally stopped laughing. He took a sip of his drink and looked around at his friends. For a few minutes, he had forgotten about what was bothering him. He forgot about his unemployment. He forgot about his depression. He felt better, and it was thanks to his friends.
“You know what I just realized?” Chris said, putting his drink on the bar.
“What’s that?” Greg asked.
Chris looked up, his eyes darting around to his friends. Heather stopped dancing and jumped to attention to listen. Cal stood next to Heather. Beck stood next to him. Greg sat at the bar next to Chris, his arm around his best friend. “I have been so obsessed, so focused on making something of myself, I forgot what I am already—a friend, a writer, an intelligent human being. I have people who love me, people who are willing to give up their Friday night to remind me how loved and respected I am. Life is hard, sometimes it sucks, but the world isn’t so cruel that it will toss me aside after all the hard work I’ve done and all the great stuff I accomplished. So what if right now I’m not making a ton of money or a name for myself? One day I will, and all the pain I am going through now, all the blows to my self-confidence, all the tears I shed is just the way I’m going to earn it. Right now, I’m earning all the great things that are going to happen, and thanks to you guys, I understand that. Someday I’ll land on my feet. Someday I’ll have a job.”
“And what if you don’t?” Heather questioned, partially unaware what she had just said.
Greg’s eyes widened and his face reddened as he shot her an angry look. Beck shook her head, surprised at Heather’s comments.
“I’ll throw myself off that bridge when I get to it,” Chris said, picking up his drink, taking a sip, and smiling.
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