I unmatch him without delay and stare up at the ceiling.
I am honestly starting to question evolution. We went from cavemen, to homo sapiens, to this incredible society of great minds—Alexander Graham Bell inventing telephones, Steve Jobs inventing…everything. And now we’re devolving. We’ve travelled back to cavemen, only nowadays we call them fuckboys.
Evolution has come full circle and that’s a real bummer.
I groan out loud, willing my cousin to get home already. I can’t believe I’m missing the semifinals for this.
At the reminder, I check my phone for an update on how Briar’s doing. According to Twitter, the second period ended with Briar leading 2-1. That’s still too close for comfort. Harvard beat Princeton by three goals.
I bet Connelly is mighty pleased with himself. Maybe he’s out with Hot Bambi right now, celebrating the win with a follow-up BJ and some kiss/swirl oral action. Goodie for him.
I’m pulling up Tinder again when another text from my cousin pops up.
TANSY: Change of plans. Lamar’s coming to the club with us.
My fingers clench around my phone. Seriously? This is our girls’ weekend. Her boyfriend already ruined every single thing we’ve done so far, and now she’s letting him ruin Bulldozer? I was excited for Bulldozer, damn it.
I call her rather than text, resentment slithering up my throat. “Are you serious?” I demand when she picks up.
“I’m so sorry,” Tansy moans. “It’s just…we made up, and he asked if he could come, and what was I supposed to say? No?”
“Yes! Yes, you’re supposed to say no. Tell him it’s not personal. We need girl time.”
“Come on, Bren, it’ll be fun. I swear.”
Right. The way last night was fun? I grit my teeth so hard they begin to throb. I try to relax my jaw with a slow exhalation. I’m tired of arguing with her. “Fine. Are you picking me up or should I meet you there?”
“We’ll pick you up. Lamar’s driving because he doesn’t plan on drinking tonight. I’m going to get ready here, so we’ll be about an hour?”
“Whatever. Text me when you’re on the way. I’ll start getting ready.”
I push aside my annoyance and take a quick shower, then dry my hair and style it in loose waves using Tansy’s flat iron. I brought a sexy clubbing dress with me, a shimmery black body-con number that reveals a lot of cleavage and a lot of leg. I slip it on and then settle at Aisha’s awesome vanity to do my makeup. I put on more than usual tonight; along with my trademark red lips, I create a smoky-eyes look, with winged liner and thick mascara.
After I’m done, I examine my reflection in the mirror, happy with the results. Last night sucked. Today, too. But I have a good feeling about tonight. So what if Harvard is moving on to the finals? Briar will too, and we’ll kick their asses. And in an hour or so, I’ll be dancing the night away at Bulldozer.
My phone chirps. Good. Here we go. Tansy’s on her way to pick me up and—
TANSY: Please don’t kill me. Lamar and I are bailing on the club.
The dream is dead. Bulldozer officially slips through my fingers. As anger quickens my pulse, I sink onto the edge of Tansy’s bed, at a complete loss for words. Cousin Tansy has officially usurped Cousin Alex. She is, hands down, the worst. Nothing tops this. Nothing.
My hands tremble as I respond.
ME: Are you kidding me?
* * *
TANSY: I’m so so sorry. It’s been SUCH a stressful two days for us and he thinks it would be better for our relationship if tonight was only about me and him. We’re going to stay in and watch a movie and reconnect.
Reconnect? They see each other every day! Outrage coats my throat, and my jaw is harder than stone.
ME: Congratulations. You win the worst cousin of the year award, and it’s only April.
* * *
TANSY: I’m sorry. I feel awful.
* * *
ME: No you don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be ditching me.
* * *
TANSY: Are you pissed?
* * *
ME: Of course I’m pissed. WTF is wrong with you, T?
I’m not afraid of confrontation, and I’m certainly not going to pretend everything is fine and dandy when it isn’t. My harsh words clearly have an effect on her, because after several tense moments, she backpedals like crazy.
TANSY: You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. Let me talk to Lamar again and we’ll meet you at the club, ok?
My jaw falls open. Is she nuts? Why would that be okay? Teeth clenched, I quickly compose an essay. Thesis statement: fuck you.
ME: No, not ok. And don’t bother with the club. Just stay at Lamar’s—that’s clearly what you want to do tonight anyway, and I don’t want to spend time with someone who doesn’t want to spend time with me. I’m making other plans, T. I’ve got other friends in the city, so enjoy your evening and maybe I’ll see you tomorrow morning.
Five seconds later, the phone starts to ring.
I ignore it.
My sparkly dress and I end up at a small music venue near Fenway Park. Initially, I try hitting a couple of different bars. I usually have no problem going out alone and talking to strangers, but I’m in such a sour mood tonight that I find myself scowling at anyone who tries to approach me, male or female. I don’t want a hookup or a conversation. I want to be left alone.
I decide I need a place where the music is so loud it’ll deter any and all overtures.
Bulldozer fits that bill, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore, either. I want to order a drink and sulk in silence. Or rather, sulk to deafening heavy metal music, because the venue I wander into is featuring a metal band tonight. Perfect.
The club consists of one main room just big enough to house a narrow stage and a tiny mosh pit. A few standing tables are tucked against a brick wall that’s painted black and spray-painted with graffiti. There’s a bar on the other wall, but no counter space, so I saunter toward the tables. They’re all empty.
Everyone is staring at me as I cross the dark room, probably because I’m dressed for a night out on the town, whereas most of them look like they crawled out from under a boardwalk. Rumpled clothing, greasy hair, and more Pantera and Slayer shirts than I can count. Luckily, the lighting is practically nonexistent, so it’s nearly impossible to make out people’s actual faces in the shadows. While I feel their stares, luckily I don’t have to see them.
“What can I do ya for?” A waiter with black hair that hangs down to his waist comes over to serve me. “Band’s about to go on, so you’d better order quick.”
“A vodka cranberry, please.”
He nods and walks off without asking me for ID. I have it with me, so I wasn’t worried anyway. I angle my body toward the stage and watch as the longhaired lead singer bounces up to the microphone stand.
“Hello, Boston! We’re Stick Patrol and we’re about to FUCK YOU UP!”
If by “fuck us up” he means they’re going to play six ear-piercing songs with garbled lyrics and wrap up before I even finish my first drink, then mission accomplished.
I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and honest-to-God cry.
What the hell was that?
As the singer thanks everyone for coming, I stand there gaping at him. I’m goddamn agape.
Their set lasted fourteen minutes. That averages out to about two-and-a-half minutes per song. Aren’t metal songs supposed to be a gazillion minutes long? I swear every Metallica track I’ve ever heard is longer than the Lord of the Rings movies.
Fourteen minutes, and then the house lights flicker on and I’m left watching the band dismantle their equipment. Some guy carts an amp off the stage. Another one is rolling up the microphone cords.
Fuck you, Stick Patrol. Fuck them and their dumb name, and fuck my cousin for not adhering to the girl code, and fuck Harvard for winning their game tonight, and fuck global warming for dumping all this unwelcome rain on us. Fuck ’em all.
I drain the rest of my drink in one gulp, then signal the waiter for another.
This is truly the worst weekend ever.
“Wait, did I miss the band?” A beefy guy with a shaved head and two eyebrow rings lumbers over. He glances from me to the empty stage and then back at me. Lust heats his gaze when he notices my dress.
I absently run one fingertip along the rim of my empty glass. “Yeah, sorry. They just finished.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Tell me about it.” And I’m not even a metal fan. I can’t imagine actually wanting to see the band only to show up and discover their set is already over.
“Mind if I join you?” He curls his fingers over the edge of my table.
My gaze drops to his hands. They’re huge, two big meaty paws with red knuckles. I don’t like them, and I don’t particularly want company, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say no.
He moves closer, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His arms are also huge, and the left one is covered with tribal tattoos. “Are you into music?”
Did he just ask me if I’m into music? In general? Aren’t most people? “Sure. Of course.”