“Judgment? When have I ever judged you? I fed my kids fish sticks four times this week, okay? No judgment.”
I cracked a smile.
“Go on,” Erica encouraged.
“Aside from that random dude we met three months ago at The Blue Post, there hasn’t been anyone.” I watched Erica’s face carefully. She sat back in her seat and exhaled a long, judgment-filled sigh.
“You’ve had sex once in the last six months?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Once.”
“Once,” I repeated.
“One time. One time in half a year?”
“Yes, Erica.”
“Okay, honey? That’s what married people do who don’t like each other.”
I ignored her, catching sight of Kenan Memorial fountain as we traveled down Market Street. Someone poured dish liquid in it, creating sudsy water that bubbled and glopped over the edges. “No respect,” I whispered, then giggled.
“I have mad respect for you,” Erica countered.
“I’m talking about the fountain,” I said, pointing behind us.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
Erica shrugged. “Bailey, you need to get laid.”
“Among a lot of other things,” I added.
“We’re gonna find you a guy tonight,” Erica said.
“Erica, I’m not interested in a one-night stand, okay? I’m thirty-one. I want a relationship. Hello? I’m a 31-year-old single woman who owns her own house. Do I come off as the kind of person who wants meaningless sex?”
Erica blinked. “You need a few drinks. Then we’ll revisit this topic.”
“Good grief,” I mumbled.
We tipped the taxi driver and hopped out of the van in front of The Reel Café—our favorite dance club in Wilmington. I had to be careful not to flash anyone with the too-short dress Erica insisted I wear. She really didn’t have to convince me. I’d been working my ass off for months for this trip and was ready to show some skin. But I admit I felt the slightest bit trashy next to Erica, whose dress was much more subdued.
“I’m a mom,” she said to me when I pointed it out in our hotel room. “There are certain things I just can’t get away with anymore.”
“Really? Because I’m not buying it.”
“I’m serious.”
“You were wearing a micro bikini on the beach today,” I said.
We laughed.
“Was not! It only looked ‘micro’ because of this gut,” she said, rubbing her hands on her belly.
“You’re so full of shit, Erica. You know your body is rockin’,” I said. “So now tell me again: Why aren’t you wearing a teeny dress like mine?”
Erica hesitated, her brush frozen halfway down the length of her golden hair.
She sighed. “I want tonight to be all about you.”
I said nothing, then burst into a fit of giggles.
“What?” Erica asked indignantly.
“I appreciate you not wanting to upstage me,” I wheezed. “I mean, we both know you’re the pretty one.”
“Shut up! That’s not what I meant!” she cried, giggling.
I laughed harder, then said dramatically, “Thank you, Erica, for giving me a chance tonight.”
I repeated the statement to her now as we walked up the stairs to the rooftop bar. I could feel the thumping and pulsing of the music before we even got to the third landing.
“Oh, hush up with that, already!” she said. “Now listen up.” She stopped short and turned to me. “I’m twenty-one and a business major. You?”
“Umm. How about a history major?” I replied.
“That’s boring,” Erica said. “And what do you know about history, anyway?”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“It might.”
I looked at Erica evenly. “I don’t think I’m gonna run into someone here who’s interested in having an in-depth conversation with me about Benedict Arnold.”
“Whatever. I don’t even know who that is,” Erica said. “Be a marine biology major,” she suggested. “That’s so nature zen.”
“What? I don’t know anything about marine life,” I replied.
“Oooo! Be a film major,” Erica said. “That’s glamorous.”
“Um, no. I don’t know anything about that either.”
“Then what do you know?”
“I know that Benedict Arnold was a famous traitor during the Revolutionary War,” I said.
“You’re, like, the nerdiest cute girl I’ve ever met,” Erica replied. “Fine. Be a history major. But they’re gonna think you’re boring in bed.”
I laughed as we squeezed our way across the deck to the bar. I ordered the first round: two vodka tonics. Yes, it was feeling like a vodka night. I needed to loosen up.
Didn’t take long. After three drinks, I was ready to show my stuff on the dance floor. The crowded dance floor. Labor Day weekend in Wilmington is a hot, congested mess. Doesn’t matter where you go. And the rooftop bar—that had no air conditioning, mind you—was the place everyone wanted to be on Thursday night. It wasn’t even officially the holiday weekend yet, but the crowds were out in full force, milling around, occupying every square inch of that deck. People of all ages. Young college girls who dressed quite similarly to me. Single guys in their fifties hanging by the bar, unwilling to grow up. Thirty-somethings still young enough to get away with it.
I grabbed Erica’s hand and headed for center stage when I heard The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Mo Money, Mo Problems” come on. Good beat. Good memories. Transported me right back to freshman year in college.
I won’t pretend that I wasn’t completely flattered when three girls grabbed their boyfriends and hauled them off the dance floor shortly after I made my way onto it. I guess they didn’t like my suggestive moves. Or maybe they thought I had plans to move in on their men. Whatever. I just like to dance. And I’m really good at it. And Erica was all about directing traffic my way to allow me the opportunity to share my dancing skills with others.