Some of the men were cute. Some were funny. All were way too young for me. None seemed to measure up to Erica’s standards. She kept switching them out like socks—trying them on me and deciding she didn’t like the style or color or length. But someone eventually caught her eye.
For the record, I’m not good with sensing if someone is looking at me. Erica, on the other hand, is a master at it. She tapped my shoulder and leaned into my face, spittle flying from her mouth onto my cheeks and lips as she screamed at me.
“There’s a really hot guy staring you down!”
“Say it! Don’t spray it!” I replied.
“Ain’t nobody gonna do you if you say dumb shit like that,” Erica replied. “This isn’t middle school circa ’94.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever. Now, when I say, spin around and take a look. Keep dancing, though. We don’t want it to be obvious.”
I nodded and awaited Erica’s cue.
“Now!”
I spun around then remembered that Erica gave me absolutely no details.
“Wanna tell me who I’m supposed to be looking at?” I asked when I faced her again.
She giggled. “Duh. Sorry ‘bout that. He’s the guy sitting at the end of the bar with the pink shirt on.”
“Pink shirt?” I asked doubtfully.
“Like a pale pink. It’s a collar shirt. Cute. Preppy,” she explained.
“I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t look metro if that’s what you’re afraid of. He’s scruffy wrapped in Brooks Brothers.”
That sounded more enticing.
“What else is he wearing?” I asked.
“A killer smile.” She flashed her own. “Check it.”
“Oh, you clever thing, you,” I said, but Erica didn’t hear me. She was too busy holding up her vodka and screaming at the top of her lungs to the opening notes of Ke$sha’s “Crazy Kids.”
“I love this song!” she yelled.
I couldn’t help being swept up in her I-wish-I-were-a-teenager-again mania and screamed with her. We bounced all around the uneven deck, fresh sweat pouring down our temples, slinky dresses plastered to our bodies, vodka flying out of our cups. I rolled my hips in the direction of my mystery man—put on quite the show, actually. I think vodka makes me hyper sexual. Someone could have mistaken me for a pole dancer. Well, minus the pole.
I’d yet to see his face, but Erica positioned me for his prime ass-shaking view. She glanced over my shoulder and laughed, telling me his tongue was hanging out of his mouth.
“Yeah, right!” I cried, and whipped around to see him.
I froze. I didn’t even jump when Erica popped my ass. I just stared. Embarrassed.
The smile crept slowly over Reece’s face. He lifted his hand and rubbed his stubbled jaw, trying to hide the grin. But then he changed his mind and lifted the same hand to me in a small wave. I couldn’t, couldn’t face him at work next week.
I whirled around and flashed Erica a horrified look.
“What?” she asked. “There’s no way you think he’s ugly.”
I shook my head.
“Then what the hell is it?” she asked. “And why aren’t you going over there to talk to him?”
“My co-coworker!” I choked out.
Erica’s smile could have replaced all the lights downtown.
“We have to go,” I said quickly.
“Are you crazy? Go talk to him!”
“You told me I couldn’t date my coworker, remember?”
“That’s before I saw him,” Erica said. She peeked her head over my shoulder and waved.
“Don’t do that!” I cried.
I grabbed Erica’s hand and hauled her to the exit.
“I feel like such a moron!” I moaned as we hurried down the stairs.
“You oughta feel sexy as hell, because that’s what you are,” Erica replied. “You realize you made his night? His year, maybe?”
“No. I just made myself look like a hooker,” I replied.
I took a sharp right out the door to the oyster bar, excusing myself politely as I gently pushed through the crowd. The patio was filled with patrons who preferred live music over the DJ upstairs.
“A hooker?” Erica laughed behind me.
“That’s what I said,” I called over my shoulder. I thrust my hand behind me, and she took it automatically.
“You would have had to proposition him for sex, honey,” Erica explained. “That’s a hooker move. Yours was a sexy, flirty move. Like, ‘Come and get it, but you know I’m’ll make you work for it!’”
“Erica, please stop.” And then I stopped. Dead in my tracks. Erica bumped me from behind.
“Traffic jam?” she asked.
No, not a traffic jam. Bullet to the heart, more like.
There he was. Sitting at a table in the far corner of the bar, sipping his usual drink with a tiny blond thing laughing beside him. I watched her say something, then lean her head against his arm. He patted her head playfully, and she swatted his hand away. He chuckled and pinched her cheek.
He used to do that shit with me—tease me for being little. It was condescending and obnoxious, and I loved every bit of it. How can I explain? When I stood next to him, I was safe. He could envelop me in his arms, and I would disappear from the big, bad, scary world. He’d fight it off for me. Be my iron shield.
“B?” I heard from behind, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Someone was moving in on my iron shield, and I ought to do something about it!
“Honey, let’s go,” Erica said. She saw him, too, and she knew our favorite bar had just turned into a danger zone.
“He doesn’t even like blond hair. He told me he didn’t like girls with blond hair,” I said.
Erica walked around me and stood directly in my line of sight.
“Move,” I demanded.
“He doesn’t like blondes,” she said.
“Then why is he with her?” I asked, peeking around her shoulder. She blocked my view again. “Move!”
“This is booty, plain and simple. And you don’t need to see it,” Erica replied. She grabbed my hand. “We’re leaving.”