“Let’s keep it on the game, yeah?” I phrase it like a question but we both know it’s a demand.
Casey nods seriously as he pockets the bribe money. “Won’t happen again.”
I hand him the remote for safekeeping and then head over to the jukebox to load it up with as many songs from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack as I can find. While not my favorite, it’s music that I know is 100% guaranteed to put Margo in a good mood. By the time I get back to our table, she’s already grinning and doing a sexy little shimmy from her seat.
“I saw what you did,” she says. When I give her the innocent face, she squeezes my shoulder warmly, letting her hand linger there a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. “Thanks, Owen.”
I clink shot glasses with her and then we tip our drinks back, but I can tell she’s still stuck on something as I pause to take in the elegant beauty of her face.
“Is the Carl thing still on your mind? Or is it the career stuff? Or is it that thing you do where you run your fingers through your hair and go, ‘agghhh what am I doing with my life’?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. Margo frowns more deeply. “Or do you not want to talk about it?”
She looks up from the beer glass she’s screwing into the table.
“All of the above, I guess. But honestly, I’m sick of even thinking about it all,” she says, before looking up at me. Beyond those thick lenses I see her eyes narrow the way she does when she’s analyzing something.
“You know what I think?” I say. “I think you’re pushing too hard. This New York thing, your writing, these lame guys you’re dating…sometimes it seems like you’re so worried about the future that you’re not enjoying the present.”
“I’m twenty-five, Owen, not nineteen.”
“Exactly! So why act like a sixty year old?”
Margo laughs and shakes her head, like I just don’t get it. “I know you think it’s a joke, but I feel like I’ve reached the age where I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life.”
“You’re at an age where you should be enjoying your life, too. I mean, what’s wrong with TrendBlend? Cool people, it’s fun, and they even have an open bar every once in a while. No one says you have to stay there forever, or give up any future opportunities.”
“I know,” Margo admits. “And I do like my job, really. I just…it’s not enough to just have fun anymore. I want something meaningful, you know?”
“Are you talking about your career? Or the douchebags you keep dating?”
“Both? I mean back in college, everything was so simple. I knew exactly which classes to take, what to study for, how to get my degree in hand, and I also knew I had exactly four years to get all my partying out of my system before joining the real world and doing the adult thing. I was so focused. But ever since we graduated I’ve been waiting to feel like I’m finally an actual adult, and for some reason it’s not happening. I feel even more lost than I did during undergrad. I guess because I don’t know what the next step is.”
“I hear what you’re saying.” I nod slowly. “But I know what your next step is.”
She flashes me a suspicious look. “What?”
I lean forward and give her my serious face. “To order another drink.”
Margo laughs and orders some fries and more drinks by elaborately gesturing toward the bartender, and I notice how she sways a little as she does so, clearly a little tipsy. The bar’s filling up now, a few younger groups standing around the counter already getting an early start on their St. Patrick’s Day celebration.
“Listen, Margo,” I go on. “I’ve known you a long time. You have a track record of excellent ass-kicking behind you and I have no reason to believe the future will be any different. You remember where you were ten years ago?”
She shrugs. “I was fifteen, so I guess…making plans to marry Justin Timberlake and dreaming about getting my braces off in between editing the school newspaper and practicing clarinet.” I grin and she adds, “No band geek jokes, please.”
“I would never,” I assure her, resting my hand gently on her forearm. “But my point is, did the fifteen year old you ever imagine that in ten years she’d be living in L.A., impressive journalism degree under her belt, writing for one of the top media outlets?” Margo looks down and shakes her head, a tiny smile playing at her lips. “You get paid to do what you love—most of the time—and at this very moment you’re having drinks with ‘the internet’s hottest dating blogger,’ according to TMZ. I mean I’m practically Justin Timberlake status, if you think about it.”
She bursts out laughing, and it’s music to my ears.
“Come on. Who’s to say how much further you’ll go in another ten years?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.”
Our eyes meet and something warm passes between us. It’s like I can finally see the dark clouds around her head lifting. I think about taking her hand, just for a moment, just to reassure her like a good friend would, but that’s when our fresh round of drinks arrives.
Margo’s gotten us another couple of beers, the fries, a plate of fried pickles, and a couple of shots. We clink the shots, down them, and when I slam the empty glass on the table I realize I’m getting a little sloshed myself. A skipped breakfast will do that to you. We dive into the food and turn to watch the Lakers game, relaxing into each other’s company just like old times.
“Oh my god! Look who it is!” comes a call from the front doorway, directed so forcefully in our direction we both turn to see the group of college-age drinkers rushing toward us like an offensive play.
There are about seven of them, already drunk on the excitement of St. Patrick’s Day and decked out in various tacky green hats, beads, shamrock t-shirts, and feather boas.
For the next half hour Margo and I are lost in a sea of strange faces, Margo being photographed, filmed, and passed along between the group as they unleash all their excitement and fan-love at meeting the viral star. I down a shot and a second later the glass is full again in my hand. I try to rescue Margo (and myself) from the growing group but get roped into an arms-around-the-shoulders hop-dance to ‘Oh Danny Boy.’ Soon enough, though, I realize she’s having a good time. Could be the alcohol, could be my little pep talk, could be the gushing cat video fans or the raucous music—but whatever it is, I’m glad.
“This is actually kinda fun!” Margo screams at me over the sound of the Irish band that has started getting everybody up from the corner of the bar.