Coworker? Check. Been there, done that, and now I’m left with a smarmy asshole ex who leans over my computer screen every so often to insult me and make me feel like shit. Owen wouldn’t even need to get up from his desk to ruin my day if it didn’t work out.
Potential to break my heart? Big fat check. Even if it weren’t for our history, everybody in the office knows Owen is a manwhore—because half of them are trying to fuck him and he still hasn’t slept with any of them. Only someone who’s getting plenty elsewhere could afford to turn away some of the vamps in the office. We might not talk about our hook-ups as much as we used to, but we’ve shared enough Monday morning stories around the breakroom Nespresso machine for me to know that Owen is about as likely to give up the single life as you’d expect from a guy with abs like his.
Ruined friendship? Double check, and this is the one that really counts. I’d have to be stupid to think Owen and I would still get along with the same ease if we ever got together and things went south, which they inevitably would. That we’d still share as much and have each other’s backs. He’s an easy-going guy who loves women as much as he loves working at TrendBlend and seems to enjoy every second of every day here in his hometown of Los Angeles. And me? Regardless of who I was in college, now I’m an intense, ambitious woman with one eye on working in NYC and a string of disastrous relationships behind me.
Owen-as-boyfriend has all the ingredients for disaster. Thinking about it only makes me appreciate him as a friend all the more.
An hour before I’m about to leave work, Owen texts me.
Don’t revoke my friend card, but I can’t make it tonight. Melissa wants a sample video for the vlog so I’m going out on a last-minute date. Tomorrow 10AM? Maddie’s Bar?
I groan a little, but part of me doesn’t mind the extra night to come to terms with everything that’s happened the past few days. I’ve barely had enough time to think about the Carl thing and the Month interview and the video fame, let alone vent. Since tomorrow’s Saturday I figure these plans will also keep me from moping around the house all weekend, and maybe even put me in the mood to finally pick up the rest of my things from my ex’s.
Sure. See you there. Have the kind of date worth telling me about. ;)
Owen’s reply comes less than a minute later.
Haha. I always do. St. Paddy’s Day tomorrow, so wear something green unless you want me to pinch your ass.
I smile at the phone screen, half considering the idea of not wearing anything green just to see if Owen keeps his promise.
3
Owen
Maddie’s is about half a mile from my place in Echo Park. A cocktail bar that’s kinda rustic, all chalkboard menus and wood paneling. Just about clean enough that you couldn’t call it a dive bar, but with just enough personality to separate it from the super-slick pick-up joints I usually go to. Most of the clientele are regulars who live nearby, and though I recognize some of them—the straggly-haired guy who looks out of the window pensively in between writing in his notebook, the two auto shop workers who always finish the peanuts, the sassy-looking grandma who leaves her white wine spritzer in the booth to smoke outside every half-hour—the unwritten rule that you don’t talk much is clear. This is a place for drinking, not for picking up girls or meeting people—which is why I like it. Everybody’s got to take a break sometimes.
I make my way there early, figuring that I’ll grab a booth before the St. Patrick’s Day rush of hipsters looking for cheap green beers, but when I get inside I see I needn’t have bothered. Margo’s already sitting in one, and though it’s a little busier than it usually is on a Saturday, it’s hardly jumping except for the seventies rock they’re playing on the jukebox and two guys at the bar watching a Lakers game.
I make a show of looking at my watch when she sees me, and as I slide into the seat opposite her say, “Ten minutes early? You need a drink that bad on a Saturday morning?”
I smile at her but she makes a grimace, and I can see she’s not in the best mood.
“Last time we met here it took me forever to find a parking spot.”
I look down at the table between us. Two full glasses, and three empty ones—one of them a shot glass.
“Head start, huh? You better not be planning to drive home. And if Carl’s giving you more shit about picking up your stuff, I’m happy to go with you and rough him up a little—”
“It’s not that. I didn’t even order these!” Margo sighs deeply, rests her head in one hand, and uses the other to pick up the empty glass. “This was the non-alcoholic lemonade I ordered. This,” she says, picking up the shot glass, “was courtesy of the bartender, who addressed me as ‘the cat video chick.’”
I look toward the bar and the bartender, an old-timer named Casey, winks happily in our direction.
“This was from two old ladies wearing glittery green hats. This was from a guy who begged to take a selfie with me. And this,” she says finally, picking up the glass full of beer, “was from another lady who came up and offered to give me a kitten from her litter.”
“Now I get why everybody wants to be famous,” I say, as I take the beer glass from her hand and hold it higher. “To fame.”
Margo picks up a half-empty glass and clinks it against mine.
“Infamy, more like.”
We both drink and I settle back into the seat, smiling as I look at Margo. Her hair’s messy as always, dark waves falling around her face easily, but I know plenty of girls who’d pay a couple hundred bucks to get their hair like that. She’s wearing a black tank top, some faded band name across it, loose on her shoulders but tight across her round breasts. Those big glasses make her green eyes look a little more distant—adding to the whole ‘hidden depths’ thing she has.
Margo’s one of the few girls I can just sit and look at like this. I look at most hot girls the way sprinters see a finish line: focused and direct. Reading bodies and gestures like a dirty novel. Involuntary visions of what they’d look like naked, and how I’d please them. Even the cuties in the office. I can’t help it, and it doesn’t help that women tend to look at me in the same way.
But Margo’s different. Just as hot as the others—if not more so, because she’s hardly even trying—but when I look at her, I just enjoy being near someone so beautiful. Like a painting, or a Shelby GT. Maybe it’s that I appreciate her so much as a friend, maybe it’s that she’s got the kind of personality that won’t allow a shallow gaze, or maybe it’s just that I can’t see her legs under the table. Margo’s got the long legs of a dancer, and I always struggle to keep my imagination in check when she shows them off.
“So,” she says, swallowing beer and tossing hair aside, “tell me about this ‘date’ you went on last night.”
I shrug. “Like I said, Melissa wanted to see a little bit of what I was talking about with the dating vlog I pitched. So I just found a random girl on some app and went out with her.”