Next-Door Nemesis(47)
“Why are you still in front of me?” Every woman walking by can sense her annoyance, but shocking absolutely nobody, the men are still smiling like it’s all fun and games. “What part of ‘no, thank you’ didn’t you understand? Was I too polite?” She looks over her shoulder at me and Ashleigh before answering her own question. “I was too polite.”
Fedora’s face reddens when the realization that this isn’t going to end with his intended results begins to dawn.
“Fuck you then.” His chest puffs out and his face twists with anger and embarrassment—the most dangerous of feelings for the cis male ego. “You’re not even that hot.”
“I am though. I’m hot, successful, and smart as fuck.” Ruby starts to laugh, which only acts to further piss off the guy in front of us. “You’re a guy who harasses women on the street and is pissed because I don’t need you to validate my worth. Which is exactly why I said no, thank you. Oh, and also because of the fedoras. You look fucking ridiculous. Take them off.” She stops and points to one of the guys in the group. “Except you, you can pull it off. Congratulations, that’s no easy task.”
The man in front of us is practically vibrating with rage, but the guy she said could pull off the fedora could not look more pleased. “Thank you,” he says at the same time his friend says, “Fucking bitch.”
“Oh my god, thank you so much!” Ruby’s smile turns megawatt and her eyes sparkle even beneath the dim streetlights. “I haven’t had work in a couple of days and I was really missing scorned men calling me a bitch. Now I can really enjoy the rest of my night!”
It’s obvious this guy has never come across anyone like Ruby before. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to come up with something to say, but after a few seconds of silence, his friends grab him by the arm and pull him away.
“Damn, Ruby,” I say as I watch him walk away with his head hung in shame. “I think you just did more to prevent catcalling and street harassment than law enforcement ever has.”
I hope this moment lives in his mind until his dying days and he thinks twice before approaching women on the street.
She loops both her arms through ours and starts pulling us in the direction of the rooftop bar she saw before we were so rudely interrupted. “I do what I can . . . especially if it entails arguing with entitled men.”
“That was amazing. I want to be you when I grow up.” Ashleigh looks at Ruby with a familiar expression of shock and awe. “I could never do that.”
“That’s probably because you’re a well-adjusted human who doesn’t have an unhealthy hatred of men due to unresolved daddy issues,” Ruby says.
I can tell Ashleigh doesn’t know if she’s being serious or not, but before I can clear it up, we get to the bar.
We each show our IDs at the door before funneling inside and hurrying up the stairs. We push through the heavy glass doors at the top and walk out onto the perfect night spot. From the street, all we could see were hanging lights and people milling around, bobbing—Ohioans’ preferred method of light dancing—to whatever music was playing. But now, up here and part of the crowd, it’s so much more. The space that is so much larger than I anticipated is broken up into different sections. A huge bar that extends from indoors to out sits right by the door. Modern and industrial design blend seamlessly with clean lines, wood, metal, and a shock of greenery dispersed across the patio.
One corner has a stage where a band is setting up their instruments. Another space ditches the wide planks and opts for turf. Two games of giant Jenga are playing out while a couple competes in a very intense round of cornhole. High-top tables with umbrellas and barstools are interspersed with giant plush couches and lounge chairs all across the space—a lack of seating never an issue—and flames dance across a long, rectangular fire pit table. It somehow manages to be fun, casual, and romantic all at the same time.
We find an empty table close to the stage, and even though none of us are very hungry, we still order bacon-wrapped dates, truffle fries, and crispy Brussels sprouts when the waitress—Julie, who has an amazing haircut and eyeliner so precise a robot must’ve applied it—comes by. Oh, and a round of frozen palomas because why the hell not?
“Oh, actually,” Ruby stops Julie before she can walk away, “can you put an extra shot of tequila in mine?”
“My kind of woman.” Julie winks and scribbles it down on her notepad. “Of course we can. Anybody else?”
“You know what? Why not?” Ashleigh looks like a kid who just stole a piece of candy from the grocery store. I’m pretty sure this is the naughtiest thing she’s ever done.
Julie aims a pointed look in my direction. “What about you?”
I feel Ashleigh’s and Ruby’s stares, and this might be the most peer pressure I’ve faced in years. Usually, I’d give in. I’m trash for people pleasing and also booze, but for some stupid freaking reason, I can only see Nate’s cringing face as he reminded me of my intolerance for tequila. “I’m okay without it, but thank you.”
“Did you just deny yourself extra tequila?” Ruby reaches across the table and presses her palm against my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Ha ha. Real funny. I feel fine.” I swat her hand away and contemplate whether or not to tell her what I’m thinking.