Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(8)

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

I think I hate him more than Meg does. None of the others seem as riled up as I am, though, and I can’t understand why.

“Oh, I’m okay,” she sighs, running her fingers through her dark hair. I can see the streaks in her makeup from where her tears must have smudged it.

“I hate him,” I whisper under my breath. Loudly.

“Let’s stop talking about him,” Alex suggests. “He doesn’t deserve any of our energy.”

Oh.

That makes sense. And this must be why the others aren’t being as vocal about their hatred. I guess stewing in it won’t help Meg move on any faster. Yet another downside to being single my whole life is that when it comes to this kind of stuff, I always feel like I end up saying the wrong thing.

I squeeze Meg’s hand and try to soften my words.

“Where I’m from in New York, ‘I hate him’ is just another way of saying ‘I love you.’?”

Meg leans her head on my shoulder. “I love you, too. And for what it’s worth, I also hate him.”

Jonathan walks over and pulls her to her feet. “Let’s go take a shot.”

They walk arm and arm to the bar, leaving me and Alex behind. I wait until I can’t hear their shoes squeaking anymore.

“Sorry if I made things worse,” I say, sighing.

“No.” He exhales. “You didn’t. I’m just in a terrible mood.”

I notice the way his blond hair, usually perfectly parted and pushed to the side, hangs down over his eyes. He puts his head in his hands and exhales again. “I didn’t get the part. They went with the other guy.”

“No way,” I gasp, genuinely shocked. Alex has been trying to make it as an actor for years, and this last round of callbacks for the villain in a Netflix slasher comedy seemed really promising. “I’m so sorry. They won’t find anyone who can swing an axe like you.” I would know. We spent quite a bit of time practicing with a garden rake.

“Thanks, Pheebs.”

I look over at the bar, where Jerry pours Meg and Jonathan a round of tequila shots. Meg slams hers back without flinching.

“On the bright side,” I say, returning my attention to Alex, “I think Meg is on the mend.”

“Another!” I hear her screaming from behind me.

“God, would you look at that?” Alex lets out an irritated sigh.

My neck protests as I turn again to follow Alex’s gaze to the bar, where a tall brunette with full lips and high cheekbones bats her lashes at Jonathan. I watch as he strikes up a conversation. The way people flock to Jonathan has always bothered Alex, who, like the rest of us, has to put in work to get that kind of attention. All Jonathan has to do is exist.

I sigh. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me the way Cheekbones is ogling Jonathan right now.

“See that guy over there?” Alex points to a lanky blond with a fanny pack standing by the bar. “I’ve seen him on Grindr a few times. Before you guys got here, I asked him if I could take him out for a drink sometime.”

“And?” I ask.

“He said, and I quote, ‘I have dinner plans.’?”

“Well, when are his dinner plans?”

Alex shrugs. “Indefinitely, it seems.”

Out of all my friends, Alex is the one I’ve always connected to the most when it comes to matters of the heart. When we all get together for movie nights and decide we’re in the mood for something sad, I don’t even need to turn my head away from the screen to know that the sniffles that match mine are coming from him. And whenever we decide to get off the couch and go out, I can always count on Alex to join me in finding a random stranger to fixate on. It doesn’t take much for us. We both have so much love to give, and yet something always gets in the way of finding someone to give it to. Something like “dinner plans.”

“Is it just me, or is Jerry looking kind of hot?” Alex asks. My eyes wander over to the tattooed tree trunk of a man behind the bar, but Jonathan and Meg slide back into the booth before I have the chance to tell Alex that I can maybe see where he’s coming from. If I squint.

I turn to Jonathan. “That girl was pretty,” I say casually. “Did you get her number?”

“Mm-hmm.” He nods, emotionless. He takes a swig of his beer.

“Are you going to text her?” I ask.

Jonathan pulls out his phone and opens his email, something he only ever does when he’s trying to avoid conversation.

“I don’t know,” he says while looking down. “Do we know how far Nora is?” he asks, changing the subject. “Trivia is about to start.”

I sigh.

I know the brand of toilet paper Jonathan uses. I know the name of his sixth-grade music teacher who “accidentally” sat on Jonathan’s oboe the day before the holiday recital (Mr. Daniels). I know the way he takes his coffee, his favorite movie theater snack, and that only some forms of dairy give him a stomachache. But I never know what’s going on in Jonathan’s love life. He keeps the details of his hookups close to his chest. There have been a handful of girls who he’s entertained for a few months each, a bunch of one-night stands, and one girlfriend, who was before my time.

And since one of the things I appreciate most about him is that he never pressures me with questions about my love life, or rather, lack thereof, I try my best to extend him that same courtesy. That means not asking too many questions, and sticking to stalking the girls he hooks up with on social media behind his back.