The Better Half(3)
“Excuse me. ’Scuse me. Sorry. Sorry. Just. Trying. To get. In here.” I suck in my breath, wedge myself between the two men, and smile sheepishly at the guy on my left when my boobs graze against his upper arm. Sensing a new competitor has entered the fray, he eyes me up and down. I can’t hold it in any longer, I blow out my breath in his face. “Sorry.” I wince.
“No problem.” Leering guy laughs. “But I have to warn you that your effort to get here and snag a spot may not have been worth it. I’ve been waiting for the bartender for ten minutes. Last round took me twenty to get drinks. Maybe with you here I’ll have better luck.”
I nod, not wanting to be rude, but also hoping to avoid chitchat. I have a full school year of that coming up in two months. I’m here to get in, order cocktails, and get out. Fingers crossed I can coax Marisol into taking this margarita to go . . . to our room. Making small talk with a random White dude in a spiffy suit is not on my evening’s agenda.
“If you can get in your order and mine in the next three minutes, I’ll buy for the both of us. I’m failing miserably here. So’s he.” The slick suit nods to the guy on my other side, who I can only assume is a groomsman given the back-and-forth bro banter with a posse of dressed-up surfers hovering behind him.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint that I prefer to mind my own business and buy my own drinks. I look over my shoulder in an attempt to catch Marisol’s eye and get her over here to save me. She’s busy chatting up a mother of the bride type sitting erect, wrapped in a pastel shawl, at the cocktail table next to ours. In thirty seconds or less, Marisol will have slipped this woman her Clean Slate business card and gotten her to crack a smile. She can spot a woman with an expensive beauty regimen anywhere.
“Please let me, that way I won’t feel like such an ass for standing here this long just to order a club soda and lime.” The suit laughs and runs his hand along his slightly stubbled jawline, and I find myself appreciating his strong chin. After initially avoiding eye contact, I now notice that conference guy’s hazelnut-hued eyes and absurdly long dark lashes are pretty fantastic. So’s his honesty.
“Don’t you drink?” I can’t help but ask. Not that I really care about his alcohol habits, but why anyone over the age of thirty would be sober in this sardine-packed bar does pique my interest a little.
“Someone has to remain standing to take care of the first-year associates while they puke in the azalea bushes at midnight. I pulled the short partner stick.” I was right, total conference guy. “Plus, I drank too much last night, myself. I’m still recovering, so be gentle with me.”
“That’s awfully responsible of you.” My eager bar buddy subtly tips his head and delivers a half smile in acknowledgment of the middle-age compliment. Smooth. “The taking care of your associates part, not the nursing a raging hangover at your age part.” I want him to know I’m not that easily impressed.
“Understood.” We both laugh, and I rack my brain trying to remember the last time I even semiflirted in a bar. It had to be pre-Graham. Since our divorce, the few dates I’ve had have been fix ups through friends; the bar scene is alien to me. “The offer still stands. You help out a recovering man no longer in his boozing prime but still in the throes of last night’s regret, and I’ll buy the drinks.”
I’m not sure if it’s the dim of the bar, his easy banter, or the past few years when the only men I encountered were professors, fathers, or colleagues that prompts me to lighten up. I give my sober companion the same obvious once-over he gave me minutes before. He moves from leaning over the bar to standing up straight, aware of exactly what I’m doing. He even does a tight turn in our small space, so I get a glimpse from all angles. Confident. I like it.
“My name’s Nina, and you’re too old to have regrets,” I offer in a mock scolding. So schoolmarm of me. The bartender finally moves toward us, taking away my new friend’s attention. I hope I’m not left awkwardly hanging with half an introduction. We’re passed over for the brosman ordering multiple shots of something that will surely light his insides on fire.
We both chuckle at our invisibility. Twenties trumping forties. “Nice to meet you, Nina. I’m Leo. And while I regret waiting this long for overpriced water, I don’t regret meeting you.”
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
“Look at you, having a homent,” Marisol accuses, opening our room door looking smug, catching me in the five-star hotel walk of shame. “Struggling with your hand-eye coordination this morning?” She looks rested and is wearing the plush hotel robe I had been dreaming of, the smell of maple smoked sausage encasing her like a breakfast angel. I, on the other hand, look delirious and am wearing the scent of a one-night stand with a total stranger. “You gonna share where you’ve been with . . .”
“Leo. His name’s Leo.” I giggle into my hand like a fifteen-year-old whose crush just walked by her locker. I’m eager to get out of these clothes, brush my teeth, and chug the carafe of coffee I spy over Marisol’s shoulder, but she’s blocking the door to our room.
“Leo. And are we going to have to play twenty questions and end up late for our facials, or are you going to give it up easily to me this morning just like you did last night with Leo? You know I’ll be pissed if I get shortchanged on my HydraFacial waiting on you to spill it.”