@LadyMaryKay liked your photo.
@LadyMaryKay liked your photo.
@LadyMaryKay WANTS TO FUCK YOU AND SHE IS PICKY AND PRIVATE AND PATIENT AND SHE FINALLY FOUND A GOOD MAN AND THAT’S YOU JOE. YOU’RE THE ONE. BE PATIENT. SHE’S A MOM. SHE’S YOUR BOSS. SHE COULD GET FIRED FOR HITTING ON YOU!
Finally, you shove your phone into your pocket. “Oof, I think I need a drink.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I think I told you he has this cabin in the mountains…”
You told me about his fucking cabin and I’m not impressed. I’ve seen his Instagram. He doesn’t like to read and he bought his biceps at CrossFit. “I think so, yeah.”
“Well, he brought this girl up there and she spent the whole trip complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi. And then she bailed on him.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah,” you say. “And I know it sounds bad, this same old story of a middle-aged guy going for twenty-two-year-old girls, but”—there is no but, it’s just plain bad—“you know how it is. He’s like a brother to me. He’s insecure…” No. He’s just a man. “And I feel for him. He does so much for this island. He’s a saint, truly. He donates books constantly…” ONE HUNDRED GRAND, HONEY. “He’s like our own Giving Tree…”
No man is an island or a tree but I smile. “I got that impression,” I say. “I saw signs for his Cooley 5K and the Cooley ‘street cleaning task force.’ But maybe instead of doing so much for others…” God, this hurts. “Maybe he should be in that cabin clearing his head.”
“Yeah,” you say. Yeah. “And that’s probably the right move because he truly does have the worst luck with women.”
Sorry, Mary Kay, but if you knew about my exes… “He’s lucky he has you.”
You blush. You’re quiet, too quiet, and you don’t want this fucking man, do you? No. If you wanted him, you would have him because look at you. You sigh. Sighs are signs of guilt and okay. He wants you and you don’t want him—you want me—and you shrug. “I don’t know about that. It’s just second nature for me, you know, helping people, being there…”
We are the same, Mary Kay. We just have different styles. “I can relate.”
We’re quiet again, closer now than we were an hour ago. My whole “Mr. Goody Two-shoes” plan isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about us being good together. I swore I won’t ever hurt anyone for you, not even the guy who owns the hardware store where the female staffers swan around in tight jeans and tight shirts bearing the Cooley name. I’m kind like you. I’m good like you. I gulp. I go for it. “Maybe we could get a drink later…”
You put your hand on your shirt. Deep V-neck sweater today, deep for a librarian who bends over a lot. Say yes. “I wish,” you say, as you stand. “But I have girls’ night and I should probably get back inside.”
I stand because I have to stand. “No pressure,” I say. “Just throwing it out there.”
We’re lingering as if we can’t bear to go inside and time is slowing down the way it does before a first kiss and we do need to kiss. You should kiss me or I should kiss you and it’s fall and you’re falling in love with me and I’ve never felt less alone in my life than I do when I’m with you. There’s an invisible string pulling our bodies together but you walk to the door. “Hey, if I don’t see you, have a good weekend!”
* * *
Six hours later, and I am NOT HAVING A GOOD FUCKING WEEKEND, MARY KAY. I want to spend my downtime with you and okay. You didn’t lie to me. You’re not out with Seamus—he’s at a dive bar watching a soccer game because people here like soccer—but you’re at Eleven Winery with Melanda.
She’s your “bestie” and she’s @MelandaMatriarchy on Instagram—oy—and she celebrated Gloria Steinem’s birthday by posting a picture of… Melanda. This woman is an English teacher, she’s your daughter’s teacher, constantly harassing your Meerkat to stop romanticizing Dylan Klebold in the comments—Boundaries, anyone?—but you see the best in people. Melanda was the first friend you made in Bainbridge and she “saved your life” in high school, so when she issues Instagram mandates to BELIEVE ALL WOMEN—as in, the mandate is on a T-shirt stretched over her unnecessarily big boobs—well, you like every fucking one of them.
And you do this even though she doesn’t like all of your pictures—you are the bigger person, just like me—and when she wants to go to Eleven Winery and bitch about her OkCupid dates—generally this is every Tuesday and every Friday—you go.
It doesn’t take a genius to see that I should be with you, that Melanda should be with Shortus. But they’re two sides of the same coin. She likes to hate men because she’s too guarded to find real love—your words, not mine—and this man-boy wants a chick to suck on his Shortus. And then my phone buzzes. It’s you.
You: How’s your night?
Me: Hanging in there. How’s girls’ night?
You: You mean women’s night.
This is our first text—YES!—and I can tell you’re a little drunk. I want to pound my chest and pump my fist because I’ve been waiting for you to reach out to me and I haven’t reached out to you because I have to be paranoid. I know how it works in this antiromantic world. I couldn’t be the one to hit you up on your personal phone because the Injustice System could take my innocent gesture and frame me as a fucking “stalker.” This is life without a Get Out of Jail Free card but it turns out, life is good. You did it, Mary Kay! You crossed the line and texted me after hours and the library is closed but you are open. And thank God I dragged my ass to Isla Bonita tonight—another win!—because now you’re gonna see that I’m not sitting at home pining for you. I’m just like you, out on the town with my friends—the other guys at this bar would appear to be my “friends” on security camera footage—and now I get to make you sick with FOMOOM—fear of missing out on me.
Me: Well I’m at BOYS’ night. Beer and nachos and soccer at Isla.
You take a beat. It’s killing you to realize that I’m on Winslow Way too, 240 feet away. Come on, Mary Kay. Spill that wine and run to me.
You: You make me laugh.
Me: Sometimes boys and women drink at the same bar.
You: Melanda hates sports bars. Long story. Bartender was rude to her once.
I bet every bartender in the state was rude to Melanda but then, it can’t be easy being Melanda. I snap a picture of the bumper stickers behind the bar—MY BARTENDER CAN BEAT UP YOUR THERAPIST and I DON’T HAVE AN ATTITUDE PROBLEM. YOU’RE JUST AN ASSHOLE—and I send it to you and then I write to you.
Me: Tell your friend Melanda that I get it.
You: I love you.
Me. Numb. Lovestruck. Speechless. Cloud 9000. I stare at my phone, at the dots that tell me there’s more to come and then boom.
You: Typo. I meant I love your picture. Sloppy fingers. lol sorry just… yeah… wine.