“Probably Ricky? Gutiérrez?” I asked, my eyes darting across the room in search of him. The woman nodded in recognition and made for the bar. I trailed after her, my steps measured in my heels.
“We don’t seat until the whole party is here,” the hostess explained. “I could’ve sworn he was right there . . .”
It was no wonder she was having trouble locating my date. The woman leaning over Ricky had big, blond Texas hair, and from behind she obstructed our view of him entirely. Once he came into view, though, I wished I could turn back and run. Even with the Beauty Pageant Washout practically shoving her chest into his face, Ricky looked comfortable. He swirled his glass languorously, looking genuinely engrossed in their conversation, nodding along to her boring-ass story about waiting too long in the line for the Willis Tower. Suddenly, the effort I’d put into my little getup felt cheap.
“Mr. Gutiérrez?” our hostess, bless her, said. Ricky glanced up and gave us a sunny smile, his eyes darting to me and reflexively flicking up and down my body.
“Angie,” he said, sounding a bit breathless. “Wow, you look . . .”
“Well, I’d best let you go, then,” the big-haired woman said, giving me a look that was everything but appreciative. She was older than I had assumed from first glance, but clearly maintained, her eyebrows arched in that slightly villainous way that could be achieved only with regular Botox. A recent divorcée, or maybe a bored trophy wife, looking for a hot, ethnic young thang to show around her boudoir?
Pamela Anderson’s Uglier Stunt Double turned back to Ricky.
“Thanks for keepin’ me company, Ricardo,” she said.
“Sure thing, Polly,” Ricky said. “Have a good time in Chicago.”
Calm down, I thought, trying not to jump away from the hand Ricky placed at the small of my back. They were just chatting. It’s normal to talk to strangers at bars; that is half of why bars exist. And sometimes in those conversations, you even exchange names. Seriously, who brings a child into the world and names them Polly—
“You ubered here, right?” Ricky said after we had been seated and handed our menus. “Their cocktails are really good. You should have one.”
I looked up at Ricky as he flipped through the overpriced drink menu. I wasn’t dumb. I knew what Ricky looked like. Most hot-blooded heterosexual women would probably find him very pleasing to look at, and look they did, all the time. I was okay with that; as Ricky was already aware, I got hit on in public too. But if it had been me sitting at the bar, waiting for him to show up, I wouldn’t have entertained any company, especially not company that looked like it was five seconds away from launching its tongue down my throat.
But then again, it was like Tabatha had said. Ricky wasn’t my boyfriend. Sure, we were enjoying each other’s company, but he had no obligation to turn down external interest if and when it came. If Polly from Out of Town decided she wanted to have some of Ricky’s Tapatío with her papas, he had no reason to decline.
“Everything okay?” Ricky asked. He placed the menu down firmly on the table. “You’re quiet.”
I smiled, knowing it wouldn’t reach my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Badly, apparently. Ricky’s eyebrows knitted together with concern.
“Bad day at work?” he asked in hushed tones.
I thought of Bernice whipping her sheets off to reveal her stump like a magician unveiling their vanished assistant and smirked to myself.
“No,” I said. “It was good, actually.” I made a show of going over the drink menu. “I’ll just get a red wine.”
Ricky looked aghast.
“Babe, come on,” he said. “All of these great cocktails, and you go for the wine?”
“I’m not your ‘babe,’” I muttered reflexively.
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back. Ricky recoiled, his smile sliding clean off his face. Crap. Was it possible for me to just be cool for one day in my life?
“But fine, I can try the Chilcano then,” I said hurriedly. Then I took a deep breath, placed my hands on the table. “So . . . how was your day?”
“Great,” Ricky said, not taking the bait. He opened his mouth to say something else, then, deciding against it, snapped it shut.
We spent the next few minutes in silence, our heads bowed stubbornly toward our menus. I hated the sudden awkwardness between us. It had never existed before, and now I was sorry I had caused it.