I doze in and out, and when salty air tickles my nose I can tell we’re nearing the Pacific Ocean. Marisol pats my arm and announces, “Freshen up, girlfriend. We’re five minutes away.”
“I can’t wait to check out the hotel’s room service menu. You think they have wedge salad?” I ask, bringing the seat back upright.
“I thought you wanted to go pure monastic this weekend. All sprouts, lean proteins, and not talking to anybody but me.”
“I believe salad is comfort spa food. Iceberg lettuce slathered in blue cheese and bacon . . . yum. But you’re right, my plan for the rest of the evening is straight to the room, robe on, full Buddhist. Dinner in bed cooked by somebody other than me and surfing free streaming options is my idea of enlightenment.”
“I don’t think Buddhists eat meat.”
“Hey, don’t eff up my plan with a technicality.”
“You better have brought something sexy to wear. You know, just in case we decide to leave the room,” Marisol tosses out, looking for our turn so she doesn’t have to make eye contact with me. “I didn’t use a weekend hall pass from Jaime and my monsters to play backgammon in bed with you all night.”
Damn, I knew it. And I know her. Marisol avoiding eye contact is my hint that my best friend has plans of her own, and there will be no fondling the remote in my future. I suppose I can start to correct the damage done to my circadian rhythm from all my degree gathering when I get home.
We unload our bags at the hotel, and Marisol decides we’re going to get cute and hit the lounge before the evening rush. Within thirty minutes of our arrival, a crowd has already formed a human fence around the bar, so we choose a table close to the retractable wall of windows open to the ocean. Settled and in need of cocktails, we resort to a tried-and-true method of choosing who will wade into the fray for drinks.
“One. Two. Three. Shoot. One. Two. Three. Shoot. Paper covers rock twice, you lose!” Marisol howls triumphantly while I stifle a yawn. You’d think I’d be better at this game. It’s how Xandra and I determine who gets to decide takeout on weekends.
Marisol stretches her bare chestnut arms up in victory, a joyous smile radiating across her face. She projects her voice above the hum of the bar so I’m sure to hear her order correctly. “Margarita, blended, light salt, twist of lime, half straw.” I feel like a Starbucks barista. “Thank YOU! Now go, go, go, Mami’s looking good and feeling parched!”
I wish I could say Marisol’s a gracious winner, but I have thirty-five years of evidence to the contrary. We first met when she schooled me at double Dutch on the asphalt strip between our apartment buildings in Queens but then felt so bad for gloating that she shared her TWIX bar. She’s a competitive bitch with a conscience.
“Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating me this weekend? You should be hustling the drinks,” I declare, standing up and smoothing down my sleeveless turquoise wrap dress. Peering across the bar, I see I’ll have to fight my way through an unexpected cross section of a wedding party catching a buzz the night before the nuptials and a conference group undoubtedly drinking heavily to forget a blistering day spent listening to PowerPoint presentations.
“I probably should but . . . nah! You lost fair and square.” Marisol waves me onward to chart my solo course to Margaritaville.
“Sorry. Sorry. So sorry.” I excuse my way through the millennials sporting bandage dresses to reach the lounge bar at the Biltmore. I spy a sliver of space in between two men ignoring one another, both fixated on getting the lone bartender’s attention.
“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.