Page 4 of A Night to Remember

“Oh my gosh, that’sawful.”

“It was. He was even drinking out of theFrozencoffee mug my niece gave me for Christmas last year.”

“The nerve! I hope Elsa freezes his heart.”

“I think it’s already frozen,” I chuckle. “Sometimes I wish mine was.”

“Isn’t that the worst part?” she muses. “My ex is with that woman now. He seems to have moved on without a second thought. Whereas I feel like I’m walking around with this big open wound, you know?”

“Yup, I sure do.” I take a swig of my beer. It’s nice to commiserate, but this conversation is getting kind of heavy. Particularly since I don’t feel exactly innocent.

Lauren seems to read my thoughts. “I hope our friends over there aren’t going down the same path,” she says lightly. “’Lyssa should probably tell him she’s married.”

“Paul should probably tell her he’s gay.”

We both laugh. She’s very cute, but...

“You can probably guess that I’m not really looking to get involved with anyone, right?” Lauren turns to me with a kind smile.

“I’m not either,” I reply honestly. “Paul keeps pushing me to get back out there?—”

“—but you’re just not ready. Me neither. But I’m happy to hang out for a bit. As long as we can change the subject from cheating exes. What do you think the Chiefs’ chances are this year?”

I chatwith Lauren for another half hour or so, then treat myself to a bag of Doritos and my own personal bottle of whiskey. This proves to be a huge mistake. I wake up the next morning with a spectacular headache and such a bad taste in my mouth that I wonder if a small animal died in there overnight. The only thing worse than going back home is going back home with a raging hangover. I briefly but seriously consider moving to a homestead somewhere in rural Missouri. I could repair tractors. Adopt some dogs. Trade in the Lincoln Navigator my father bought me in high school for the Chevy Silverado Ireallywanted.

Lauren had been sweet, though I’m glad I hadn’t tried to sleep with her just because she reminded me of The Girl.Shehadinvited me to sit next to her in twelfth grade calculus with the same shy smile, though I quickly discovered that she was funny and fierce, with a delightfully mischievous streak. I had been tangentially aware of her as one of the smart, pretty girls who had always been at the top of every grade, but had never spoken to her until Mrs. Bergman’s class. Then one day, when we were supposed to be working together to solve a differential equation, she had raised one eyebrow, checked that Mrs. Bergman was busy with someone else, and whispered, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Absolutely,” I had replied, instantly intrigued. She lowered her voice even more, forcing me to lean in. I had never been that close to her. I could smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo as her thick ponytail—light brown, with natural blond highlights—swept forward over her shoulder. I was mesmerized by her gray eyes. They were truly gray, not blue, like agate tumbled up from a riverbed. Teenager that I was, I tried my best to focus on them to avoid openly admiring her breasts.

She whispered even more quietly, “Mrs. Bergman’s husband checks out bodice-rippers from the public library. Like the silliest, filthiest grocery-store fiction you can imagine.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I had fired back incredulously. This was shocking information. Mr. Bergman was a balding, dour-looking man who headed up our local Rotary Club. He once volunteered to read to our third grade class and put us all immediately to sleep by droning on about the construction of the St. Louis arch. Did you know that the Gateway Arch is Missouri’s tallest accessible structure? I do, thanks to the dullest man I have ever encountered.

“His latest was calledPurity’s Ecstasy,” she said with a smile, biting her full bottom lip.

“What does that even mean?” I shot back.

“The main character’s name is Purity. There are pirates. And, I would imagine, ecstasy.”

“None of this is true,” I hissed.

“It is. I work at the library.”

“Isn’t his borrowing history private? Like HIPAA, but with books?”

“Probably.” She shrugged.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can’t calculate rates of change without wondering which of them plays Purity and which plays the pirate. I needed someone to share my suffering.” She’d given me one more playful smile, then turned back to her work. The whole interaction had lasted maybe thirty seconds, but major damage had been done. I’d had a burning crush on her ever since (would she letmeplay the pirate?) and spent the rest of my senior year desperate to ask her out but too terrified to make a move.

I came close only once. Steven O’Connor, who I barely knew, invited the whole graduating class to a party at his house in the country. He’d set up some speakers outside and turned his patio and the surrounding woods into a kind of impromptu club. The Girl and I had just danced, nothing more, but she had moved her hips against me in a way that still drives me wild to this day. But I must have done something to offend her, because she slipped away from me at the party and has ghosted me ever since.

Lying on my crappy futon in Paul’s spare room, I give in to the memory of that night for a moment, recalling the feeling of her hands on my shoulders, her breasts brushing against my chest, that mischievous little smile playing on her lips. Then I force myself back into reality.

“What happened to you last night?” Paul asks, impossibly chipper as he pours me a cup of coffee in the kitchen. “I got those girls’ numbers for you,” he continues. “That Alyssa seemed like a good time. Sorry you got stuck with the sad-sack friend.”

“If she’s a sad sack, what does that make me?”

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