Page 1 of Never Ever Getting Back Together

ONEMaya

The guy next to me at the bar is grinning at me intimately, as though he knows all my secrets but likes me anyway. It’s a little unsettling, mostly because I’m damn sure I’ve never seen him before in my life, and I’m good with faces. Itisthe sort of grin that’d instantly win over anyone with the ability to trust a man with a charismatic smile, though. I’ll give him that.

It’s a pity I’m not one of those people.

But as it happens, I want something from him, so I shamelessly mirror his silken smile, and wait. “I’m trying to figure something out,” he says as an icebreaker after a few seconds, raising his voice over the music. It’s a bass-heavy remix of a pop song, played about a dozen decibels too loud.

“What might that be?” I glance at the bartender as I speak, but he’s just started serving someone else. We’re gonna be here awhile.

Good.

“Why is it, do you think, that someone decided all the best-tasting cocktails on a menu were girl-drinks? What even makes a drink a girl-drink or a guy-drink? It’s adrink.”

When movies and TV shows told me to brace myself for guys to ask me a flirty question at the bar, this wasn’t exactly whatI expected. Although, that might be because those bars are usually at an exclusive club or obscenely expensive restaurant. Maybe when you’re standing at a bar inside a quirky bowling alley where the balls are neon, the tables are decorated with newspaper clippings of various dogs, and the signature drink is served in a soup bowl, you have to expect things to veer off the beaten track. Pickup lines and all.

“Sexism, I guess?” I say with a shrug.

“Well, yeah, that’s a given. But you know it wasn’t a girl who made that rule, so, why’d guys screw ourselves over like this? Guys can drink coffee without weird looks, but I bet youanythingthat if I brought an espresso martini back to my table I’d get endless shit from my friends.Endless,” he repeats emphatically, slamming his fist on the bar. The bartender shoots him an annoyed glance, and he removes his hand abruptly.

A group of guys being dicks to one another about stupid shit is not exactly surprising. But I am alittlelost as to why he’s randomly decided to share this fact with me. “Who cares if you do? Is your masculinity that fragile?”

There’s that dazzling grin again. “I know how bad this is gonna make me sound, but, yes. It is, unfortunately, and I’m working on that, but today isn’t that day.”

And, finally, it clicks. “Well, as it happens, I’m here with a whole table of girls who would be delighted for you to join them to drink an espresso martini in peace. No judgment included.”

“Nowthat,” the guy says, “is an interesting proposition.”

He says it like I’ve come up with some sort of genius idea out of the blue, and hetotally, definitelydidn’t bring this up to try to steer us toward him buying me a drink. Seems like a shit-ton of trouble to go to when I would’ve said yes if he’djust, you know, asked me if I wanted a drink, but here we are. Talk about taking the scenic route. “Okay, how about this,” he goes on. “I get an espresso martini, and whatever you’d like to drink as a thank-you for your kind offer, then you introduce me to your table of nonjudgmental friends?”

I pretend to think about it while the bartender wraps up serving the other customer. Then, finally, I nod. “Sure, I’m down. Make it an espresso martini and a pink passion crush. Thanks.”

Shortly after, both drinks in hand, the guy (who introduces himself as Andre) follows me back to my table. “Here, you can take yours now, if you want,” he offers.

“Oh, it’s not my drink,” I say.

He slows his step as he steers around tables full of bowlers sipping pink liquid from soup bowls. “Who’d I just buy a drink for, then?”

“You,” I say, “just bought my sister a drink for her twentieth birthday. Very chivalrous of you. We’re at that table over there.”

We reach my sister, Rosie’s, table—well, specifically, it’s two tables pushed together to fit all nine of us—and Rosie gives me a look of impressed approval.Piece of cake,I mouth.

She’s the one who spotted Andre sitting with his own friends a few lanes over from us while we were bowling. She was very dramatic about it, too, declaring to everyone within earshot that she’d commit a federal crime to get his number. After we’d finished our game, we’d come to the dining area for therealdraw of the alley for Rosie—Instagrammable mocktails and flower-covered walls set up specifically for photo opportunities—and Andre and his friends had done the same, only they’d sat on the other side of the area.

So, obviously, when we noticed Andre head to the bar alone, the table decided someone needed to wing-woman, and, also obviously, I had to volunteer. I’m pretty sure it might be illegal in some states to refuse your sister a favor on her birthday. Or maybe that’s a Mafia thing. Anyway, I figured as long as he was single and into girls, I’d surely be able to convince him to wish my beautiful, single sister a happy birthday. Mission accomplished. Sort of.

“Rosie.” I slide into my seat beside her. “This is Andre. He bought you a birthday drink.”

“That isso nice,thank you,” Rosie says as the other girls at the table give him innocent, pleasant smiles of their own, like we totally didn’t plan this.

My best friend, Olivia, beckons for him to sit. “Well, she can’t drink alone on her birthday, can she?”

Andre looks between Rosie and me, before grabbing a chair from an empty table nearby and setting up next to Rosie. If he’s surprised about sitting with Rosie instead of me, he definitely doesn’t seem upset about it. And so he shouldn’t be. As far as I’m concerned, he’s won the lottery with Rosie.

“How do youdothat?” Olivia asks quietly. “I could never.”

I shrug. “I dunno. Can’t be my stunning good looks, because you’ve got those in spades.”

“True.”

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