Page 29 of Rachel Weiss's Group Chat
CHAPTER 8
THE NEXT WEEKEND, AMYand I were at Eva’s apartment, getting ready to go out. Eva had decided her birthday was the perfect time to take us up on our offer to be her wingwomen.
“I’ve swiped through so many people on Tinder that it’s now showing me Portland lesbians.” She dusted bronzer onto her cheekbones.
“Portland? Boo, hiss.”
“I know, right?”
“Aw, I love getting dressed up together!” Amy wrapped a lock of hair around a curling iron. The room filled with the smell of sizzling hairspray. “These days I spend every weekend in sweats watching Netflix on my iPad. This is like old times.”
I grunted in agreement as I struggled into my Spanx. “How did we do this every weekend in college? I feel like a bewigged, lipsticked baboon.”
Eva glanced over her shoulder at me. “Your curlsaredoing the most tonight. Is it humid or something?”
I gave her a look. She’d just had her hair done, and her fresh bala-yage combined with the bronzer made her look like she’d just stepped off a tropical island. I was truly blessed with gorgeous friends.
“By the way, why couldn’t Sumira make it?” I asked.
“She just said she was busy.”
“Hmm.” I perched against Eva’s bed, troubled by a sudden thought. “Do you guys think everything’s okay with her? Has she been kind of distant lately?”
“I figured she was living her glamorous life.” Amy fluffed the roots of her hair.
“You don’t think she’s…” I paused. I didn’t even want to say the words. “Drifting apart? Outgrowing the group chat?”
“No way!” Eva cried. “Impossible.”
“I think we need some shots.” Amy bustled off to the kitchen and returned with three shot glasses full of tequila and a fistful of lime wedges. We clinked. “To Eva! Happy birthday!”
“I can’t believe my girl’s turning thirty!” I whooped and we tossed the tequila back.
“Capitol Hill, here we come, baby!”
Here is the thing about going out at the advanced age of twenty-nine and, in Eva’s case, thirty. You’re so confident and mature that nothing can faze you. The awkward little things that once would have killed your vibe (such as the bartender pretending not to see you, or having to pick your Spanx wedgie five times an hour) just roll off your back; with a hardened shield of age and wisdom, you become unstoppable.
The ladies of the Wildrose had no chance. It was over when we walked in. They’ve got all sorts there, and by all sorts I mean lesbians in flannel, butch lesbians, and butch lesbians in flannel. So naturally, when the three of us walked in wearing short skirts and lipstick, we had them right where we wanted them.
To be truthful, Amy seemed a bit disappointed that there were so few men for her to flirt with. Although I thought it was rather clever: since she was so eager to flirt but less eager, I assumed,to commit adultery, why not flirt with women? That way there would be much less risk of an oopsie, as Amy was staunchly heterosexual.
We approached the bar and, indeed, were pointedly ignored by the bartender—buzz cut with neck tattoo—who carried on her conversation with a voluptuous drag queen for a good five minutes before addressing us. I assumed this was our punishment for not adhering to the dress code.
Vodka sodas in hand, we ventured to the perimeter of the dance floor. A charming sort of industrial screech rock was playing, the musical assault captained by a petite blond DJ wearing grandfatherly wire-rimmed spectacles.
“She’s cute,” I yelled in Eva’s ear, pointing to the DJ.
Eva smiled vaguely, scoping out the room. “Not really my type.”
“What is your type?”
“Oh, you know.”
I did not. Amy and I shared a wry look. Eva had dated across the spectrum of womankind: the armpit-bush farmers market hippie; the skateboarding dog walker who’d turned out to have a cocaine problem; the corporate, stiletto-wearing Barbie; the Polynesian opera singer three times Eva’s size; and many in between.
“What about her?” Amy nodded toward one of the flannel-wearers. Eva shrugged and sipped her drink.
“First things first.” I downed my drink and approached the DJ. I wiggled in front of her, trying to get her attention. Wiggled, smiled, wiggled, pouted. When it was clear she was not going to acknowledge me, I leaned over her table.
