Page 79 of Rachel Weiss's Group Chat
“… and that’s why I don’t understand all the hubbub about next year’s election,” he was saying, gesturing to the bartender for another martini. “If everyone just focused on their own careers and investments, we’d all be fine, no matter who sits in the White House. And anyway, it’s not like they take our votes seriously. That’s why I don’t even bother.”
At that moment, the bartender plunked down Connor’s fresh drink, and I met his eyes with a look of horror. He was your typical Seattle lumberjack bartender, and he gave me a look of pity, then walked away with a sad shake of his head.
“Excuse me,” I said sweetly to Connor. “Did I hear you correctly? You don’t vote?”
“Of course not. I’m a busy man.” He twirled his martini glass, not even looking at me, in love with the sound of his own voice. “Politics is a rigged game. There’s no point trying to participate in it. Voting is an empty concept, Rachel. Like feminism.”
A tequila shot landed in front of me. I looked up to see the bartender backing away, narrowing his eyes pointedly from me to Connor. I felt, suddenly, like we were on a secret missiontogether—to destroy the small, pompous man beside me. I downed the tequila shot, smacked my lips, and turned, slowly and dangerously, toward Connor.
Five minutes later I was out on the sidewalk, reapplying my lipstick in the cold night air. I had left Connor with the sound of my voice ringing in his ears—and with the bill. The bartender had blown me a kiss on my way out.
I made my way down the street toward my bus stop, swinging my hips with a sense of purpose, like a J.Lo character who’s just left a man for dead in an alleyway without breaking a sweat.
“Rachel, wait.” I swung around—I thought it might be the bartender come to sweep me off my feet (but I’m pretty sure he was gay). Alas, it was Connor, rushing after me with a strange look on his face.
“What?” I towered over him in my heels, my arms crossed.
“You—” He broke off, looking sort of constipated and desperate. “You’re right. I need to think outside my own worldview.”
“Oh. Okay.” I relaxed my stance. “Well, I’m glad you—”
He cut me off, reaching for my hand. “You taught me something. And you looked damn good doing it.” He tugged me toward him and, before I knew what was happening, his tongue was in my mouth.
“Annngh!” I tried to scream, but it’s surprisingly difficult when your Tinder date is jamming his tongue down your throat. I settled on kicking and shoving until I managed to dislodge him. He shot his impish grin at me. I smacked his face with my clutch and straightened my jacket. “That was very rude.”
As I ran across the street to the shelter of my bus stop, he called after me, “Nice ass!”
Unfortunately, my profanity-laden reply was drowned out by the roar of the approaching bus. I took a seat by a window andpeered into the dark street for a minute to be sure Connor wasn’t following me. And then I deleted Tinder.
On autopilot, my thumb flicked through my phone—no messages—and opened Instagram. Without consciously deciding to do so, I found myself staring at Christopher Butkus’s profile. His smile made him look warm and somehow comforting. Or was I projecting that, based on conversations we’d had? I couldn’t bear to think about the last time we’d talked, and so my mind settled on the memory of the sustainability dinner. His flushed face as he explained the name Pageant. His gentle ribbing. The photo he had taken of me—I wanted to be that Rachel. The sparkly-eyed, mischievous one.
Oh God, what was I doing? How pathetic was I, fantasizing about some guy I didn’t even like? It was just a bad-date hangover. It was the way Christopher compared favorably to Connor. I knew with inexplicable certainty that Christopher would never shove his tongue down my throat like that. And Christopher Butkus absolutely, definitely voted.
The world was crashing down around my ears. I was estranged from my best friend. I’d been sexually accosted by a Lilliputian libertarian. And now? Now the internet was blowing up with the news that Jeremy Coltrain, our collectiveBachelorsoulmate, had been accused of sexual misconduct.
Once I’d recovered from the shock of seeing the headlines, I skimmed a few of the articles. A former coworker of Jeremy’s had come forward, inspired by the #MeToo movement, to denounce the way Jeremy had treated her in the office. He had wolf-whistled at her more than once and called her “hotcakes.” Thenan anonymous PA from ABC had added her own story: she too had been called “hotcakes” by our beloved Jeremy. And, worse, he had grabbed her rear end.
Her rear end!Grabbed it.
I’d seen enough. I closed my laptop and put my phone on airplane mode, then sank back on my bed, where I stayed for fourteen hours. I only got up the next afternoon because it was time to start preparing for Jane’s bachelorette party.
I’d rallied for parties before—when I was hungover, heartbroken, or just crazy busy. But pulling myself out of my current state to the heights required for my dear sister’s bachelorette party felt like an impossible task. But it was one I’d have to achieve. I couldn’t let Jane down.
CHAPTER 24
THE EVENING STARTED OFFwith a bang. Literally, unfortunately.
I was all dolled up in a tiny black dress, velvet block heels, and red lipstick. I had a giant novelty balloon in the shape of a diamond ring, a bride-to-be sash, and a bag full of penis necklaces. I was ready.
I entered the karaoke bar with my arms full of bachelorette paraphernalia, and before I could wrestle the balloon through the door, the door slammed on it and it popped so loudly that half the bar patrons dived under their tables, thinking it was a gunshot.
So I did a curtsy, holding my now flaccid balloon, and then I sort of shimmied and said, “Who’s ready for a bachelorette party?” but none of our group was there yet, so everyone just stared at me. A few people actually got up and left.
Ego bruised, I skulked to a table in the corner and checked my phone. Eva’s Uber was almost here. Amy had declined with the (in my opinion, feeble) excuse that it was her mother-in-law’s birthday. I decided to throw the popped balloon in the trash before Jane could see it, in case it was bad luck or something. (Deflatednovelty balloon at the bachelorette party was surely up there with the groom seeing the wedding dress, right?)
Jane and Kailey arrived, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the bar. Kailey’s belly stuck out like she was smuggling a pumpkin, and Jane—well, Jane was Jane. She looked extra bridal: she wore a flowy white dress with long sleeves and a slit up the side and her hair slicked back in a ponytail. Her skin was glowing almost as bright as the rock on her finger. A few of her work friends trooped in after them. A lot of squealing ensued as we all greeted each other, and I draped the bride-to-be sash over Jane’s shoulder.
An hour later, the only ones to sing anything had been me, Eva, and one of Jane’s coworkers, who had a spectacular voice. (Those people had no place in a karaoke bar; it was just disrespectful.) I was getting nervous that the party was a dud. Jane had been sipping her single vodka cranberry the whole time, and Kailey was being a pathetic pregnant sourpuss. She refused to wear a penis necklace. Jane laughed it off, but I could tell she was hurt. Her own best friend, not willing to wear phallic jewelry for her. She wasn’t fooling anyone—we all knew she was extremely familiar with the penis, in theory and in practice: just look at her giant belly.
