Page 44 of Promise Me Nothing
The place is packed, but our group of seven managed to find a four-top table and a bunch of chairs. So now, we’re squished together, chatting about work and life and more work.
Well,theyare talking about those things. I’m sitting here mute, uncomfortable, as usual.
When I was invited out, I tried to remind myself that I need to make friends. That getting to know people is important. But I always forget how much work is involved in something like that. How exhausted I feel afterwards.
I think back to my conversation with Wyatt. It didn’t feel exhausting talking tohim, I remind myself. Then I roll my eyes and try to focus on something else. Instead of the gorgeous, somewhat broody man that seems to infiltrate my every latent thought.
As my eyes wander around the bar, I see a booth in the corner that looks big enough to seat a large group.
“Hey, why don’t we go sit over there. We’ll have more room,” I say.
Everyone laughs.
I look around confused, wondering if I missed a joke that was told right before I spoke.
“That table’s reserved,” Loren says, sipping from a pale ale gripped in his right hand, disdain dripping from his voice.
I glance back at the table, not seeing a sign or anything.
“It’s for the owner’s daughter and her friends.” That was Denise. She’s worked at Bennie’s since it opened seven years ago, a fact she has reminded me of at least a handful of times. When I take a look at her, I catch her glaring at the booth like it did her wrong in a past life.
Or maybe this one.
“I keep forgetting you’re not from here. Most of us grew up here or in one of the neighboring cities,” Eleanor says, looking up briefly from the phone she’s constantly glued to. Then she looks at Denise. “You should tell her about them.”
I look between all of the people I’m sitting with. “Who arethem?”
Denise laughs. “Well, it looks like this might be perfect timing. They’re coming right now.”
I turn to look over my shoulder and like something out of a movie, I see a group of people about our age walking across the floor and heading towards the booth.
Growing up, you learn pretty quickly that people like to associate with what’s familiar. It’s why people typically don’t date outside of their attractiveness level, and aren’t usually friends with people from different backgrounds or socio-economic statuses. It’s the reason people so easily flock in gender or ethnic groups. Familiarity and similarity is the most comfortable place to be, because it is a reflection of yourself.
So it makes sense that the group of people that walk through the door all look like they stepped out of a magazine. Tall, fit, attractive. They ooze wealth and confidence.
They’re not the type of people to ever wonder if they belong somewhere. They’re the type of people who believe that somewhere doesn’t exist if they aren’t there.
“You’ll learn pretty quickly that the Hermosa elite have some sort of exclusive section everywhere in town. Here, it’s that booth. At The Wave, it’s an entire VIP section. At Bennie’s, they have their own table on the rooftop.” Denise pounds her drink. “They’re sofuckingannoying.”
The noise from the bar is loud, but it fades slightly as I watch them. The ‘elite’ of Hermosa Beach. A tray of drinks is brought out but I didn’t see them order. They laugh and cheers and get out their phones to take pictures.
“Which one is the owner’s daughter?” I ask, just trying to make conversation.
“She’s not here,” Loren says. “She’s so hot. I’d love to show her what a real man is like instead of those pansy rich boys she’s always hanging out with.”
I hold back my disgusted face, but barely. I don’t like men who assume women can be manipulated with sex. Like getting fucked by someone strong enough orman enoughwill make them think differently.
I’ve always wished I was brave enough to confront pigs like Loren. They feel entitled to women’s bodies, assuming that because they find someone attractive, they should be able to control that person in some way. And when that woman doesn’t respond theright way,they’re a bitch or a cunt or a whore or any other number or names I’ve been called throughout my life.
But I’ve never been willing to stand up for what’s right. Hold them to task. Tell them what I really think.
That goes with anything, really. Sexist men, abusive foster families, the mean girls in high school. I don’t know how to speak up. When you live in a place where no one listens to you, enough time goes by and you start to believe your voice doesn’t exist anymore.
Maybe someday I’ll learn to speak up. But today isn’t that day.
Instead, I look back at the table of ‘rich bitches’ and take a sip of my vodka soda, and listen to the people I’m sitting with gossip about them.
I learn something about each person sitting at that table. How the brunette, Rebecka Jane, is an ‘influencer’ – a term Denise uses with air quotes and another roll of her eyes – and doesn’t have a real job. How the Asian girl, Ji-Eun, comes from old money in South Korea. How the blond guy, Aaron Singer, likes to make actual notches in his bedpost after sleeping with tourists.
