Page 9 of The Yes Factor

Back when Liv and I lived in Atlanta, we hardly ever had a night alone. The amount of calls that came in to our answering machine nearly wore it out. We always ran out of tape (it was a long time ago). We gave out our number like evangelists give out bibles. Except we weren’t saving souls…we were saving money! I don’t think we bought a drink in four years.

We’d go out almost every night of the week, which always began with the same ritual: 7:30 p.m.—turn on the shower and turn up the music. One of us would bathe while the other put together outfits. The bathroom would become a fog of steam, perfume, and hairspray as we perfected our looks. 9:00 p.m.—out the door with two drinks under our belt and on a mission for trouble.

As I head to the airport in my best jeans and a skimpier than I’d like tank top, I wonder what it’ll be like going out with Liv now. Things have really changed since those carefree Atlanta nights. I feel older, but none the wiser.

LAX traffic is as anticipated, slow as molasses, and inching forward to the terminal I see Liv waiting for me curbside with her bulky suitcase. She must have packed her entire closet. But she’s wearing the same fitted leather jacket that she’s worn for ages—which is still fashionable. That makes me smile, and I realize then that nothing has really changed at all. Any worries I had about her visit instantly vanish and I’m overcome with giddy excitement.

As I pull up to the curbside, I roll the windows down and turn up the first song on the playlist I made for “Liv and Bex Take LA,” and sing along at the top of my lungs. “Get outta my dreams and into my car!”

“Hi!” Liv squeals and does a little jump up and down. She heaves her suitcase into the back seat then jumps in the front seat beside me yelling, “Shotgun!”

We throw our arms around each other and I inhale her familiar perfume. It’s hard to believe we’re in the car together after so many years and miles apart. When we were little, Liv and I would always run out to my mom’s car, racing to get the front seat. We could have easily ridden our bikes to the country club pool, but Liv liked riding in my mom’s Mercedes. Liv came from a one-car family, and that one car was a total beater, so she loved riding in our convertible any chance she could. We’d always yell “Shotgun” at the same time, but Mom would say, in that slow southern drawl of hers, “Honey, let Livy ride up front.”

And now, with Liv up front beside me, I know this week will be fabulous and just what I need.

“So,” Liv cuts into my reverie and says in an authoritative tone, “first drinks, then some food, then we review your updated profiles.”

Stop the train. Did I say fabulous? I take that back.

“What profiles?” I am suddenly afraid. Very afraid.

“Your dating profiles! Duh.” She looks down at her perfect manicure, which means she’s not looking at me. “I may have gone into your accounts and rewritten a few things.”

I shoot her a sideways glare.

“Well, Sprinkles2407 worked! God, I loved that cat. He was so fluffy.”

I make a mental note to change my password stat. My first cat’s name and old Tennessee address obviously aren’t foolproof.

We’re at a stoplight and I take full advantage, giving her an eight second death stare. “Liv, really? That’s a bit much. My profiles were just fine, thank you.”

“Your profiles were not ‘fine,’” she says, making air quotes. “They were terrible. Your photos didn’t even look like you. That one of you at Disneyland in front of the tea cups?” She gives me a questioning look.

“What? I was trying to look adventurous and fun!”

“Adventurous and fun? More like wind-blown and cross-eyed, with mustard on your shirt.”

“I had a corn dog that day. Sue me.”

“Bex, it’s time to move on from corn dogs and tap into your horn dog. Which is why you need my help. I found some much better pics from your Facebook account. I also rewrote your bio.”

All I can do is shake my head and smile in resignation. This is so Liv—revamping my life in the first fifteen minutes of hitting the ground. You’d never know she just got off a twelve-hour flight. Sensing my unease, she forges on in a tone that means business. “Okay, I can tell you’re not thrilled, but I’m here for seven days and I’m not going to leave any stone—or app—unturned.”

I look over at my best friend who’s flown all the way from London to be my wingwoman. She may be bossy, but I’ll always jump into the deep end with her.

* * *

I hadn’t been out for happy hour in what felt like ages and after a quick Yelp search, The Vacancy appeared on the list as a highly rated hot spot. I’d been there years ago and remember it being fun so thought it was worth a revisit. With food trucks out front on Friday nights, it’s a bit of a dive bar in a very refreshing, not Hollywood way. Plus, apparently they have a great happy hour. And Liv and I love our happy hours.

Once inside the dark and moody space we climb onto the maroon faux leather bar stools, hang our purses on the hooks underneath the bar, then put our heads together as we browse the specialty cocktail menu. It’s a well-coordinated exercise that we do in perfect unison, even after a long time away from each other. We’re like the synchronized swimmers of happy hours.

“What can I get you two?” asks a smooth voice from across the bar. We both look up to see an attractive forty-something man with a mop of dark hair, coco-brown eyes and a perfectly chiseled jawline. He’s wearing a button-down denim shirt that fits snuggly over his muscular chest and arms. I immediately give a quick glance to Liv with a hint of a smile.

Placing thick cardboard coasters in front of us, he continues. “Happy hour’s on until eight. All house wine and beer on tap are five dollars, well drinks are six. And everything on the specialty menu is two for one.”

“I love a twofer! Twofer!” I laugh too loudly while the bartender stands there waiting patiently for our orders. I catch myself awkwardly then turn to Liv. “What are you having, Liv?”

“Gin and Tonic with lime, please,” she says decisively.

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