A State of Jane (16 page)

“Antoine.”

Scanning Lainie's virtual black book, my memory drew a blank. “Who?”

Lainie put her hands on her hips and looked at me like I was a clueless intern at work. “The record producer? The only guy I've been out with in over a month. Remember?”

So
that
was the guy I'd seen going in and out of Lainie's bedroom the past couple of weeks. I never imagined it was all the same guy. Giggling, I said, “Well-traveled tongue guy, right? I understand why you'd keep him around.”

Shaking her head at me, Lainie said, “That's not the only reason I keep him around.”

Still laughing, I said, “Well hung too?”

Lainie let a small smile escape. “Yes, that too. But, the truth is, I just like him.” Her face turning red, she said, “I think he's a keeper.”

I just stared at Lainie with my mouth open. In the two years I had lived with her I could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of guys she hung out with more than twice. And she always referred to those guys as “fuck buddies.”

“Maybe you should study for the LSAT. Isn't the exam coming up?”

Waving my hand at her, I said, “First things first. A keeper? What happened to playing the field?”

Lainie shrugged. “Been there. Done that. Besides, I recall being told the only reason to play the field is to find the right guy.” Lainie turned away from me and removed her coat from the hall closet. After putting it on, she turned back to me and said, “Maybe Antoine is the right guy.”

Dragging my slippers along the wood floor as I walked back to my room, I mumbled, “Doubt it,” under my breath. Loud enough for Lainie to hear me, I said, “Have fun! Tell Antoine I said hi.”

After Lainie left, I lay on my bed on top of my covers and thought about what she had said about Antoine being the right guy. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Lainie was such a hypocrite.

I recalled the many times I'd sat on the edge of her bed and told her about a great date with Jim or Cory and she'd accused me of “gushing.” Suddenly Antoine was a keeper?

I climbed out of bed and ran a brush through my hair, remembering her telling me I was wasting my most attractive years dreaming about a happily-ever-after with one guy when I should be exercising my sex muscles on the freeway of love which was New York City while I still could – before the wrinkles and gray hairs made their appearance. Now she wanted to be in a monogamous relationship?

As I puckered my lips and applied plumping lip gloss, I remembered one time, when she was standing particularly high up on her soapbox, she actually had the nerve to say I was taking up prime real estate in Manhattan when I'd be just as happy in small-town America, barefoot and pregnant! She probably
already had a name picked out for her and Antoine's first-born child! I slipped off my pajama pants, pulled on a pair of blue jeans, and threw a deep V-neck royal blue sweater over my white lace camisole. Deciding against wearing a jacket, I walked briskly around the corner to Mad River.

It was crowded for a Sunday night, but bars were almost always packed in New York every night of the week. I saw one empty bar stool next to two twenty-something guys and, happy for the opening line, smiled and said, “Is this seat taken?” I stood up straighter hoping my chest would entice them to engage me in flirtatious banter.

The guys turned away from the television set above the bar and without so much as the “Manhattan once over,” the less attractive of the two said, “Don't think so” before turning back to the screen. Basketball. I was through pretending to like sports for a guy. Let the guy pretend to like chick flicks for me instead.

Figuring there had to be guys at the bar who would rather talk to a pretty girl than watch tall, gangly, sweaty men shoot hoops, I ordered a glass of water and swiveled my bar stool so I was facing the crowd. I quickly dismissed the pockets of girls and those boy/girl combinations that were probably on a date, until my eyes focused on a group of three guys laughing amongst themselves. One was significantly taller than the others and with his unruly brown hair, reminded me of Bob. I left my glass on the bar and headed in his direction. As he came closer into my view, I noticed his shirt and had second thoughts about approaching a guy who would be seen in public wearing a shirt emblazed with designs of foreign currency. By the time, I removed my focus away from his shirt, I realized I was busted.

His significantly better dressed friend poked him in the arm and, grinning at me, said, “Can you please tell my friend he's wearing the ugliest shirt in the bar?”

At that point, I no longer cared what he was wearing and was just appreciative of the attention. I pretended to examine his shirt to consider how tacky it was, even though I already had a strong opinion. Very tacky. “Well, I can't imagine male models will be strutting down the runway in that particular shirt anytime soon.”

Tacky Shirt Guy looked down at his shirt and back up at me with a twinkle in his dark blue eyes. “But it's a great conversation starter, ain't it? You wouldn't be talking to us otherwise!”

Whatever worked. I raised my eyebrows, nodded and said, “Yep.”

Chiming in, Significantly Better Dressed Guy said, “So, what brings you here tonight? You here with anyone?”

“Nope. Just me.” Not wanting them to think I had no friends, I said, “My roommate was supposed to come but didn't feel well and I was really thirsty.” I hoped that sounded sort of cool.

Tacky Shirt Guy glanced at my empty hand. “Where's your drink?”

“I guess I forgot to buy one!”
Hint hint.

“Can I buy one for you?”

I held his eye contact a few seconds longer than normal. “That would be nice.”

He motioned for me to follow him to the bar and we stood behind the two guys who had ignored me earlier. They were still watching basketball. I wanted them to turn around and see that I had found cooler guys to talk to, but they remained entranced by the game.

Tacky Shirt Guy maneuvered his body to face me while keeping his eyes on the bar to catch the bartender's attention. “I'm Steve, by the way.”

“I'm Jane.”

“So, Jane, do you go to bars by yourself often? Not that I'm complaining, mind you.”

“Actually, I've never done this before.” I shrugged. “Was bored at home.”

Steve looked at me doubtfully. “Sure. I bet you use that line all of the time to get free drinks.”

I felt my face get warm and defensively said, “No way!”

Steve shook his head. “Whatever you say.” But the twinkle was back in his eyes and I knew he was teasing me.

I playfully pushed him in the arm. “Whatever
you
say!”

“I say, what are you drinking?”

“Do they have cider?” I couldn't see what they had from where I was standing and watched Steve survey the beers on tap before turning back to me. “Yeah, they have Magners. Is that OK?”

It's perfect.” I flipped my hair. “Thanks again.” I couldn't wait to tell Lainie I had met three guys, one of whom bought me a drink. Although she probably wouldn't care now that she had
Antoine
.

Steve handed me my drink and I followed him back to where his friends were standing, leaning over the Touch Tunes digital jukebox.

I took a sip of my cider, totally psyched to have the attention of three cute guys. Steve smiled brightly and I decided he was seriously adorable despite his ugly shirt. I was pleased that he was the one who seemed to take the most interest in me, although the attention of three men was three times better than the attention of just one.

Steve said, “What? Was there a sale somewhere? It's about time you guys got here!”

I said, “Huh?”, confused until I realized Steve wasn't talking to me. Three girls had just walked over and he had pulled one of them into an embrace. I observed the six individuals pair off into couples of two and suddenly, it was like I was not in the room. I took another sip of cider, not sure what else to do and hoping someone would remember I was standing there.

The fingers of his free hand now laced with the fingers of a petite and pretty blonde girl, Steve gestured towards me. “Meet Jane, girls. She looked lonely all by herself so we bought her a cider.”

The girls smiled at me and said, “Hi, Jane” in unison.

One of the girls, who I thought I recognized from the gym, except her shiny black hair now cascaded down her shoulders instead of in a long, smooth ponytail, looked at me with pity, “That's so sad. You can totally hang out with us if you want!”

“Yeah, definitely,” Steve's girlfriend agreed.

I looked at the dirty bar floor, focusing on a cocktail napkin that looked like it had been stepped on repeatedly but still had not attached itself to anyone's shoe. I took another sip of cider, felt it starting to go to my head, and willed myself to look up and fake a confident smile. I nodded my head in Steve's direction. “That's OK. I'm going to call one of my friends. We planned to maybe meet later. Thanks for the drink. Nice meeting you guys.” I calmly walked back to my old spot at the bar where I planned to pretend to text a friend in case Steve and his posse were still watching
me, but the space was now occupied by a couple. The girl was sitting on the bar stool, her body angled toward her date who was standing between her legs. His back was to the two guys who were still riveted to the basketball game.

Uncertain as to my next move but not ready to end the night on a sour note, I headed toward the bathroom line to pass the time and hopefully flirt with a guy on his way out. There was one girl already waiting. I smiled and asked, “Someone in there?” just as her phone rang. She nodded to me before raising the phone to her ear and saying, “Where are you?” Then she rolled her eyes at me and mouthed, “Boyfriends!”

I gave her a sympathetic smile, although it was obvious she was not looking for pity and more likely bragging about her attached romantic status.

She was still on the phone when the bathroom became available and while she and her boyfriend probably engaged in phone sex in the women's room, at least six guys went in and out of the men's room. I smiled at each of them. When one came out and saw me still standing there, he grinned, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth and said, “You're still waiting? So glad I'm not a chick!”

He was ugly, but at least he was speaking to me. “If she doesn't come out soon, I might have to pretend to be a guy for a few minutes!” I flipped my hair and said, “Think anyone would notice?”

Scratching his bald spot, he laughed and said, “We'd notice. But we probably wouldn't mind.”

“I'd mind though. He's taken,” said the girl who suddenly appeared by his side. Her mouse-like black eyes darted up and up down the length of my body, she kissed him on the cheek, and said, “C'mon, honey” before dragging him away with her chubby hands.

I left the bar without peeing. I didn't have to go that bad anyway.

C
HAPTER
29

I wished I hadn't gone out. I'd been hoping for some harmless male attention to boost my ego and instead had been reminded that virtually every other female in my age range was part of a couple while I stood alone in a bar packed with people, feeling invisible and unlovable. I had two voicemails, so apparently two people cared I was alive.
Unless both calls were from the same person. Or wrong numbers.

Alone in the apartment, I sat on my bed and dialed into voicemail, feeling tears building behind my eyes and hoping for some good news. The first message was from Bob asking me to call him back as soon as I got the message. I listened to the second message. It was my mom asking if I'd heard the news about Bob and Trish. What news about Bob and Trish?

I felt the color drain from my face, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and knew exactly to what “news” my mom was referring. I was glad I only had one drink at the bar because otherwise I might have thrown up. I felt like someone had punched me hard right in the belly even though Bob's good news technically had nothing to do with me. Instead of being happy for Bob, all I could think about was whether I'd ever get married. I'd die if they had a short engagement and I wasn't with someone by the wedding. I couldn't go to my ex-boyfriend's wedding stag!

With a pit in my stomach, I contemplated who to call first, Bob or my mom, since I knew both calls would leave me equally miserable.

It was past eleven, but I knew under the circumstances they'd both be awake. I made my choice.

“Hi Mom,” I said, faking cheeriness.

“Did you hear the news?”

“About Bob and Trish? Yes,” I said. “Well, kind of,” I mumbled.

“What do you think?”

“About what?” What thoughts was I supposed to have about my ex-boyfriend of nine years proposing to his “rebound” girl?

My mom said, “They're thinking next spring. How do you feel?”

“I'm happy for them.” I really was. Sort of. I just would have preferred they be happy for
me
first.

The remainder of the conversation consisted of me responding, “uh-huh” or “yup” whenever there was a pause in the conversation and I assumed my mom was waiting for me to say something. She might have suggested I jump in a cab and head over to Bob's place to fight Trish to the death for all I heard. I stopped listening at the phrase, “next spring” and felt pangs of nausea like I guessed some of my single friends felt senior year in high school when talk turned to the prom and they didn't know who, if anyone, would ask them. I never had those concerns. I always had a boyfriend. I always had Bob. Soon I'd receive an invitation to his wedding and worry about who to bring as my date. Maybe I'd find an excuse to decline the invitation. Or maybe I'd be practicing law pro-bono in some under-privileged country. I could defend innocent people who were wrongly accused of crimes! Or I could prosecute the men in Guyana who brutally raped women without repercussion. The assistant DA on
Law and Order: SVU
took a leave of absence to do that.

“Jane!”

Back in my room, I said, “I'm here” into the phone.

“So, your father and I will buy them something off of the registry on behalf of the family, but under the circumstances, it would be nice for you to give them a gift from just you.”