LoveLines (5 page)

“I will.” He jabbed a thumb behind him. “I better go. I’ve taken up way too much of your time.”

Her heart sank the tiniest bit.

“It’s no problem,” Bailey replied.

“Thanks for the spelling suggestion,” Reece said, and then he paused. “I’ll see you around, Bailey.”

“
Bye, Reece.”

***

“I think I may have a mild crush on someone in my office,” I confessed to Erica as we climbed into the back of the cab. “And I’ve only had one conversation with him. How ridiculous am I?”

We were on our way down
town, ready to pretend we were college students for the night. Our girls’ beach trip was the only time we ventured downtown to the dance clubs. All other times we’d go for dinner or to check out the antique stores.

This was our fifth annual trip. We started the year before Erica had Little Noah, and we headed to Miami for that one.
I won’t reveal the details of that trip because half of it I can’t remember, and the other half is way too embarrassing. Once the kids came, we stayed close to home. We still booked a room on the beach to feel like we were getting away, but I couldn’t pretend my house wasn’t fifteen minutes from the water. Erica promised that when her children got a little older, we’d stop girls’ tripping it in Wilmington.

“Oh, really?” she asked, fixing her garish gold earring.

“Well, he’s cute. And personable,” I said. “His name’s Reece.”

“Like the candy?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I said that, too.”

“To him?” she asked, laughing, then muttered, “Sounds like something you’d do.”

“Hey now!”

Erica patted my knee. “You know you can’t date your coworker.”

“I know.”

“You
can
, however, date one of the many cute college boys we’re about to meet,” she said.

I grunted. “I’ve no desire to date
a man ten years younger than I am.”

“Okay. Let me rephrase that: You can sleep with one of the many cute college boys we’re about to meet.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re ten years younger than I am,” I explained. I twisted a strand of hair around my finger and looked out the window.

“We’re just talking sex here, Bailey. We’re not talking about commitment. I know 21-year-old men are stupid. But they can make fun boy
toys.”

“Gross. Will you just stop?” I glanced at the cab driver who
ignored us.

“How long has it been?” Erica asked softly.

“What?”

“You know . . .” She gave me that look. The raised brows. The pity. The fearful anticipation of a really embarrassing answer.

“I’m not telling you. I don’t need your judgment,” I said.

“Judgment? When have I ever judged you?
I fed my kids fish sticks four times this week, okay? No judgment.”

I cracked a smile.

“Go on,” Erica encouraged.

“Aside fr
om that random dude we met three months ago at The Blue Post, there hasn’t been anyone.” I watched Erica’s face carefully. She sat back in her seat and exhaled a long, judgment-filled sigh.

“You
’ve had sex once in the last six months?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Once.”

“Once,” I repeated.

“One time. One time in half a year?”

“Yes, Erica.”

“Okay, honey? That’s what married people do who don’t like each other.”

I ignored her
, catching sight of Kenan Memorial fountain as we traveled down Market Street. Someone poured dish liquid in it, creating sudsy water that bubbled and glopped over the edges. “No respect,” I whispered, then giggled.

“I have mad respect for you,” Erica countered.

“I’m talking about the fountain,” I said, pointing behind us.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Erica shrugged. “Bailey, you need to get laid.”

“Among a lot of other things,” I added.

“We’re
gonna find you a guy tonight,” Erica said.

“Erica, I’m not interested in a one-night stand, okay? I’m thirty-one. I want a relationship. Hello? I’m a 31-year-old single woman who owns her own house. Do I come off as the kind of person who wants meaningless sex?”

Erica blinked. “You need a few drinks. Then we’ll revisit this topic.”

“Good grief,” I mumbled.

We tipped the taxi driver and hopped out of the van in front of The Reel Café—our favorite dance club in Wilmington. I had to be careful not to flash anyone with the too-short dress Erica insisted I wear. She really didn’t have to convince me. I’d been working my ass off for months for this trip and was ready to show some skin. But I admit I felt the slightest bit trashy next to Erica, whose dress was much more subdued.

“I’m a mom,” she said to me when I pointed it out in our hotel room. “There are certain things I just can’t get away with anymore.”

“Really? Because I’m not buying it.”

“I’m serious.”

“You were wearing a micro bikini on the beach today,” I said.

We laughed.

“Was not! It only looked ‘micro’ because of this gut,” she said, rubbing her hands on her belly.

“You’re so full of shit, Erica. You know your body is
rockin’,” I said. “So now tell me again: Why aren’t you wearing a teeny dress like mine?”

Erica hesitated, her brush frozen halfway down the length of her
golden hair.

She sighed. “I want tonight to be all about you.”

I said nothing, then burst into a fit of giggles.

“What?” Erica asked indignantly.

“I appreciate you not wanting to upstage me,” I wheezed. “I mean, we both know you’re the pretty one.”

“Shut up! That
’s not what I meant!” she cried, giggling.

I laughed harder, then said dramatically,
“Thank you, Erica, for giving me a chance tonight.”

I repeated the statement to her now as we walked up the stairs to the rooftop bar. I could feel the thumping and pulsing of the music before we even got to the third landing.

“Oh, hush up with that, already!” she said. “Now listen up.” She stopped short and turned to me. “I’m twenty-one and a business major. You?”

“Umm
. How about a history major?” I replied.

“That’s boring,” Erica said. “And what do you know about history, anyway?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“It might.”

I looked at Erica evenly. “I don’t think I’m gonna run into someone here who’s interested in having an in-depth conversation with me about Benedict Arnold.”

“Whatever. I don’t even know who that is,” Erica said. “Be a marine biology major,” she suggested.
“That’s so nature zen.”

“What? I don’t know anything about marine life,” I replied.

“Oooo! Be a film major,” Erica said. “That’s glamorous.”

“Um, no. I don’t know anything about that either.”

“Then what do you know?”

“I know that Benedict Arnold was a famous traitor during the Revol
utionary War,” I said.

“You’re, like, the
nerdiest cute girl I’ve ever met,” Erica replied. “Fine. Be a history major. But they’re gonna think you’re boring in bed.”

I laughed as we squeezed our way
across the deck to the bar. I ordered the first round: two vodka tonics. Yes, it was feeling like a vodka night. I needed to loosen up.

Didn’
t take long. After three drinks, I was ready to show my stuff on the dance floor. The crowded dance floor. Labor Day weekend in Wilmington is a hot, congested mess. Doesn’t matter where you go. And the rooftop bar—that had no air conditioning, mind you—was the place everyone wanted to be on Thursday night. It wasn’t even officially the holiday weekend yet, but the crowds were out in full force, milling around, occupying every square inch of that deck. People of all ages. Young college girls who dressed quite similarly to me. Single guys in their fifties hanging by the bar, unwilling to grow up. Thirty-somethings still young enough to get away with it.

I grabbed Erica’s hand and headed for center stage when I heard The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Mo Money, Mo Problems” come on. Good beat. Good memories. Transported me right back to
freshman year in college.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t completely flattered when three girls grabbed their boyfriends and hauled them off the dance floor shortly after I made my way onto it. I guess they didn’t like my suggestive moves. Or maybe they thought I ha
d plans to move in on their men. Whatever. I just like to dance. And I’m really good at it. And Erica was all about directing traffic my way to allow me the opportunity to share my dancing skills with others.

Some of the men were cute. Some were funny. All were way too young for me. None seemed to measure up to Erica’s standards. She kept switching them out like socks—trying them on me and deciding she didn’t like the style or color or length. But someone eventually caught her eye.

For the record, I’m not good with sensing if someone is looking at me. Erica, on the other hand, is a master at it. She tapped my shoulder and leaned into my face, spittle flying from her mouth onto my cheeks and lips as she screamed at me.

“There’s a really hot guy staring you down!”

“Say it! Don’t spray it!” I replied.

“
Ain’t nobody gonna do you if you say dumb shit like that,” Erica replied. “This isn’t middle school circa ’94.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever. Now, when I say, spin around and take a look. Keep dancing, though. We don’t want it to be obvious.”

I nodded and awaited Erica’s cue.

“Now!”

I spun around then remembered that Erica gave me absolutely no details.

“Wanna tell me who I’m supposed to be looking at?” I asked when I faced her again.

She giggled. “Duh. Sorry ‘bout that. He’s the guy sitting at the end of the bar with
the pink shirt on.”

“Pink shirt
?” I asked doubtfully.

“Like a pale pink. It’s a collar shirt. Cute. Preppy,” she explained.

“I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t look metro if that’s what you’re afraid of. He’s scruffy wrapped in Brooks Brothers.”

That sounded more enticing.

“
What else is he wearing?” I asked.

“A killer smile.” She flashed her own. “Check it.”

“Oh, you clever thing, you,” I said, but Erica didn’t hear me. She was too busy holding up her vodka and screaming at the top of her lungs to the opening notes of Ke$sha’s “Crazy Kids.”

“I love this song!” she yelled.

I couldn’t help being swept up in her I-wish-I-were-a-teenager-again mania and screamed with her. We bounced all around the uneven deck, fresh sweat pouring down our temples, slinky dresses plastered to our bodies, vodka flying out of our cups. I rolled my hips in the direction of my mystery man—put on quite the show, actually. I think vodka makes me hyper sexual. Someone could have mistaken me for a pole dancer. Well, minus the pole.

I’d yet to
see his face, but Erica positioned me for his prime ass-shaking view. She glanced over my shoulder and laughed, telling me his tongue was hanging out of his mouth.

“Yeah, right!” I cried, and whipped around to see him.

I froze. I didn’t even jump when Erica popped my ass. I just stared. Embarrassed.

The smile crept slowly over Reece’s
face. He lifted his hand and rubbed his stubbled jaw, trying to hide the grin. But then he changed his mind and lifted the same hand to me in a small wave. I couldn’t,
couldn’t
face him at work next week.

I whirled around and flashed Erica a horrified look.

“What?” she asked. “There’s no way you think he’s ugly.”

I shook my head.

“Then what the hell is it?” she asked. “And why aren’t you going over there to talk to him?”

“My co-coworker!” I choked out.

Erica’s smile could have replaced all the lights downtown.

“We have to go,” I said quickly.

“Are you crazy? Go talk to him!”

“You told me I couldn’t date my coworker, remember?”

“That’s before I saw him,” Erica said. She peeked her head over my shoulder and waved.

“Don’t do that!” I cried.

I grabbed Erica’s hand and hauled her to the exit.

“I feel like such a moron!” I moaned as we hurried down the stairs.

“You oughta feel sexy as hell, because that’s what you are,” Erica replied. “You realize you made his night? His
year
, maybe?”

“No. I just made myself look lik
e a hooker,” I replied.