1
Nina
“Are you there yet?” Marnie mumbles. “I’m hiding in the laundry room so we won’t get interrupted, but I forgot to bring snacks. I’m hungry.”
I don’t usually talk on the phone when I’m walking around in public like the rest of New York, but I need my best friend and co-worker in my ear for moral support.
“Not yet. I’m wearing four-inch heels. I can’t walk that fast.”
“You own four-inch heels?”
“Yes. How lucky am I that I don’t have to feel bad about being taller than Russell now?”
Marnie snort laughs. “Please stop putting a positive spin on this. You just found out that your boss was bumping nasties with someone else while he was engaged to you. A little hateful swearing is in order.”
She has a strong point. Unfortunately, my parents raised me to be an optimist. They taught me to look on the bright side of life, to see and speak of the good in people, and to never swear out loud. Which is why I am grateful to my clucktard former fiancé, who is the principal of the elementary school I teach at, for being so courteous. He waited until the Saturday after the last day of the school year to come clean about falling in love with a twenty-two-year-old nanny named Sadie, whom he has secretly been boinking for the past two months. Now I have the entire summer to come to terms with this.
Or to put it another way—after being together for three years, the motherflorker cheated on me for two whole months, and now I get to spend my summer break hating him, regretting the last three years of my life, dreading the next school year, and considering the possibility of a job at another school. Thus, I would be leaving the Brooklyn neighborhood, co-workers, kids, and community that I love just to avoid seeing the butt monkey’s stupid pointy face again.
“At least now I have the luxury of getting drunk on a weekday,” I say. See—I just can’t help but put a positive spin on things. It’s a curse.
“Amen, sister.”
“Okay, I’m here. You may fetch your snacks now.”
“You need me to walk you back home?”
“Kind of. But I’ll need to have both hands free to hold all my booze, so…”
“Let me know when you’re home. I’m gonna eat a block of cheese now.” She hangs up.
I enter my neighborhood wine and liquor store, still wearing my dark sunglasses, with my head held high. My plan is to grab a bottle of something with over twelve percent alcohol in it and get back to my apartment without making eye contact with anyone.
After spending the past two days holed up in my apartment, listening to breakup songs and eating expired pasta and cookies, it took me an hour to get ready to walk here. I did not want to risk running into my ex and his new girlfriend while looking like a hobo and scouting for booze. Hence, the armor of skinny jeans, heels, shiny straightened hair, and cherry-tinted lip gloss that is so slick it looks like I’ve been making out with a pan of bacon grease. I may be an inexperienced shell-shocked first grade teacher on the inside, but based on looks, I would be highly ranked in Maxim magazine’s Hot 100 Most In-Denial Dumped Women Who Need to Get Drunk Fast.
I’ve never drowned my sorrows before, but it seems like the thing to do now. Marnie came over yesterday to bring me a shoulder to cry on, several packages of baby wipes, a juice box, and a baggie full of Goldfish crackers and carrot sticks. She’s a mom. And she’s the only person I’ve told so far about this whole scenario.
What’s weird is…I haven’t actually cried yet. I was angry. Now I feel numb. I figure I should go through the motions of all the breakup behaviors exhibited in movies and TV shows so I can move things along. But not one of the Taylor Swift, Adele, Rihanna, or Pink heartbreak songs have gotten to me. So my plan is to get drunk, listen to country music, and force myself to cry, even if I pop a blood vessel doing it. If “Need You Now” by Lady Antebellum doesn’t move me to tears, then I will call Marnie’s husband’s therapist in the morning.
Or try a different kind of alcohol.
I wish I’d Googled “best alcoholic drink for recent breakups” before coming here. I usually drink wine, but I want to try something different. Something unfamiliar. Something more…virile than I’m used to. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Something that will make me feel different. Something that will make me feel anything.
Removing my sunglasses, I let my eyes adjust to the lighting in the store. It’s twilight outside—perfectly believable that I’ve been out all day and just forgot to remove my sunglasses until now. The man at the cash register nods at me. I’ve never been to this store without Russell before. I’ve barely been anywhere in New York without Russell, now that I think about it. I wave at the man and try to look like someone who isn’t here to grab a bottle of alcohol to take home and get drunk on by herself. As if he’d care. It is literally his job to sell bottles of liquor to people, but I don’t want him to know that I’m here buying alcohol for myself.
I need to stop caring so much about what other people think of me and get a flooking life.
The bells above the door jingle in agreement as I plant myself in front of an aisle full of bottles that look like they mean business. Tonight, I’m not interested in those bottles of wine with the punny names and cute labels. Tonight, I want a bottle with a skull and crossbones on it… Well, a cute skull and crossbones at least.
Tonight, I want… I turn my head to look at the guy who’s talking to the man at the cash register. They are joking with each other with ease—that Carroll Gardens neighborhood familiarity that I just don’t have yet because I’ve always had Russell by my side.
Speaking of sides—the view of this guy’s backside is enough to drive a girl to drink. He must be a butt model. Is that a thing? The way his butt looks in those jeans just makes me want to do a little happy dance. This is the first time I’ve allowed myself to pay attention to a cute guy butt in three years. Russell’s was perfectly decent but nothing to write home about. I would write a rave Yelp review about this guy’s butt. I could write a dissertation on this guy’s butt.
He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and black jeans, leather boots that aren’t completely laced up. Simple and casual, but somehow, he makes it look sophisticated and polished. And hot. He looks really hot. I don’t know why, but it looks like he could just get totally naked in three seconds. Like the clothes are only there to keep him from getting arrested.
I also don’t know why I can’t stop picturing this guy naked and on top of me. I have to tear my eyes away from him. My cheeks are on fire. What is happening? I’m a first-grade teacher from Bloomington, Indiana—I do not have sexy thoughts about strangers in Brooklyn liquor stores. I’ve never seen this man before in my life, and already I’m imagining what it would feel like to have him penetrate me from different angles. The kind of guy I’ve never spoken to before. The kind of guy who’d never pay any attention to someone like me.
I look away and back to the liquor bottles in front of me at the exact moment that I realize he’s turning toward me. My heart is racing. I feel like I’m thirteen and just spotted a cute boy at the 7-11. This is so dumb. I’m going to count to ten in French, and when I’m done, I will be as calm, cool, and collected as a French lady.