I bump her leg. “Total hottie checking you out at twelve o’clock,” I say in her ear. She just smiles like a person mad. At Benji. Who just so happens to be the bartender at the club she chose for the night. Which just happens to be the club she chooses every weekend. “I don’t get why you give him the run around. Go on a date with the poor guy already. Your wrinkles are getting uglier as we speak.” Benji waves at our table, knowing full well we’re talking about him.
“I’ll go get drinks. Morganna is on her way. Keep an eye out,” Gretchen says, disappearing into the crowd of swaying bodies and flashing lights. We got here later than usual because good spray tans take time. The drunkenness in this place has already peaked.
Through a crowd of stumbling babies I see her. Our friend. As she approaches my mind plays the song from Mean Girls. You know the one where the Plastics walk in a fierce group down the high school hallway? Then everyone stops and stares? That’s Morganna in one song.
Morganna comes from a small southern town where people talk more than they listen. When they do listen they take their careful, manipulative time to listen to the undercurrents laced throughout the words. Innocuous statements turn into gritty rumors that spread like wildfire in the parched forests of California. Morganna caught more than a thick southern drawl growing up in her hometown; she caught a fearsome, incurable drive to succeed. Nothing is more potent or dangerous than a woman with something to prove and proving things, no matter fact or fiction is her favorite past time.
After obtaining scrupulous grades throughout her stint at an Ivy League college and passing the BAR with ease, Morganna became a divorce attorney. She is feared, revered and, most of all, wildly successful. I’ve never seen Morganna cry nor have I ever seen her show any emotion that she hasn’t planned out at least fifteen days in advance. She is untouchable, beautiful and her confidence knows no bounds. It’s easy to forget Morganna’s southern roots. I know she only lets her country accent slip when she is furious with her husband or when she’s had a few too many glasses of red wine.
You go to her when you need help organizing a party, if you need advice about your stepbrother’s DUI arrest, or if you need directions on how to cook and serve a fifty course, organic based meal. The fact that she wears designer, five-inch heels in her home office is a testament to everything Morganna stands for. Simply put, Morganna gets shit done.
She has an assistant named Phillipe that I can’t help but feel bad for. The first three months Phillipe was employed by Morganna, I assumed his name was Phillipe Get because his name was always followed by a direct order.
“Phillipe get Mary Saunders on the line.”
“Phillipe get my calendar book.”
“Phillipe get me the client’s number.” Freaking relentless, but you only feel bad for so long. I bet a million gays would scratch eyes out to be Morganna’s assistant.
I smile sweetly at Phillipe when I visit Morganna at home because I know he is the one who pencils me in. His returning smile says, “You better hurry up, bitch. I wrote in a thirty minute slot for you and it will be my head if you stay any longer.” I know better though; she doesn’t care how long I stay. She just likes to bitch at him to assert control. Control is huge for Morganna because the one thing she can’t control is the most important to her. Her husband, Stone Sterns. Who happens to be absent tonight.
Why is any of this important? Well, Morganna has everything I want. She is the person I would choose to be on any given Sunday.
The waters part and she struts to our table. “You look gorgeous Morganna. I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I say. “Where is Phillipe? Did you give him the night off?”
She raises her eyebrows as she notices my tight black dress. “Finally,” she whispers, red lips twitching in a mischievous smile. I shake my head as she sits down next to me. “Oh, that regurgitated piece of human flesh is typing some documents for me tonight. I don’t want to talk about him anyway. I want to talk about you.” True to form, she switches the focus back to someone else almost immediately. She’s your friend. I have to remind myself.
I nod toward the bar where Gretchen stands. “Gretch is grabbing us drinks. Want one? I can go…” I plead for an escape. She knows it.
“I’m going to set you up,” Morganna demands. It’s not a question. I laugh a little to try to diffuse the situation. It’s the same situation every time I hang out with her in a single atmosphere. You might wonder why I don’t let her set me up. Someone I idolize so much has to have some taste, right? Well, I don’t want anyone’s help replacing the Nashhole. Call me a romantic at heart, but I want it to happen organically. Like in the bread aisle. Because he needs to know up front I like and eat carbs like a duck in a pond. They’re hopeless aspirations, but they are my own.
“Where’s Stone?” I utter the only name I know will shut her up.
She fluffs her already high hair even higher. “He’s with the rat pack tonight. Actually I suspect they may have already slithered their way here somewhere.” She glances around the bar slowly. “The guy I want to set you up with is with him.”
I start shaking my head the second the words leave her mouth. No way. Not one of them. One of The Guys. I’d rather meet a vegan on the veggie aisle. I don’t hang out with Stone very often as he has a lot of work trips, but I know all of his friends are the same as him. Crazy. Reckless crazy, not deranged. Not fully deranged anyway. One glance and I know Morganna is merely waiting for me to continue, knowing I’m not done rejecting her ludicrous idea.
“I love you, but you’re absolutely crazy and there is no way. No way.” I make my arms into an X in front of chest and open them up. “You know when I’m ready – and I’m not saying I’m ready – that I want to stumble into a guy. There will be slow clapping, and heart palpitations. If I go out with one of The Guys there will only be heart palpitations because I’ll be in a near death experience, I’m sure. I’m here tonight because Gretchen thinks I’m on the fast track to inhabiting a library with cats winding around my feet. Oh, and I’m wrinkly in the un-cute way.”
“You are,” Morganna says, unapologetically. I flinch a little, but they are both right. And I can’t hate the haters. Nash has made me the ultimate hater. “Well you aren’t wrinkly and Botox can fix that, but it’s time. That’s the end of it. You either want help or you want to fend for yourself. Which is it?” she asks.
I look away, honestly considering doing what she wants. I want to please her and do something decent for myself at the same time.
I decide to head to the bar. “I’ll think about it. Meaning I will really consider it, but not tonight, okay? I’m not ready to dive into the deep end.” I smile. She nods. “One dose of Benji and Gretchen has forgotten all about us. I’m going to grab us drinks. Warn me if your rat pack arrives so I can duck in a corner.” I shake my finger at her as I teeter away. A red nail brushes the bottom of her chin. She’s conspiring, God dammit.
I hear them before I see them. Voices commanding. Laughter booming. A drunken baby turns to look at the commotion and splashes half her cup onto the top of my foot. A wet high heel—perfect. I don’t even bother looking. I know it’s The Guys. I glare at Morganna, and she just laughs. I know the exact moment her sights lock on Stone. Her face morphs into a puddle of slush. I walk, with my heel slipping out of my shoe all the way to the bar, and grab a cocktail napkin out of a stack. I slip my foot out of my shoe and start drying it. When I look up, I see him.