“Amy Louise Mitchell—I don’t know your middle name, but this is a middle name situation—that is not a sexy bra, that is a nursing bra!” Kiki lowers her voice. “Are you . . . still nursing? Because sometimes Bernard still wants to, and I don’t know if I should just let him?”
I take it back: I’m not a good friend. I’m a fucking incredible friend. Because Carla Dunkler doesn’t leave the house without a spare bra and panties. I don’t know where the night is going to take me, and I like to be prepared. But tonight, it isn’t about me. It’s about Amy dusting off the cobwebs, using that vag before she loses it. And she needs this deep-plunge, maximum-push-up bra more than I will. I wear all my bras two cup sizes too small because I like a pillowy cleavage, something dense and inviting, something that says to men, “Wouldn’t you like to put your face right here?” On Amy, my bra looks like it does on the models at the store: it lifts, it separates, it turns her mom boobs into two perfect globes.
“Amy Fucking Mitchell,” I gasp, “you’re gonna catch a D tonight.”
I PICKED THE FANCIEST BAR IN OUR AREA CODE. IT’S DARK IN a fancy way, not a trashy way, and it’s filled with guys who get biweekly paychecks and paid vacation.
I almost feel bad for these men. Amy isn’t sexy, she’s undeniably hot. I feel like I’m unleashing a man-killing robo-hottie on all these boring suburban guys in their flat-front khakis. I briefly consider packing her back up and taking her home and sparing them the pain, but then she opens her mouth.
“How funny! Their menu says drinks are twenty-five dollars. Typo much?” Amy laughs.
Kiki joins in. “That’s, like, two hours’ worth of babysitting! Yeah, right!”
“Actually, it’s right. That’s what drinks cost now when you’re not at a bar with health code violations.”
I probably should have started Amy off somewhere a little less intense, but if you’re trying to meet a man you want to use solely for sexual pleasure? Your best bet is always the darkest bar with the most expensive drinks. It takes somewhere between forty-five seconds and a full minute before Amy is swarmed by boring, standard-issue white men. Kiki and I are gently shoved farther and farther away from her until we’re on the other side of the bar, observing her from a distance. I feel like parents must feel when they drop off their kid at college: like Amy is all grown up now, and I can only hope that in our time together, I have given her the tools she needs to succeed.
Watching Amy talk to these guys, I know that any of them would be a good practice ride for her. They’ve got sensible side parts and think that Under Armour polo shirts are “going out” clothes. I’m willing to bet that 50 percent of them use their mom’s birthday as an ATM PIN. They are all sensible, the male equivalents of a Honda Accord.
Kiki can barely contain her excitement. About Amy. About being out in public. About life in general. Every ten seconds, she’s pointing out a new guy that Amy could bang. Everyone she picks out looks like Kent: boring, blond, and like he has a basement filled with bodies and/or model trains. Possibly both. “I’m so excited for Amy!” she shrieks. “Kent just might get a special treat tonight. If he plays his cards right, I’ll let him keep the TV on and I’ll get on top.”
I’m trying to unimagine the idea of Kiki jamming Kent’s soft penis inside of her when she gasps and points toward Amy. Our little lady had reeled in someone new. And not a boring Kent lookalike. No, Amy was always too big-time for that shit. I should have known. She’s going right for the white whale of McKinley.
I feel like my panties could burst with pride. Like my vagina is ready to live vicariously through her.
Amy Mitchell, who has only seen one penis in her entire life? She’s about to bang Jesse.
23
Amy
Being at this bar makes me feel lonelier than I’ve ever felt in my life. Who do I think I am, sifting through a group of guys like they’re objects? Why am I dressed like a college sophomore who just got her first fake ID, and why am I pretending to laugh at everything these guys say? They are in no way deterred by how often I look at my phone, either. And I’ve been constantly looking at my phone because my mother is bombarding me with text messages about Mike, including photos from our wedding. Or, photos she took of our wedding photos, which are framed and hanging in her living room. I can see her reflection in the glass.
These guys don’t even notice that they’re talking to the top of my head while I try to fend off my mother’s text messages.
I realize that if I want to disengage from future conversation, I have to be forthright and honest.
“I should go call my kids,” I shout over the music whenever a new guy approaches me. It works. “Yeah!” I say for good measure, as they look around for another option, “I gave birth to two kids. Vaginally. No medication, either! I felt every tear!”
Finally alone, I find an open couch. An entire couch, all to myself. I wish I’d brought my Kindle; it would have been nice to catch up on some reading.
“IS THIS SEAT TAKEN?”
Jesus H. Christ, really? I’ve been alone for approximately ten seconds.
I’m ready to tell this guy that I have a highly communicable skin disease when I realize . . . I know him. Or, I’ve met him. I want to know him. Or I at least want to know what it feels like to have his naked body pressed against mine.
“Hi . . . Jesse, right?”
Every single part of me lights up at once when he sits next to me. His thigh is touching mine, and I swear to God I could orgasm just from that contact alone.
“I’m glad to see you!” he shouts over the music. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I scream back.
He shrugs, and gestures to a group of men I assume are his friends, who are clustered around a group of women who are definitely pretending that these guys are funnier than they are.
I nod and gesture toward where I imagine Carla and Kiki are. It’s so dark in here, I wish I’d brought my glasses.
I don’t think the bar got quieter, but there’s something about Jesse that makes it easier for all the noise to just fade into the background. I’ve never had someone be so interested in me. I’ve never been so interested in anyone. I want to know everything about him. I want to know about his dead wife, and how he raises a little girl on his own. I want to know what his most vivid childhood memory is and how he takes his coffee.
And he wants to know about me. Me. He wants to know what I studied in college, and how I ended up working at a coffee startup. He doesn’t ask me about how I “do it all” or “work-life balance” or any other question that implies it’s strange for a woman to both hold a job and parent.
And I’m sure I’m violating every single flirting rule ever written, but I tell him. I don’t feel a need to be mysterious or coy. When he asks what book I could read for the rest of my life, I tell him it’s the one about a mama bunny who tells her baby bunny why he’s the most special baby bunny in the whole world. I’m embarrassed, but Jesse doesn’t laugh. His deep brown eyes get wider and he says, “Oh! I love that one! I cry every time the mama bunny says, You may be a big boy soon, but you’ll always be my baby bunny. I shed actual tears.”