“I have a date too,” Logan answers unapologetically.
I try to hide the disappointment in my voice: “Oh, with that same girl?”
“Natalie, yes,” Logan answers.
Logan’s nonchalant admission of his date with Natalie makes every part of my body cringe. Like two tectonic plates, my friendship with Logan takes a dramatic shift right at that moment. Gone in an instant is my grand illusion of Logan and I eventually becoming a couple. It isn’t until that moment that I realize how badly I had been harboring that fantasy. What an idiot! As if our flirting banter was some type of potential inroad of what could be.
CAFÉ ROB PUNCTUALLY meets me at the restaurant. He’s shorter than I remember. Our greeting is polite and cordial. Gone is the boldness he displayed the day he asked me out. Instead, he fidgets. His hands are in his pockets as he sways side to side while we wait to be seated.
I am relieved when Café Rob initiates the conversation and just as relieved when the waitress approaches with our menus, giving us a needed excuse to concentrate on our dinner selection¿ rather than our date. I have made a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. My mind is definitely not here. It’s with Logan and his date with Natalie. Good ol’ Natalie, who has the good fortune of sitting across from Logan or closely beside him. The image of her cozying up next to Logan runs rampant in my head, filling me with jealousy. A sick knot pits inside my stomach as I envision the two of them together.
“Ashley?” I hear Café Rob say, which hurls me back to the reality of my date. Poor Café Rob has been talking, with me only half-listening. I smile at him and engage myself in the conversation. He is sweet. And nice.
Which doesn’t seem to do it for me
...
13
Getting Back on the Horse
William Arthur, known by many as Buckaroo Bob, is getting back in the saddle after a six-month hiatus. Arthur will take part in Clinton County’s Rodeo Ruckus, taking place this Saturday at the State Fairgrounds. This will be Arthur’s first rodeo since being bucked off a horse last summer, breaking his hip and femur as a result. When asked if he has any fear of participating in another rodeo, where he risks being hurt again, Arthur responded with one word: Nope.
JOE, ONE OF THE NEWER SERVERS at Mason Grill, squeezes himself unapologetically on the same side of the booth that Kaitlyn and I are sharing.
“Man, these babies are throbbing,” he announces to everyone at the table. “Who wants the honor of rubbing my feet?”
The thought of touching Joe’s or anyone’s feet is nauseating, although I could go for a good foot massage myself. The restaurant was hopping tonight. Packed with crowds of customers swarming in from nearby festivals and sporting events, there was no rest for the weary. The thought of resting my feet and unwinding with my co-workers is what propelled me through the restaurant weeds.
O’Malley’s has become our post-shift bar of choice. Not only is O’Malley’s opened after Mason Grill closes, but also it is comfortable, casual, and pretty much the only bar I’ve had any desire to visit lately. Kaitlyn, however, feels otherwise.
“You know what I think?” Kaitlyn announces. “I think we need to go out and test the Marinara Theory.”
“We are out.”
“No, I mean out-out, like The Bayou. Now that we’ve discovered the Marinara Theory, I think we should give The Bayou another chance.” Reading the terror on my face, she adds: “Don’t look so scared—it won’t be that bad; not if we go out having the same mindset that we do here.”
“I don’t know. What if we go out and have the same experience that we did before?”
The truth is the Marinara Theory has become my source of empowerment, even though I suspect it is nothing more than the placebo effect. Sure, it may give me a false sense of confidence, but I don’t want to prove that to be the case. Going out to a bar like The Bayou could dispel the Marinara Theory once and for all, and I am not willing to risk it.
“You have to go out sooner or later. Besides, you will be fine,” Kaitlyn implores.
“She will be fine with what?” Joe asks.
For someone new to our group, Joe definitely doesn’t lack of confidence or brashness. I want to tell him to mind his business, but instead, I answer, “She’s trying to get me to go to The Bayou.”
“I love that place, let’s go,” Joe replies.
“No, she doesn’t mean now, she means sometime . . . another time,” I clarify.
“What better time than the present,” Joe says. “I’m in.”
“You’re in for what?” Amy asks.
“Kaitlyn wants to head over to The Bayou. Wanna go?”
“Like this?” Amy asks, offering a reality-check to Joe’s insane suggestion.
“No, no, Joe is just stirring things up. He was eavesdropping on my conversation with Kaitlyn.”
“Perhaps, but I like the idea. Who’s in?” Joe asks. At this point, Joe is standing up, encouraging everyone seated in our surrounding booth to migrate to the loud, obnoxious club that is The Bayou.
“See, Joe’s got the right idea; let’s go. Now’s the best time to head over. We have reinforcement, backup,” Kaitlyn tells me, encouraged by our group who seem excited about the idea.
I look at Kaitlyn dubiously, unsure if she is being serious; she is apparently. “Come on,” she says while grabbing me by the wrist and hoisting my reluctant body out the door.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you are about to die. My dating life passes before my eyes on the ride over to The Bayou. Closing my eyes, I try readying myself for what awaits. There is safety in numbers, I reassure myself. Joe, who seems almost giddy about our adventure, is leading the charge. He managed to talk seven of us into going, despite our appearance. You can do this, I tell myself before exiting the Lyft. And in that moment, I believe it.
“Let’s do a lap before we commit to a location,” I say to Kaitlyn, resurrecting our bar routine.
“We don’t need a lap,” she answers. “We are here with everyone else. Forget about it being a club. Let’s just hang here like we do at O’Malley’s.”
“What the hell,” I tell myself, as I take a deep breath and surrender to the chaotic atmosphere.
“Cheers,” I say to Kaitlyn once our beers arrive. “Tonight is about having a good time and nothing more. Long live the Marinara Theory.”
It is a relief to find the Marinara Theory still working. No longer enslaved by the need to impress, the seven of us dance, laugh, and soak in the atmosphere. Bartenders quickly take our drink orders rather than overlook us for the pretty girls caked in makeup and invitations to dance are frequent. We joke with a group of guys, who are taking advantage of a guys’ night out; we incorporate disco-esque movements into our dancing, making fools of ourselves, but not caring. Truth be told, it is probably the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.
Seeing Mr. Text Dumper across the room is the last thing I expect. But there he is, staring at me, before finally making his way in my direction.
“I CAN’T CONCENTRATE with you moving around like that,” Kaitlyn says to me as I prepare for my yellow belt test.