Where are we going?” I ask from the backseat of Rachel’s VW Beetle—the old kind. I am wedged between piles of heavy boxes. “And what is this junk?”
“Junk? I’ll have you know that is future celebrity, rent, gas money. I have to get used to not having much storage space anymore.”
“Huh?”
“It’s her sculpting clay.” Cheyenne turns in the passenger seat to look at me. “We thought we would take you to a place that would feel like home.”
“The Southside Youth Shelter?”
“Austin Grill.”
“You do know I have been living in Arizona, not Texas?”
“They eat enchiladas in Tucson, don’t they?” Cheyenne inquires.
“And the Alexandria location is a great place to take in the view of local men,” Rachel offers as a food alternative.
“Um, Cheyenne is married, and I’m spoken for,” I say a bit loudly. A night with old girlfriends I was up for—a night on the singles scene I was not.
They look at each other and smile.
“What? What is your little inside joke?” Paranoia is leaking out of my mind.
“You say you are spoken for. We just want to know who is doing the speaking?” Rachel singsongs while trying to parallel park.
“Enchiladas sound good. Inquisitions do not.”
Rachel holds up her hands in submission. “Okay. Okay.” The car jolts forward and hits a curb. A box of clay lands on my foot and curbs my appetite.
“That large slab of concrete resembles a speed bump, but it’s actually a sidewalk,” I say angrily while rubbing my ankle.
“Rachel, you were right,” says Cheyenne as we step out into the nice evening. “Mari needed the night out even more than we did.”
I hobble along the cobbled sidewalk and wait for some sympathy. I know better than to wait for empathy. As we near the Austin Grill sign and hear a band tuning up, Rachel turns on her heel and glares at me.
“This hopalong bit is not going to be too helpful inside those doors.”
“But your clay landed on my ankle. It hurts,” I whine. “I think it is swelling.”
“I’ll order extra ice with my margarita, but please act normal.”
Cheyenne looks at my ankle to be sure they are harassing me for good reason. It isn’t swelling, only red. “You are okay, Mari. Rachel, on the other hand, is a bit sensitive about tonight. She is hoping to run into a particular someone, so she wants to make an impression.”
“A good one, in case you need clarification.” Rachel adds, staring at my rolled up pant leg. “Make yourself presentable. I’ll go put our names down for a table.”
“Whom are we impressing?” I ask Cheyenne once Rachel is inside.
“Phillip Wallis. He manages Trampled, the band playing tonight. Good guy, but a bit full of himself. He thinks he is single-handedly responsible for the music scene in this area.”
“Is Trampled successful?”
“Not yet. But he is putting a lot of energy behind them, so they might do well. He really is a good businessman, but I personally could not handle the…” her voice trails off as we see Rachel approaching.
“No waiting necessary. Phillip says we can share his booth by the band.”
She is giddy and her face is flush with excitement. I look to Cheyenne to finish her sentence, but she only shakes her head and acts innocent.
“Great,” I say. “Who is Phillip?” I join the innocence.
“Okay, you got me. I had a couple ulterior motives in choosing this particular place for our night out. Phillip and I have group dated a few times, and I’m hoping to go to the next level and get a one-on-one.”
“Do you have to try out for him or something?” I am being sarcastic.
Rachel is serious. “Sort of.” She touches the tip of her gelled hair. “He could have his pick of women. Tonight could be the big night that he asks me.”
Good grief. “You’d think the girl was getting a proposal for marriage, not a pass to a one-on-one date,” I whisper to Cheyenne. Rachel has bounded into the club, and we are about to be accosted by the techno sounds of Trampled.
As we step into the bar area, it doesn’t take long to notice Rachel. She is doing a little show-off dance near the booth. Clapping her hands above her head, she looks as though she would be put on a solo platform for Soul Train. The image of her doing a desperate disco move strikes a familiar cord in me.
Angelica.
I had never made the connection between my high school friend and my college pal. Even in Rachel’s jock days, she was a tad boy crazy and more than a little off balance when it came to crushes and infatuations.
It makes me wonder if we have adult versions of most of our childhood friends.
As Rachel does a low shimmy, I see her prey and the object of Cheyenne’s near comment, and I have to stifle a yelp. It’s not that Phillip isn’t attractive, but the guy is wearing more eye liner than Rachel.
“Eek!” I say in Cheyenne’s ear.
“Told ya.”
“But a good guy, right?”
“Generous. Not sure if I’d be banking my future on him, though.”
Rachel points toward us and Phillip waves a very generous wave. As he does, I notice his eighties ponytail.
“Oh, no.” I mutter.
Cheyenne turns toward me and acts like she is pointing to a rack for our coats. “We are so lucky we don’t have to worry about looking anymore.”
Her statement causes me to step back. Something in me wants to rebel against that thought. Just because I’m dating someone doesn’t mean it is all settled, wrapped in a taffeta bow.
Is something wrong with me or is there something just plain wrong about the large leaps women make in hopes of connecting the dots from single to married? Am I a bad friend for encouraging Caitlin to go for her dream instead of the dreamboat?
I watch Rachel nervously vie for Phillip’s attention as we and several other friends and acquaintances order a round of appetizers, and I realize that I do feel lucky. Not because I think my future is set, but because I get how crazy women are about love.