1
Brynn
A bright-green leaf is clinging precariously to his left central incisor, and I have been trying, rather unsuccessfully, to give him a discreet you’ve got a little something, but so far, all I’ve managed to do is draw several weird looks from our waitress.
His name is Ford LeClair. He’s a hedge fund manager at a rather large Canadian bank here in Toronto. I swiped right because he said he loved labradoodles, a good cup of coffee, and summer nights on the dock of his parents’ cottage on Lake Rosseau.
His profile had promise.
The man, however, has spent the last forty-three minutes having a one-sided conversation about cryptocurrency, his predictions for next week’s UFC fight, and his recent boys’ trip to Las Vegas.
“Have you been? It’s fucking epic!”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s finally asked me a question.
“Yes.” My cheeks flood with heat. “I’ve been there once before.”
I don’t elaborate.
Thankfully, Ford does not ask any follow-up questions. Even if he did, I’m not sure how I’d manage to navigate around my reason for traveling to the wedding capital of the world.
Something happens to my dates when I toss into a casual conversation that I’m a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée. It’s like they assign a “level failed” to my dating scorecard. Seeing as I don’t anticipate us even moving this relationship to the dessert course, I don’t see a reason to bring it up.
“So…” I change the subject, taking the pause in Ford’s side of the conversation to sneak in a few of my own questions. “Your profile said you’d love to settle in a small town one day. Is there any town in particular?”
This is my remaining olive branch. One last attempt to connect the man and the profile. However, if I’m to be perfectly honest, the majority of my hope that anything would come of this ill-fated match dissolved the moment the hostess walked me to our table, where Ford ignored my outstretched palm in favor of an obvious once-over and then proceeded to tell me, “You look different from your pictures.”
In hindsight, I should have turned right around and pretended it was all some big mix-up, or told him the hostess had accidentally brought me over to the wrong table. But I had made such an effort: new lipstick, my Victoria’s Secret push-up bra, and my sale-rack Nordstrom stilettos that make my legs look longer but also cut the backs of my heels because they’re a half size too small. So I ignored the alarm bells screaming, Run, Brynn. Save yourself, pasted on my best I am totally into you smile, and hoped my instincts were wrong.
Fifty-six minutes later, I strongly suspect that they were not wrong.
Ford leans forward, wafting a wave of expensive-smelling cologne in my direction.
“I’m going to be straight up with you. I put that small-town shit in my profile because I know women want to hear it.”
His honesty is actually refreshing.
“Oh, okay. I guess I didn’t…”
“Breanne—” he interrupts.
“It’s Brynn.”
He ignores me and instead takes a long draw of his locally crafted IPA.
“We both know what is happening here.”
I have an inkling, but I want to see where he takes it.
He flicks a glance at his Rolex-esque watch, then inclines his head toward the entrance to the restaurant.
“If you wanna do this, we should probably get going.”
I’m not naïve.
It’s quite clear that “this” means sex. Sadly, Ford is not the first overconfident Bumble date this year to cut to the chase, although he lacks the je ne sais quoi that typically accompanies this delicate dance. And even though I’ve never been one to ask for what I want in the bedroom, I have no problem telling Ford I have no intention of stepping into his tonight.
“You know what? I’m really tired, I think I’m going to head home.” I fake a yawn.
Ford raises his eyebrows as if this fact surprises him. “Not even up for a blowie?”
I should probably be disgusted or, at a bare minimum, annoyed. But my poor little heart has been battered enough that it has formed a protective coating. A thick crust that protects it and keeps my tone even and breezy as I tell him, “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”
Ford stares into his empty beer glass. “I figured I’d shoot my shot. It was pretty obvious this wasn’t going anywhere. But a lot of the women I meet on Bumble want a decent bang out of the deal. And I’m more than decent.” He winks as if this little tidbit may sway me. When I don’t respond, he shrugs and turns his attention to the waitress, who hands him our bill, giving him much more of her attention than I have all evening.
As much as I hate to admit it, Ford is right. Before we even sat down, I suspected that we were a far cry from soulmates. Although he is my type, tall and classically handsome with the deep ocean shade of blue eyes that you could get lost in, he falls short in the most important attributes I look for in a partner: sensitivity, kindness, and actual interest in what I have to say.
I’m not upset we’re calling this date early. I’d much rather be home, engulfed in my fuzzy blue Snuggly, comfort-binging the final season of Carson’s Cove and watching the drama go down instead of…well…going down on Ford. Therefore, with feigned reluctance, I thrust my Visa onto the table with a “Thanks for this. I had a really nice time.”
Ford, however, waves me and my card off, his eyes never leaving the ample crack of the cleavage of our very blond waitress. I watch as he pulls a pen from his suit pocket, writes something down on the back of one of his business cards, then slips both it and his Amex out of his wallet into the black leather folder holding our bill.
The waitress opens it, giggles at whatever he has written, then leans in close to whisper something in his ear.
It’s like I’m watching the beginning of a low-budget porno, and I don’t know if I should be offended or amused.
The waitress leaves. Exactly three Mississippis later, Ford stands, extending his fist with a noncommittal “So, I guess I’ll see you around, then?”
I bump him back, knowing full well that this will be the last I see of Ford LeClair.
I intentionally linger for a few moments in our booth, not wanting to completely contradict my previous thought and create an awkward scenario outside where Ford and I have to make polite conversation as we wait for our respective Ubers. When I’m satisfied that he’s well on his way, I swipe open my phone screen and find the red notification bubble on my text app showing eight unread messages.
All of them are from my mother.
Mom: Thirty years ago, I was in labor, about to have the happiest day of my life
Mom: We didn’t have the good drugs like you kids have today
Mom: You were warm and cozy in your mama’s womb. Didn’t want to come out. Needed to do things in your own time.
Mom: Even back then, you were your own woman
Mom: When you finally came, I stared at your pink face for hours. I never loved something so much in my whole entire life.
Mom: Happy last day of being 29. Hope 30 is wonderful.
Mom: I love you xoxoxoxoxox
Mom: You should go out and celebrate! Call up those new girlfriends you told me about and go dancing. You may meet someone. You can’t start the next episode of your life if you keep rewatching the old one.
The last message hits like a sneaky left hook. I’ve yet to tell my mother that I’ve gotten back on the proverbial dating horse. Partially because I don’t want to answer a hundred personal questions about my dates, but mostly because—with Ford as a case in point—it’s not going like I hoped it would.
It’s weird to be dating again. Like reading a book where you’ve already snuck a peek at the last chapter and you know the ending isn’t the happily ever after you were always promised. But I will acknowledge that my mother is right in that it’s next to impossible to meet a perfect man while bundled up like a burrito in front of my television screen, so unless Uber Eats starts delivering dream dates, I’m once again swimming in this very shallow dating pool.
My thumb skims across the screen, typing back a polite Love you, Mom. As I hit send, a new text pops up on my screen from the “Brunch Bitches” group chat.
The “Brunch Bitches” are a group of Toronto girls who, as the name hints, have a regular standing brunch date every Saturday or Sunday at various “it spots” deemed brunch-worthy by Toronto Life magazine. I was added to their group chat about six months ago when I met their ringleader, Lainey Evens, at an advertising agency industry mixer at Tequila Bob’s. She spilled a margarita down my back and insisted on getting my number to cover the dry-cleaning cost. She never did pay me, but she did christen me a “Brunch Bitch” and started texting me on the regular.
When my ex Matt and I split, I scored our big-screen TV, but he took most of our mutual friends. When I was still in deep grief, I texted someone who I thought was one of my best friends, asking her to meet me for coffee. She ghosted me for three days until I checked in again, sure that there must be something wrong with her phone. But then she replied: Matt and Billy are so close. I don’t want to jeopardize that. I’ll call you when things calm down a bit. You understand, right?
I wrote back that I did.
It’s been almost two years, and I still haven’t heard from her.
So although I don’t have much in common with Lainey, Ashley K, and Ashley T, I join them for their weekly booze-and-bitch sessions and any other random nights they invite me to.
Lainey: Ladies, what are you up to tonight?
Lainey: Totally meant to do this earlier, but you know how it is—crazy week! You guys have to come over tonight. We have something special to celebrate!!! (6 party hat emojis)
I read Lainey’s message twice, trying to dissect any other possible meanings.
Two Sundays ago at our weekly meetup, I casually mentioned that my thirtieth birthday was coming up, but we were on our third pitcher of bottomless mimosas, and it was unclear if anyone was paying attention or if they were just bobbing their heads to the Tiesto track blaring through the speaker system.
When I dropped a hopeful “Maybe we can all hang out and celebrate,” I wasn’t sure if anything would pan out. But maybe I was wrong.
Ashley K: Always down for a party but may have to meet up a little later. Got a thing.
Ashley T: Catch up bitches! I’ve been drinking since 3. Summer Fridays!!!!
Me: I’m in. Just need to go home and change my shoes. Be there in an hour.
Lainey: Boo Brynn! Just come now. Your feet will be fine. We need you!!!
I stand, wiggling my toes to see if my feet can take another few hours of pain in my stilettos.
Me: Okay fine. On my way. We’re just hanging out, right?
Lainey’s answer is three party hats and an eggplant emoji.
Exactly three seconds after stepping into Lainey’s apartment, I notice that there are dicks everywhere.
They’re taped to the walls, morphed into plastic straws in glasses, and even strung into necklaces adorning every woman crammed into Lainey’s compact kitchen as she pours cheap prosecco into red Solo cups.
It’s not my first choice for party decor, especially since it’s been a minute since I’ve seen an actual dick in the flesh, but it’s also not completely off-brand for a Lainey-led celebration.
I glance over at the island again, only now realizing that I actually don’t recognize any of the women crowded around it. Wondering if maybe I missed a text on the Uber ride over, I slide my phone out of my purse to check the group chat.
Ashley K: My thing turned into a different thing. Can’t make it. Sorry!!!
Ashley T: I’m drunk. Going to Poutini’s. Gonna eat my weight in cheese curds!
Lainey: Boo! You guys suck. Brynn, you’re still coming, right?
I don’t answer the last text since Lainey is standing three feet in front of me. She holds out a red Solo cup, beckoning me with the incline of her head. “Come, babe. Meet my marketing bitches.”
They widen their circle to let me in, and it feels like a rite of passage. It’s almost as if the universe is conspiring with my mother. See, Brynn? You should be out making new friends. Look how much fun it is.
“Girls.” Lainey’s voice takes on a falsetto tone. “This is Brynn. She’s the one I was telling you about.”
Four girls turn their eyes to me and smile.
To be very honest, in the last few weeks, I’ve started to wonder if Lainey and I even work as friends. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fun and outgoing—the kind of friend I feel like I should have. But our conversations don’t expand too far beyond weekend plans, food, or her latest dating disaster story. I even thought at one point that she might have mixed me up in her phone with a different Brynn and just kept forgetting to correct her mistake. But as her arm links through mine, a part of me wonders if maybe all this angst about our friendship is just my anxious brain overanalyzing things.
“Brynn, you have to meet Zoe.” Lainey points at a woman with long dark hair. “She just got engaged over the weekend. Our beautiful blushing bride.”
Lainey leaves me to put her arm around Zoe, but it’s me that’s left a deep shade of pink as I’m suddenly hit with the realization that we’re most definitely not celebrating my birthday. Not even close.
“I am so jealous,” says Lainey, letting go of Zoe to give her a light shove. “You are going to look so hot as a bride. I freaking love a good wedding. Aren’t they the best?” Lainey turns, her question very much aimed at me.
“The best,” I echo, proud that it doesn’t sound too forced.
The entire first year after Matt and I split, I dodged every conversation about weddings, marriage, or babies. My wound was still too raw. And though I genuinely wanted to find joy for my co-workers who were stressing out about seating arrangements and what toaster to add to their wedding registries, I was struggling to divide up my assets and fighting Matt for a Vitamix that we got from his aunt Mary, but he never once used. It all felt too hard.
But when Zoe dives into a story about her fiancé and then turns to me and says, “He is like my perfect soulmate,” I smile, and it’s genuine. The only semi-negative thought in my head is a note of what different places we are in mentally. I’m happy that she’s all optimism and glowy happiness as she thrusts out her hand, wiggling her fingers to show off her beautiful princess-cut diamond ring. I think I’m just sad that I’m a little jaded because I’ve seen how quickly marital bliss can become marital monotony, and then, one day, “I don’t think we work anymore.”
I smile awkwardly through twenty minutes of kitchen hangout while the group talks about work people I’ve never met until everyone but Lainey and Zoe heads to the bathroom to double-check their makeup before it’s time to head out.
“I’m so happy you could come, Brynn.” Zoe bops completely off time with the Rihanna track blasting from the stereo in Lainey’s living room. “This party is so last minute. I was worried we would have to wait forever in line somewhere, so when Lainey said she had a hookup at Devil’s, I was like, Yes! Get her over here! I absolutely love that place.”
I pause mid-sip as my brain turns over her words a second time.
Lainey tosses an arm around my shoulder, pulling our heads together. “It shouldn’t be a problem, right, babe? You said your brother used to be, like, the manager.”
All of a sudden, I understand my role tonight.
They want to go to The Devil’s Playground.
It’s the bar where my younger brother used to work. He moved in with me after Matt and I separated because I needed a second income to pay my mortgage. When my brother moved out to Vancouver six months ago, he offered his room to a new bartender named Josh, who has been my roommate ever since. I casually mentioned this story last week at brunch. Lainey seemed disproportionately interested in this tidbit of information, and now I understand why.
“Yeah, it shouldn’t be a problem,” I tell Zoe, acting as if this was the plan all along.
I fully acknowledge that Lainey is using me for my hookup. But I tell myself that awareness of this fact makes me slightly less pathetic. At least she calls, right?
There’s no need to text Josh to get us into the bar. I pull out my phone and text the bouncer directly. His name is Little Chuck. I let him feel me up at my brother’s birthday party two years ago when I was a newly minted divorcée. It was a dark time, but it earned me a “Call me anytime you need a favor.”
Little Chuck texts back almost immediately. It’s a simple No worries. Just come up to the front when you get here. These girls are hot, right?
I don’t respond and instead hold up my phone to the semicircle of eager twentysomethings who have now emerged from the bathroom.
“I got us on the guest list.”
The girls raise their glasses for a round of wooing and toasting.
My shoes feel like they’re made of razor blades, and I can practically hear the Carson’s Cove theme song calling to me from my couch. I turn to Lainey, who is now double-fisting drinks, sipping from two separate penis straws, and tell her, “Actually, I think I might skip the bar and head home.”
She shakes her head. “You’re fine.” She presses a cup of prosecco to my lips. “This will help. And you have to come. What happens if they don’t let us in?”
I open my mouth to tell her, You can just text me if there’s a problem, but I’m cut off by someone shouting, “Uber’s here,” and then I’m swept up into a flurry of activity as Lainey’s crew locate their purses and make last-minute bathroom stops.
We leave the apartment in a single herd of stilettos and tube dresses, take the elevator down, and head out to the awaiting Honda Odyssey.
The prosecco does nothing but make me slightly queasy as our Uber flirts dangerously with a string of yellow stoplights all the way down Richmond Street until the driver pulls up to a darkened back alley beside a nondescript redbrick building right in the middle of Toronto’s entertainment district.
I wait on the sidewalk, shifting my weight from heel to heel, trying my best to ignore my feet as the rest of Lainey’s crew pour out of the van.
“I swear to god, I can never find this place during the week,” Lainey says as we all link arms and walk the dark stretch between the sidewalk and the club’s front door. “It’s like it magically appears on the weekends.”
Although she has downed a half bottle of prosecco, she does make a point.
There’s nothing that marks the entrance to the Devil’s Playground as a Friday-night hot spot other than the long line of twentysomethings vaping outside, decked out in crop tops and vegan leather.
We skip to the front, where Little Chuck gives me a nod and a “S’up” as we approach the door. He’s easily six feet tall and built like a linebacker.
I hold up my phone and say, “Thanks for this,” referring to our text exchange. But he’s too preoccupied with Lainey’s proudly displayed cleavage to notice.
Chuck waves us inside through the VIP line, which skips the twenty-dollar cover charge. I follow the girls through a long, dark, narrow hall out into the main bar area and am reminded why I never willingly come to this place. A Top 40 track booms through a speaker system so loud that I can feel the thumping in my chest. The lighting is dimmed in an effort to make everyone seem sexier. There is only one bar. It’s made of white Plexiglas and is backlit, which gives it this new-age space-station feel. It runs the length of the entire wall, giving the six bartenders behind it ample room to work.
I watch them for a moment.
Their all-black uniforms stand out against the white bar top. Seeing them all working side by side, it’s hard not to notice that they’re all unfairly attractive. I’m starting to imagine how an interview to work here might go when one of the bartenders looks up and our eyes catch.
It’s my roommate, Josh. The low light has turned his usually brown hair almost black, and his uniform T-shirt highlights his broad chest and toned arms. His stubble is a little longer than usual, as if he’s left it an extra day. The effect has turned his normally boyish face into something else entirely.
I almost forgot how attractive he is.
Our paths usually cross in the early mornings, when he’s still sleep-crusted and wearing his ratty old sweats, or late at night, when he gets home from the bar and wakes me up because I’ve accidentally fallen asleep in front of the television…again. I don’t usually get the chance to appreciate the smoothness of his movements as he picks up a bottle and pours without even looking or notice the air he gives off: casually confident and good with his hands.
“Who is that?” Lainey’s boobs press into my shoulder. Her eyes are also fixed on Josh, who has turned his attention to a pair of blondes at the bar.
I can practically hear Lainey’s brain cranking out a plan for seduction, which absolutely cannot happen. I have, on occasion, run into the odd mussed-haired party girl exiting Josh’s bedroom, heels in hand, in the wee hours of the morning. Lainey in my living room tomorrow is not something I need to see.
“He has chlamydia,” I tell her, saying the first thing that comes to mind.
Lainey crinkles her nose but continues to watch him. “But that’s one of the curable ones, right?”
“No,” I lie.
She sighs. “Too bad. He’s cute. Come on. Let’s go dance.”
She takes off without waiting for me. I linger a moment longer until Josh looks up again. He lifts his hands as if to silently ask, What are you doing here?
I nod at Lainey’s friends, who have already formed a circle, chucking their jackets and purses into a nearby booth. They dance along to a Lady Gaga mash-up, double-fisting vodka sodas that have somehow magically appeared.
Josh shakes his head at them and then mouths a have fun to me. I respond with a double thumbs-up, which I immediately regret, knowing it did not come off as carefree or cute as I intended.
I really don’t want to be here. And yet I add my purse to the pile and wedge myself into the circle between the bride’s twin cousins, who are wearing matching tube dresses.
Lainey hands me a lemon drop. “Drink up, ladies!”
I take the shot glass from her hands. One of the twins turns and hands me hers as well.
“I can’t drink this,” she explains. “I’m doing paleo and it will totally mess with my diet.”
I down her shot, followed by my own. The vodka is cheap and burns my throat, but it also makes the music and the lighting all blur together into this hazy rhythm. Two more vodka sodas later, I find myself thinking, This isn’t so bad.
Then the DJ takes us back to the old school with that bump-and-grind Magic Mike song.
The girls woo wildly. Grinding on one another, they throw their arms up and their heads back. It acts like a signal. Drunk females over here. Things are about to get wild.
An outer circle of dudes is now surrounding us, circling like sharks.
I brace for the first attack.
My bet is on Lainey, with her smoky eyeliner and hypnotic hip sways, or maybe the bride-to-be, whose eyes are half-closed as she sways off-time to the music.
What I don’t see coming is the hand that snakes around my waist and the undeniable feeling of a dancing dick at my back.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I drop my drink—only partially by accident. It lands on his black Zara loafers.
He swears.
I dive straight into the booth, combing through the pile of coats, looking for my little black clutch.
There are three almost identical to it. But after some frantic sleuthing, I determine the pleather cross-body belongs to Lainey, the big-buckled envelope-style is Zoe’s, and the nondescript leather clutch is owned by the non-paleo twin. Mine, however, is nowhere to be found.
This is a life lesson. One I should have already known. You don’t put your purse in the coat pile without repercussions.
With the bass now booming so wildly, I can feel the reverberations all the way down to my toes. The last thread—the one that I’ve been dangling precariously from all evening—finally snaps.
I want to be in my sweatpants, watching Carson’s Cove, where everything turns out right. Not here, with my heels in the same shape as my emotional state: rubbed raw and in pain.
I want to go home.
But to get home, I need money.
And with my phone in my purse and my purse god knows where, the only way to get money is to borrow from Lainey, which at best means enduring a lecture about what a wet blanket I am.
Unless…
My eyes dart to the bar, where my other option is wiping down the counter and talking to a woman with excellent boobs.
Josh and I aren’t really friends.
We occasionally text each other the odd we’re out of paper towels or the water bill is high this month, but it’s not the kind of relationship where it’s normal to borrow money.
I hesitate, and as I do, a collective cheer goes up from the dance floor and the old-school mash-up morphs into a Katy Perry song interspersed with the sound of shooting laser beams.
My resolve crumbles and gives way to my survival instincts.
I head for the bar.