“Tell me you love me,” he whispered as he pushed my hair off of my face.
I smiled, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Before I could even take a swig of Nyquil, I was out.
“You’re a damn idiot,” Cassie rolled her eyes as she tried to flag down the bartender at Oliver’s Tavern.
Except her nasty comment wasn’t directly at the cute, hipster bartender, it was directed at me.
“You’ve been in love with Michael since the first day you met him, I remember you going on and on about how he made you shake his hand,” she said, annoyed at both me and now the hipster.
Cassandra was not used to not getting her way, or in this case, her order taken. She was growing increasingly annoyed at the bartender for not paying attention to her despite her best efforts.
I looked around the bar. I couldn’t help but notice the place was overly crowded for a Thursday evening, containing mostly an older scene. I checked my watch; it wasn’t even nine, way too early for this kind of crowd. Even through all of the yuppie noise, I could hear Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life” playing over the speakers and had a brief flashback to summer camp. In the left corner of the room I noticed a group of four good-looking men in suits, probably bankers, laughing too loudly. Finally, the exasperated bartender appeared in front of us.
Before he could even ask what we wanted, Cassandra said, “It’s about time! Gin and tonic, and not any of that cheap well shit. Make sure you put Tanqueray in there.” she commanded without even looking up, “I can tell the difference.”
A little embarrassed by her tenacity I said sheepishly, “Jack and Coke. Please.” Adding the please as an attempt to soften the experience and minimize the chances of spit being in her drink in addition to her high-class gin.
He made the drinks in record time and slammed them down in front of us, spilling a good amount of mine onto the bar, but thankfully missing any of my clothes.
“I mean,” she started in again as she plucked the lime out of her drink and dropped it onto the bar, “I can’t believe you haven’t done anything about this sooner.”
She sipped her drink and then finally met my gaze. I suddenly felt very alert.
“Woah, wait a minute, I’m not doing anything. What are you talking about?” I said, a little confused by her vigilant attitude.
She looked at me, straw in mouth, and cocked her head to the side as if to say “You know what I mean.”
“Cass, Michael and I are just friends.” I said calmly, hoping to disarm the attack that I knew was coming. Clearly not buying it, Cassandra let out a laugh, but it sounded more like a snort. “Sure, he’s a good-looking guy, but I’m not doing anything! For starters, I have a boyfriend who I love.” I pressed my hands to my chest, watching as she shook her head at me.
Even though Cassandra was my best friend, she had only met Nicholas a handful of times and for some reason unbeknownst to me, she wasn’t his biggest fan. I believed her disdain for him had something to do with the first time they met. He had made a joke about her name; I couldn’t recall the details since I was already three or four drinks in when the misunderstanding happened, but the whole ordeal had left a bad taste in Cassie’s mouth.
“Secondly,” I said and then paused to take a sip of my drink. I suddenly felt a strong relief from the alcohol that was in front of me, “Michael has a girlfriend, in case you had forgotten.”
“Hello! Who lives in Phoenix!” she practically shouted, at the same time as the bartender walked by. He shot us a look, and then smiled politely.
“That bartender’s pretty cute; you shouldn’t be such a bitch to him,” I muttered.
“Don’t try to change the subject, Amy!” she said, now grinning. She held up one finger and shook her head. Her blonde hair bounced from side to side.
She was the only person on earth who could get away with calling me Amy. After all, Amy is in no way short for Amalia, but in eighth-grade gym class she decided my actual name was too much of a mouthful and has been calling me Amy ever since. She could obviously tell I was not amused by this conversation, so she finally pulled back.
“Fine,” she said, softening. “I am sorry I even so much as implied that you could do better than Nicholas Anderson.” She crossed her legs and started looking around the bar, as if this conversation was suddenly boring her.
I shook my head and clapped in front of her face to regain her attention. “It’s not a question of doing better, Cass. I love Nick, he’s my boyfriend. Michael is in a relationship and regardless of geography he and Marge seem to be doing fine, so moving on!” I said in a self-declaring rant, and then downed the rest of my drink.
Cassandra, not knowing when to leave well enough alone concluded with, “Marge, ugh! I even hate her name.”
“We’re moving on!”
Now I was the one practically yelling.
We both looked at each other and burst out laughing. We’ve been friends for ten years and had never gotten into a real fight. Sure there were moments when we would get short with each other, but it always ended with a laugh, knowing how ridiculous we sounded. She flipped her short, golden hair back, and gave me a light punch on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” someone said from behind us.
I turned around to a very well-dressed man in what I assumed was an expensive, and well-tailored, suit. It was one of the laughing bankers from the corner. I noticed he had grayish eyes and recalled earlier that day in class, when I had learned how rare that physical trait was. All in all, a good-looking man.
“Are you sisters?” he asked as he leaned in a little closer to us.
When he came closer I could tell he was older than Cassie and I, definitely late twenties or possibly even thirty. I turned to Cassandra, expecting her to answer with some quick retort, but she just sat there, staring at the guy. I felt the need to jump in.
“No, sorry. We’re not sisters,” I offered, not really sure why I felt the need to apologize, but he seemed completely disinterested in what I had to say and continued looking at Cassandra.
She finally recovered from her swoon and said, “That’s right, we’re not sisters. People always ask us if we’re related, though, because we have the same hair color.”
I loosely grabbed a handful of Cassandra’s, barely shoulder-length, hair and held it up to my own in an attempt to justify this comment. My hair was about five inches longer than her hair, hanging down the middle of my back. Despite this difference, the coloring was virtually the same.
“Dirty blondes?” he smirked.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at him. Anyone over the age of 18 should never make a joke that pedestrian. He barely noticed my dismay.
“Bryce Peterson,” he said. I work for Ernst and Young, in accounting”.
Bryce took a sip of his beer and then continued, “I just started working there this week, so a few of my buddies and I are out celebrating. What are your names? What do you do?”
I thought it was odd that he offered up his credentials without us even asking. Also, his questions were directed at both of us, but it seemed clear he was only