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I hear the doorbell and the sound of muffled voices. With just enough time to get on a layer of mascara and lip gloss, I give myself one last glance and then head out to meet my glamorous gal pal.
And she does not disappoint. Covered from shoulder to knee in violet sequins, Wanda looks like a movie star. Her hair is natural, framing her face like an angel. She wrinkles her nose affectionately when she sees me.
“Now, there’s the hottie I remember!” she coos.
Clay clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes slightly. Though I brace myself for another round of teasing, he only gives me a silent, tightlipped smile of approval.
“Nothing?” I say as I pause in front of him. “Not a word? Not a joke? Are you sure?”
He opens the door gallantly and makes a small bow.
“You ladies have a nice time,” he murmurs. “Call if you need a ride or whatever. You look… You both look beautiful.”
Strangely, I feel sort of awkward without my daily dose of teasing. I follow Wanda into the driveway as she casts me a questioning look.
“Are you guys sleeping together?”
I open my mouth to object, then close it again.
“Whatever, it’s none of my business,” she finishes in a hurry. “But if you’re not? You should be. That boy is smitten with you.”
I shake my head, scowling. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Smitten,” she repeats. “Smited. Smoted. Whatever the word is, he is it.”
“You’re imagining things,” I shrug as I start the car.
“Penny, he could not take his eyes off you. If his eyes had been little hands he would have been undressing you.”
“That’s kind of gross, Wanda. Eyes are not hands.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” she snaps as she flips down the visor to check her lipstick in the mirror. “He’s got it bad. Like, seriously bad. You should hook up with him.”
“Where is this place? Can you find it in the GPS?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Wanda huffs, but she does it anyway.
I don’t know why, but I don’t really want to talk about this yet. I don’t really know what she is going to say. After all, she knew Clay as the one who got away. And now here we are, but it’s still not… real. It’s just hooking up.
Hot, sweaty, satisfying hooking up.
Rationally, I know that Wanda is the last person who would judge me for that, so I don’t know why I’m hesitant.
I should be happy! It’s done wonders for my skin and posture, that’s for sure.
The club is on the far side of campus, and as we drive up I can see why we didn’t know that it was lady-friendly. It looks like one of those old man bars, with a Pabst neon in the front window and bars on the door.
But as we walk up, I notice the bouncer is wearing really expensive jeans. The thud of a heavy base reverberates through the gravel-strewn alley next door.
“Are we waiting for her?” I ask in a low voice. I don’t know why, but I just feel like this is the sort of neighborhood where people don’t shout.
“She’s already inside,” Wanda answers, digging out her ID for the bouncer.
We are way past college age, so he just glances at our out-of-state identification and lets us pass. Once inside, we could be anywhere. New York, Illinois, probably every state in the union. It’s the same old vintage bar: wood paneling, pool tables, electronic darts. Vinyl barstools. Glittering racks of glassware.
My gaze sweeps the room, taking in the patrons. It’s almost entirely women, with a couple of elderly gentleman in their overcoats way at the end of the bar, hunched over their mugs. They don’t seem to be aware of what’s going on around them. Probably regulars.
But everyone else is dressed up. Tall hair, or no hair. Muscles, tattoos, or none. Lipstick or not. But friendly, reciprocal. They check us out as we check them out. I’m happy to see the welcoming smiles, the unspoken shaking of hands that says: we are all on the same side.
