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Caroline takes a swig of the beer. Did she misread the cues from last night? Dylan has beenwaitingfor her? This is so weird. “That was thoughtful. Thank you for this.”
“You look great tonight.”
It just so happens Carolinedoeslook great. She finally shed her sweatpants and put on cute jeans and a yellow halter top the size of a handkerchief. She blew out her hair and put on makeup because she has a plan, which is to photograph herself having fun at the Chicken Box and post it on her Instagram and Snapchat. She’s sure now that Isaac will see it and she wants him to know what he’s missing.
It would be even better if she posted a picture of herself having fun at the Box with Dylan, she thinks.
“Let’s take a selfie,” she says. She checks with Dylan—does he want to be seen with her beyond the confines of this bar?—and he immediately wraps an arm tightly around her and cheeses (he issohot, that can’t be denied). She snaps a bunch of pics.
“Is my mother here?” she asks.
“She and my mom are MIA,” Dylan says. “And I’mnotunhappy about that.”
The band, Maxxtone, is playing “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World, and although Caroline is grateful for music that isn’t off the Sirius XM oldies channels (her mother’s playlists areseriouslypainful), she says, “I’m going to the ladies’ room real quick.”
“I’ll wait here,” Dylan says. “Then we can dance.”
Caroline threads her way through the crowd of young, aggressively beautiful summer kids. Dylan could hook up with literally any girl he wants to, so Caroline isn’t sure why he’s paying attention to her, though it’s nourishing to her wounded ego. When she’s alone in the bathroom stall, she scrolls through the pictures, picks the one where she and Dylan look (a) the hottest and (b) the most “together,” and for a caption she writes,What happens at the Box…Then she posts. Mission accomplished.
When she gets back to the bar, she sees Dylan waiting with fresh beers, but before she reaches him, someone calls her name.
Caroline’s head swivels—she spies Dru-Ann and Brooke walking in the door. She waves them over to the bar and introduces them to Dylan.
“This is Tatum’s son,” she says. “Dylan, this is Dru-Ann, Mom’s friend from college, and Brooke, her friend from Wellesley.”
Dylan says, “Whoa, Ms. Jones, I watch you every week onThrow Like a Girl.This is so cool. You’re part of the weekend thing with my mom? She didn’t tell me.”
Dru-Ann thinks,Well, dude, there’s a reason for that. Then she thinks,I’ve been fired by ESPN, as you’ll find out when you tune in on Tuesday and find Crabby Gabby in my seat.But she won’t be a buzzkill tonight. “Yes, I am,” she says, offering a hand. She assesses Dylan’s stature and build. “Don’t tell me—college lacrosse.”
“Good guess,” he says. “I played one year at Syracuse.”
Syracuse? She’s impressed. “Only one year?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Then some things came up.”
Well, as Dru-Ann has learned with young athletes, “some things” could be grades, drugs, or sex. This kid is obviously a lady-killer so Dru-Ann is going to guess it was sex.
“Can I treat you to a round of shots?” he says.
“Yes, please!” Brooke says. It’s so warm in the bar that she gathers her hair in a bun on top of her head; she feels her cheeks flushing. She can’t believe she’s at the Box with Dru-Ann, who is so super-famous even Tatum’s son recognized her! Who cares about Electra Undergrove? (As she thinks this, she scans the crowd for Electra because if sheishere, Brooke will have to leave.) “Should we do Sex on the Beach?”
“There’s only one acceptable shot,” Dru-Ann says.
“Tequila,” Caroline and Dylan say together, and Dru-Ann thinks,Maybe there is hope for this generation.
Dylan orders four shots of Patrón; they all clink glasses, and down the hatch it goes.
The band segues into “Kiss” by Prince. “I want to dance!” Brooke says. She looks to Dru-Ann.
“I’m not your babysitter, girlfriend,” Dru-Ann says. “Go find some hot guy and hit the floor.”
Brooke wants Dru-Ann to come with her. She isn’t quite intoxicated enough to forget that she’s a middle-aged suburban housewife. But she won’t be needy. She was at a bar not unlike this when she met Charlie; she’ll just channel her carefree twenty-five-year-old self and try to attract a person who is the polar opposite of Charlie. She heads into the pulsing crowd.
Dru-Ann says, “I could use another shot. You guys?”
“Bet,” they say, and Dru-Ann brandishes her credit card like the girl-boss she used to be.
One hour and an undisclosed number of tequila shots later, Dru-Ann, Caroline, and Dylan head out to the dance floor as well. They find Brooke—okay, wow—in the center of a circle of Chads. (Dru-Ann can’t remember what a group of Chads is called. It’s either aprivilegeor aninheritance.) These boys are wearing white pants, pastel polos, belts needlepointed for them by their rich, idle mothers, and loafers without socks. They’re sloshing their vodka sodas around, cheering on their new mascot, Brooke.
