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“MILF!” pink-shirt Chad cries out while lilac-shirt Chad twirls Brooke under his arm.
“I have to go save her,” Dru-Ann says to Caroline and Dylan. She taps Brooke on the shoulder, and when Brooke sees her, she shrieks and throws an arm around Dru-Ann’s neck.
“This! Is! My! Friend!”
“Hey, it’s Dru-Ann fromThrow Like a Girl!” peach-shirt Chad says. He holds up his phone for a selfie, but Dru-Ann swats the phone away.
“No pictures.”
“Didn’t you getcanceled?” seafoam-green-shirt Chad says.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Dru-Ann says. She assesses the group and thinks:They aren’t tall enough for basketball, broad enough for football or hockey, lean enough for lacrosse or soccer. They probably play sucky golf and worse tennis. “I’m going to borrow the MILF. See you boys.” She leads Brooke to a spot over by the fire-exit doors where there’s room to breathe.
“Those guys just started talking to me,” Brooke says. The one in the peach, Archie, noticed Brooke during the band’s break when the DJ played “Through the Storm” and Brooke belted out every word. (Both her kids listen to rap and hip-hop exclusively; Brooke has heard the song hundreds of times.) Archie seemed to think a mom who liked YoungBoy Never Broke Again was cool—or maybe just an oddity—and he introduced Brooke to his friends. That was fun, but she’d much rather have been dancing with Dru-Ann.
When the band plays “Watermelon Sugar,” Dylan grinds up behind Caroline. She raises her arm with her phone and snaps some pictures. These will drive Isaac crazy. The band segues into “Champagne Supernova” and Dylan puts his hands on Caroline’s hips and spins her around to face him. Then he leans down and kisses her. This time it goes much better—maybe because of the music or the crush of bodies around them or all the tequila. Caroline is making out with Dylan McKenzie and she’s enjoying it!
But a second later, there’s a shockingly cold, wet assault to the side of Caroline’s head. Someone’s drink runs down Caroline’s face and neck—it smells like rum and Coke—and stains her yellow top brown. Caroline wipes her eyes and sees—surprise, surprise—horrible, awful mean girl Aubrey Collins holding an empty plastic cup.
“Get away from him!” Aubrey screams.
“Aubrey, what the hell?” Dylan says. “I’m so sorry, Caroline.” He pulls a bar towel out of his back pocket and Caroline uses it to mop herself up.
“So the two of you are Instagram official, then?” Aubrey says, sneering at Caroline. “I saw your post. But I’m sorry to tell you, he’smybaby daddy—so, girl, bye.”
Oh my God,Caroline thinks.Is this happening again?The good thing is that now Caroline knows exactly what to do. She’s been thinking about it for years.
Caroline smiles and presses the gross bar towel into Aubrey’s hand.What happens at the Box,she thinks.
“He’s all yours, psycho,” Caroline says, and she heads out the side door—wet, sticky, and deeply satisfied.
39. Slice
The band plays one great song after another—the Violent Femmes, the Cure, Weezer—and the group of Chads keep Brooke’s and Dru-Ann’s drinks flowing. When the lights come up and the lead singer launches into “Closing Time,” Dru-Ann steers Brooke around the couples who are about to hook up and out the side door—where they run smack into a ridiculously long line of people waiting for cabs.
No,Dru-Ann thinks.This won’t do.She’ll call an UberXL. Hell, she’ll use Alto, the world’s most expensive rideshare app. Do they have Alto on Nantucket? No, it turns out, they do not. UberXL, then—but the nearest one is thirty-seven minutes away. They should have left the bar earlier. It’s past one now; at this rate, they won’t make it back to Hollis’s until two. Dru-Ann hits Confirm Ride because what else can she do, it’s too far to walk—then she sees the pizza parlor across the street, Sophie T’s, is open.
Yes!she thinks. She’sstarving;the chicken and frites at Nautilus were a lifetime ago. “Follow me,” Dru-Ann says to Brooke. “We’re getting a slice.”
Soon Dru-Ann and Brooke are holding hot, delightfully floppy pieces of pepperoni pizza. They take their paper plates outside and sit on the curb with their legs stretched out into the parking lot.
It’s come to this,Dru-Ann thinks. “So what’s up with your hubby?” she says. “He’s in trouble?”
“He groped someone at work. The new twenty-three-year-old brand manager, Irish Fahey.”
“Cool name,” Dru-Ann says.
“She’s pressing charges for sexual misconduct. The sheriff came on Thursday to serve Charlie.”
“Did he have anything to say for himself?”
“He claims he was kidding around. What Charlie thinks is ‘funny’ is gross, inappropriate, and offensive.” Brooke takes a bite of pizza and executes an impressive cheese-pull.
“I’m well acquainted with a lot of Charlies,” Dru-Ann says.
“It’s not the first time this has happened,” Brooke says. “He groped a server at the Oak Room in Boston a couple years ago. That one settled out of court.”
“Jeez, Brooke.”
