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This is exactly what the doctor ordered.
I sip my seltzer and watch Ashley and Ricole get ready for our girls’ night out. They’re both beautiful in different ways. Ashley is the girl next door with light red hair, and she’s currently adding mascara to her simple eye makeup. Ricole is the blonde of our group, and she’s straightening her bob over in front of the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Good golly, Miss Molly, my friends are pretty.
When the girls finish their makeup, they decide to help dress me. I’m notoriously indecisive, and they finally give up on waiting for me to pick an outfit. Ricole pulls a white spaghetti strap bodysuit out of my closet, and Ashley grabs a pair of faux leather pants. The body suit has a V that dips down below my navel, so I grab my boob tape out of my bathroom. I throw the outfit on and pair it with a pair of comfortable black flats. I already did a smokey eye that makes my gray eyes look sultry, and I curled my hair into soft beach waves that cascade over my shoulders.
“At the risk of sounding conceited, we look delectable as hell tonight. I’m so happy we get to celebrate you not getting fired, Alana,” announces Ricole.
I hold my phone up to snap a picture of us before our Uber pulls up. We all smile widely and pose together, happy to be reunited.
“Yay, I still work for Andreas The Terrible,” I quip as my phone dings. “Time to go. Our chariot awaits.”
We run down the stairs, jump into the waiting car, and head to Mass. Ave. It’s an area in Indianapolis with an active nightlife, bars, and welcoming atmosphere. Our poor driver is lucky enough to listen to us drunkenly argue.
“You really caused my bladder issues, you know,” Ricole says.
“No, I didn’t. You’re so dramatic,” I say and roll my eyes.
“Yes. I never had issues until you landed on my back while we were jumping on the trampoline. Ever since, I can’t laugh or sneeze without peeing a little.” She prattles on about her bladder, and I ignore her. This is a fight as old as time, and sometimes you’ve just gotta let her believe what she wants. That’s what happens when you’ve been friends since early elementary school. Sacrifices are made.
The first bar we go to is a small hole in the wall with cheap drinks. The interior and exterior of the building are weathered brick, and the lighting is low and artificial. There are wooden booths along the walls around the entire indoor perimeter. It looks old, and I’m obsessed. There’s an aroma in the air that makes me think they have a kitchen toward the back, and I can tell everything that comes out is fried and delicious.
The bar rail is also a dark, scarred wood. It’s stained with years of beer, and there are signatures written in Sharpie everywhere I can see. The bartender is one of those women who could be in her late thirties or early seventies, perpetually old and young like Morgan Freeman. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s probably worked here most of her life. She knows every person sitting at the rail and easily carries on conversations and grabs drinks before people say what they want. She has frizzy, graying brown hair, thick black glasses, and the biggest take-no-shit attitude. I love her immediately.
After the girls and I grab two rounds of drinks each, we head out front to the patio area. It’s beautiful and sits directly on the street, allowing us to people watch as we enjoy our drinks and gossip. The patio furniture is wrought iron and a little rusty, but the cushions tied to the seats look handmade. They’re red and blue and remind me of a quilt my grandma made me when I was a baby.
There are fire pits in three different spots, but thankfully they aren’t burning. It’s getting later into the evening, but it’s still easily ninety degrees. We sit, and the chit-chat that we engage in feels like it always does, comfortable and effortless.
We’re each on our third vodka cranberry of the night when Ricole blurts, “Fuck, I’ve missed this. I know you needed a fresh start, Al, but it isn’t the same at home without you.”
There are tears in her eyes as she finishes. You never know whether you’ll get the Ricole that cries or the Ricole that throat punches strangers. I’m happy it’s the crier tonight.
“I know, Ricky, but you guys are more than welcome to come to stay with me whenever you want. I’d just like to avoid Greg and Vivian for a little longer,” I murmur sadly.
I know I play tough, but a two-year relationship ending in cheating doesn’t exactly do wonders for a girl’s mental health. I know Ricole and Ashley both get it, though. They’re both leaving long-term relationships, too. Ricole left the cheating fuck, Matthew, and Ashley finally dumped pill head Eric. Eric was abusive, very controlling, and not good enough for her at all.
Ashley smiles and follows up with, “Is it bad that I don’t even miss Eric? Like, being single is weird, but I don’t miss him. He was toxic, and the relationship was over a long time ago. I’m relieved and excited about the next phase of my life.”
Immediately, I reply, “The best thing that ever happened to you was you waking up to what a loser he is, sis. The more distance between the two of you, the better.”
I love hearing that Ash has officially moved on from that waste of skin. Eric is tall, scrawny, and bad news. He’s always been a drinker, but during their relationship, he got hooked on prescription pills, too. I don’t know if the drugs made him more erratic, or if he was becoming more erratic because he was getting more comfortable as time went on.
Either way, he went from screaming and throwing shit when he was angry to purposefully cutting the tip of his finger off during an argument. One time, when Ashley and Eric were arguing while he was driving her car, he wrecked it into a ditch. Ricole and I have been patiently waiting for her to wake up and realize she deserves so much more than he could ever give her. Now that she has, I would really like to celebrate.
“Hey, let’s go somewhere with a little more hype. We need to dance before we get any more sentimental and end up holding each other and crying for the rest of the night,” I say while hopping up to go pay my tab.
The night air has a chill to it, and the streetlights seem to stretch on forever as we walk to the next bar. It’s only about a quarter of a mile down the street, and I’ve heard it’s lively and full of people our age.
“I didn’t wear the right shoes for all this walking,” Ashley complains as she glances back at us.
“You knew we were going dancing. Why do you think I wore flats?” I ask as I gesture toward my feet.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever. These heels make my calves look amazing.”
While the first bar we were at was old and charming, this bar is chic and new. The outside is stark white, with cute rainbow flags in the windows. We head in and see that they split the inside into four different areas, two on the first floor and two on the second, each with a bar rail and a bartender. In one area, there’s a DJ and a dance floor with colorful strobing lights.
The DJ is playing a remix to ‘Luv in this Club’ by Usher, Beyonce, and Lil Wayne. Ricole and I make eye contact and begin rapping to each other as soon as Lil Wayne’s verse starts. We used to drive around our hometown in Ricole’s Jetta and listen to Lil Wayne on the reg. So, this is comfort music for us.
The second area is full of plush black furniture and glass end tables, a few TVs playing a Cubs game, and warm lighting that makes it feel cozy and inviting. The third and fourth areas aren’t visible unless we go upstairs, but I’ve heard that they’re almost the same as this level, but with a different color scheme. We walk to the bar area and get in line to order drinks from the bartender. We catch his attention pretty quickly even though it’s busy, get our drinks, and hit the dance floor.
