Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (11 page)

After eavesdropping on a debate about the all-time-hottest movie ghost (Patrick Swayze narrowly edging out Beetlejuice), Luke finally opened his eyes. “I can’t believe you listen to this all day.”

“I know. It’s horrific.”

“Horrific? This is absolutely amazing.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“This actually might be the greatest thing to ever happen to us.”

“Us?”

“Dude, you’re getting a sneak peek at the other team’s playbook,” Luke said.

“I think I’m going to come clean tonight. Tell them I can hear everything they say.”

Before my optic nerve could transmit the visual information of his movement from my retina to my brain, Luke was inches away from my face with his hand around the back of my collarless neck, squeezing it tight. I was stunned and could find no way out of his grip, which was fine because, quite honestly, it felt like a really good deep-tissue massage. He came in real close and whispered, “You will not tell them a thing. Do you understand me?” I quickly nodded. “I’m doing this for your own good.” I nodded again. It’s not that I can’t hold my own, but it would’ve been foolish to fight a guy who’s a good six inches taller and has fifty pounds on me.

As if she knew I was in danger, Claire yelled from upstairs, “Oh my God,
Cosmo
’s new horoscope says I should hook up with a guy because the moon is waxing. I don’t know what that means, but I’m totally gonna do it.” This made Luke ease up on his kung-fu grip, prematurely ending my free massage.

“This vent doesn’t lead to an apartment, Charlie. It leads to heaven. I must meet these angels, particularly the one confused by lunar phases.” I took a deep sigh of relief. I guess it was time to party.

THE GIRLS ON DRINKING

Dear Girls Above Me,

“No joke, I’m never drinking again—Wait, is Jen’s party tonight?! Next week I’m never drinking again.” A quote from every Friday.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“You know the worst part about not having a job?” Not making your own income? “Being the only one getting drunk during the week.”

Dear Girls Above Me,

“The worst part about these stupid antibiotics is I can’t have any alcohol. I’d rather die.” I’d rather be on stupid antibiotics.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Here’s the plan for tonight: we stay in, drink red wine, and do kegel exercises.” Let me know if you guys need a spotter.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“If we wanna leave her party, say the words,
I’m super drunk
.” This might be confusing as you actually get “super drunk.”

Dear Girls Above Me,

“My version of white water rafting is to down a bottle of chardonnay.” My version of white water rafting is white water rafting.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“He only had beer! I mean, obviously I wanna get drunk, but I’m not gonna get fat while doing it.” So beer is what kept you sober?

CHAPTER TEN

I stood in a packed room that, to my left, stank of alcohol and marijuana, which had been steadily wafting in from the balcony. To my right, a lethal mixture of Prada perfume and Hugo Boss cologne enveloped the living room. For the record, I prefer the alcohol and marijuana.

The more people behaved foolishly around me, trying desperately to look like extras in a Captain Morgan commercial, the more I missed my ex and the ease with which we had a good time. Everyone says they love the “honeymoon” period. For me the “honeymoon” period is nothing but a series of contrived feel-good moments, plucked from those tedious ensemble holiday rom-coms. I’m a strong advocate of living my life in the “comfortable” period. Who wants to wear a suit when you can wear pajamas? But that’s probably the very thing that broke us up. She never did like my bedtime flannels.

As far as I could tell, every single girl in the room was wearing
a pastel-colored shirt. Some went with the traditional Palm Beach country club look, while others altered this convention (with scissors) to go for more of the “conservative slut” look. And there I was, one of only two guys who actually dressed up to suit the theme of the party. The other guy wore a chartreuse Lacoste shirt and matching suede shoes, which all went horribly with his naturally orange hair. He stood all alone in the corner of the room, bobbing his head off-beat to the music. When he became aware of my arrival, he raised his glass of Pinot, toasting me, and yelled out, “We’ve got ourselves a party!” I wasn’t exactly sure why two men in delicate-colored T-shirts were the linchpin of a great party, but I had no interest in finding out.

“The name’s Wyatt,” he yelled out to me over a sea of gyrating people.

“Cool.” I had to give him something, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be my name.

“We should totally chill all night ’cause we’re in these shirts, you know?” This made me want to change my shirt immediately. Thankfully, all I had to do was walk down a flight of stairs.

I bolted for the exit. Luke was already mingling with multiple female contenders, so I felt zero remorse leaving him alone for a moment. As I approached the door that would lead me out of my current nightmare, a couple of familiar voices held me back.

“Hey, you can’t leave yet!” Claire called to me in a drunken lilt.

“Yeah, you aren’t allowed to leave for like three hundred hours,” Cathy added.

I slowly turned around, hoping they were talking to someone else. They weren’t. “Hey, you guys.”

“You guys? You’re the guy! Hi, my name’s Claire.”

Was I that unmemorable? Did I look that much different in a pastel
shirt? I had literally sat on her couch and almost started sobbing in front of her when I landed on my ex-girlfriend in the texting game only twenty-four hours ago. How did she not remember me? Surely Cathy was bound to know who I was.

“Claire, you idiot. You know him. That’s Stephanie’s new lawyer boyfriend!”

“Oh my God, that’s you! Now I remember!” Claire’s eyes lit up.

I tried reasoning with them. “Wait, what? No, I can assure you that’s not me—”

“Of course that’s you! You’re all smart, using lawyer words like
assure
.” They had a point; I did use that word.

“I’m pretty certain that’s a common word in the English language,” I said, unsure why.

“Uh-huh.
Certain, common
, you can’t even pretend not to be all smart,” Cathy shouted.

“And you’re wearing such a cute shirt,” Claire said to me in her forever-whining voice. Shirt-ah.

“I was actually thinking about putting on something else. The men here don’t seem to be participating in the theme.”

“Don’t change! That’s so Lamesville, USA! Hey, where’s Stephanie?”

“She’s on her way.” I guess I’m officially someone who is defeated easily by females. Not only did I accept my role as the boyfriend of Stephanie, a girl whom I’d never met, but I was also somehow persuaded to stay in my Peachy V. Looked like it was going to be a “Charlie and Wyatt” night.

As Cathy and Claire prepared celebratory shots, I directed my attention over at Luke, who seemed to be deep in conversation with Bridget. I could only imagine the rehearsed bullshit he was feeding her. This is how their conversation went in my head:

BRIDGET:
And that’s when I realized I was destined to save the beluga whales.

LUKE:
You’re an incredible human being. You know that, right?

BRIDGET:
You think so? It’s just, they can’t fight the fight on their own.

LUKE:
I know, I know. So … speaking of beluga whales—

BRIDGET:
Yeah, I’ll totally suck your dick.

Mistaking my daydreaming for gazing longingly at Bridget, Claire leaned into me and said, “I won’t tell Stephanie you want Bridget.”

“Oh, no, no. I don’t want her at all.”

“Oh my God, are you gay?”

“No, it’s just that I’m in a relationship with … Stephanie. And I care about her very much.” Who had I become, Mr. Ripley?

She leaned in even closer. “I may be drunk, but I can tell you’re lying. I know you don’t really love Stephanie.” Well, at least she was right about something.

I had no idea how to respond to her. I was living this lie too hard to remind Claire that I was her downstairs neighbor.

“Come on, go talk to her. She’s way easier than she looks.” And with those eloquent words of wisdom, Claire shoved me in the direction of Bridget and Luke. I faintly heard Claire say to Cathy, “A V-neck does not suit Stephanie’s boyfriend at all.” In my head, I immediately started composing a letter:

Dear Urban Outfitters,

I recently patronized your establishment and was helped with my purchase by a bespectacled man named Sunshine. I would like to bring it to your attention that he let me buy a new Peachy with the V-neck, even though I obviously would have looked better in the regular collar. There were also thoughts in his head comparing me to a giant peach from a clay animation feature film for children. I have no hard evidence of this but strongly suspect it to be true. Is this the kind of customer service you’re comfortable providing? Enclosed, please find my address, where you can send my full refund and a photo of Sunshine being fired.

As I came nearer to the chattering couple, I bookmarked my mental letter. Luke stared me down with widened eyes, as if he were trying to tell me something. I paused, not understanding our form of communication. I mouthed a
what
, hoping for a clearer signal, but all I got were larger eyes and a raised upper lip. Did he want me to save him from this conversation with Bridget or was he telling me to leave him alone? I tried using a few on-the-cuff hand signals, hoping that might clarify things a bit. It didn’t. Bridget, of course, had no idea any of this was going on as she rambled on.… Wait, did I just hear her say
beluga?

Luke mouthed back at me, “Ticktock,” I believed.

Ticktock? Well, that could have meant any number of things. Maybe he was making a reference to the amount of time he was wasting talking to Bridget and wanted me to get him the hell out of
there? Or maybe he was signaling me to tell the DJ to play the Ke$ha song “Tik Tok”? Or maybe he was sweetly informing me of a bomb he had planted and was allowing me the opportunity to get out of Dodge? So many possibilities, each of them equally likely. But after he aggressively mouthed
ticktock
a few more times and pointed to Bridget with his eyes, I decoded that he needed me for my saving skills.

“Hey, guys,” I said to the floundering couple. At least Bridget seemed to know me as someone other than Stephanie’s boyfriend.

“What are you doing here?” Luke replied in what sounded like a combative tone. I guess he was playing along as if he didn’t need my services, so that Bridget wouldn’t suspect anything. This made me out to be the bad guy, but sometimes those are the sacrifices that need to be made for a friend in need.

“Luke, I’m gonna need you to come with me to the foyer,” I said with the utmost confidence.

“Wait, why?” Bridget asked me. I don’t blame her. The poor girl must have really felt as if they were making a connection.

“Sorry, Bridget. Just need to chat with my compadre here. I got an emergency call from one of his family members.” And with that I whisked him away, leaving Bridget alone with no one to talk to for a few seconds until the next guy approached her.

Meanwhile, Luke was giving an impressively concerned performance.

“What the fuck happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Luke, you can stop now. She’s not even looking over here.”

“What the hell are you talking about!?”

Hmm … Could there be a slight smidgen of a possibility that Luke and I had gotten lost in translation somewhere? Would that mean that I not only yanked him away from a girl guaranteed to give
him a great blow job, but that I also guided him to believe a family tragedy had occurred? Don’t feel too bad; this is Luke we’re talking about. He’d have been more distressed over the missed blow-job opportunity than the dead relative.

“Charlie, tell me what’s going on.”

“Ticktock? Now, what exactly did you mean by that?” I was still having a hard time figuring out if Luke was really committed to making our interaction believable or if he was just upset.

“
Ticktock? Cock block
, you idiot! I saw you coming over and was calling you a cock block.” Daniel Day-Lewis Luke is not.

“Oh, cock block. They’re very similar when being mouthed, you know.” Speaking of cock blocks, I decided to protect mine with my hands in case he was considering seeking some below-the-belt revenge.

“Sorry about that. Look, it’s not too late.…” I began to say, but then realized it was. Bridget had already found herself a new suitor. The douchiest one of them all—the Con-Man. Without even glancing over at Luke, I could tell he was furious with me.

“Will you let me go talk to sluts without getting in the way?” Luke calmly asked. And I was grateful for the new tone.

“Yes. I will let you talk to sluts.”

“That’s What Friends Are For” was written for moments like this.

“Will you be okay alone?”