I’ve been home under a week and my simple life has turned into a whirlwind. Work isn’t about serving people the ‘talky juice’ so they spill their beans anymore. It’s turned into more questions than answers. More suggestions than opinions. People don’t want to sit there and just talk. They want to diagnose love with me.
It’s absolutely miserable!
I wrote a book about a girl who wanted to prove a point. And in the end, she did. She showed that love is not about the outside person. It’s about the inside person. A girl who faked who she was and watched all these people fall for her. Abby, who is not me, found men on Facebook. Gave them the virtual words any man would want to hear while they stared at the cliché fake photo she posted. Then, Abby went out and met these guys in person. Pretending to be a stranger, just in the way, a simple girl asking if that seat was taken, or just simply a human asking to have a conversation. Every time, those men turned her down. And every time it proved Abby was right. Men nowadays wanted the looks. Not the brains, or the insides. It was a sickness in society no one was willing to cure. It was the reason why Abby was destined to always be single.
Again, disclaimer, I was not Abby.
I wasn’t worried about being Abby. I was worried about the single population of women out there throwing the wrong vibes out into the lion’s den just to get a bite. I didn’t want to be the love whisperer and offer sessions in the back room and tell every single woman who walked through those bar doors how to handle love. I just wanted someone to realize they were worth more than just a pickup line. More than a free drink, a pointless game of flirting, darts, and a one-night stand.
But people just wanted to analyze. In life, it’s natural to take sides. Everyone does it. People were on one side or the other. They agreed or they didn’t. It was when Chrissy fucking Baker walked into the bar that really set the lines.
“Oh, look who it is, The Doctor Phil of Ohio,” the Witch of the West says walking up with her butt buddy Stacey. Lucky for me, they take the two open stools in front of the bar. Right in front of my section.
“Wow, you two look great! I’m sorry, though, I didn’t know it was eighties night. I would’ve dressed up for it,” I comment back, grabbing for the beer spout and pouring a draft.
Both girls look at one another clueless and back at me. “What are you talking about?”
Clearly, I’ll keep the explanation to myself.
“Nothing. What can I get you, girls?”
“I’ll take a Cosmo.”
“I’ll take a lemon drop martini.”
They both spit their fancy orders at me like they’re on the set of a Sex in the City episode. Not that we don’t serve that fufu shit, but if you read the sign outside, we’re a dive bar and as I know how to make martinis, you’re just in the wrong place for those.
“Super, coming right up,” I chirp, walking away, grabbing for the cheapest vodka we have.
“So, Katie, do tell, how did you pull this one off?”
I turn my head, pouring the vodka into the shaker. “Pull what off?”
Both giggling, Chrissy sticks out her shoulders, responding, “This whole book thing? I mean, come on, no one believes you actually wrote it, do they? You’re clearly some sort of decoy for a bigger author trying to keep in the dark.”
I turn away, clenching my fingers around the vodka bottle. My eyes close, taking a deep breath, before I slap my fake smile on my face and face them again. “Can’t say I know what you mean?” I return, finishing and bringing both drinks in front of them, tempted to knock them over into their laps.
“It’s just that… You’re not really a, how do we say… a dateable person. I don’t mean to say it in a mean way, but come on. You don’t date. No one has seen you with a guy. And if so, nothing they would take serious. So, there’s no way you could write a book on it.”
Her evil eyes meet mine. I do my best to show nonchalance, but her words struck home. I’m not one to deny or make excuses for my track record. Or lack of. It’s life, obviously. But when someone throws it in your face, then tries to then stomp on the dirty already in your eyes, you tend to kind of… well, slip.
“Oh, I agree. I have absolutely no track record with love. But when I was making all this money I had no idea what to do with, I was also having a ton of animal sex with a book model. Charlie Bates? Not sure you know the name, I barely did, but shit, he sure knows how to make music with my labia. I’m talkin’, like humming and buzzing all over that shit until your insides start vibrating. Any who. Yeah. Love? What’s love? Nowadays I only know about vibrating vaginas.” I smile widely and turn to Stacey. “But, Stacey, you and Brent probably know about vibrating vaginas, right?” I offer her my biggest wink and turn, walking down the bar. I don’t turn to witness the questions or the blowout. I walk all the way down the bar, past the eyeing Dex and past Randy, who I let know I’m taking a break, and as cool as a cucumber go back to the office and hide until I stop shaking.