At least he had the decency to wait until the end of the school year to break up with me so I didn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of seeing him every day. Now I have the entire summer to get used to this new situation. 

This is what I’m telling myself, as I enter my neighborhood wine and liquor store, in my four-inch stacked-heel mules and dark sunglasses, with my head held high. My plan is to grab a bottle of something with over twelve percent alcohol in it and get back to my apartment without making eye contact with anyone.

After spending the past two days holed-up in my apartment, listening to break-up songs and eating expired pasta and cookies, it took me an hour to get ready to walk here. I did not want to risk running into my ex and his new girlfriend while looking like a hobo and scouting for booze. Hence, the armor of skinny jeans, heels, shiny straightened hair and cherry-tinted lip gloss that is so slick it looks like I’ve been making out with a pan of bacon grease (I wish). I may be an inexperienced shell-shocked first grade teacher on the inside, but on the outside I would be highly ranked in Maxim magazine’s Hot 100 Most In-Denial Dumped Women Who Need To Get Drunk Fast.

My parents raised me to be an optimist. They taught me to look on the bright side of life, to see and speak of the good in people, and to never swear out loud. And so, it is with this attitude that I am grateful to my cluckhead former fiancé, who is the principal of the elementary school I teach at, for being so courteous. He waited until the Saturday after the last day of the school year to come clean about falling in love with a twenty-two year old nanny named Sadie, whom he has been secretly boinking for two months.

Or, to put it another way—after being together for three years, the motherflorker cheated on me for two whole months and now I get to spend my summer break hating him, regretting the last three years of my life, dreading the next school year, and considering finding a job at another school, thus leaving the Brooklyn neighborhood, co-workers, kids, and community that I love just to avoid seeing the crasshole’s stupid face again. 

At least now I have the luxury of getting drunk on a weekday. See—I just can’t help but put a positive spin on things. It’s a curse.

I’ve never drowned my sorrows before, but it seems like the thing to do. My best friend Marnie came over yesterday to bring me a shoulder to cry on, several little packages of baby wipes, a handful of protein bars and a big baggie full of goldfish crackers and carrot sticks. She’s a mom. She’s the only person I’ve told so far about this whole scenario.

What’s weird is—I haven’t actually cried yet. I was angry. Now I feel numb. I figure I should go through the motions of all the break-up behaviors exhibited in movies and TV shows, so I can move things along. Not one of the Taylor Swift, Adele, Rihanna or Pink heartbreak songs have gotten to me, so my plan is to get drunk, listen to country music and force myself to cry, even if I pop a blood vessel doing it. If “Need You Now” by Lady Antebellum doesn’t move me to tears then I will call Marnie’s husband’s therapist in the morning. Or try a different kind of alcohol.

I wish I’d Googled “best alcoholic drink for recent break-ups” before coming here. I usually drink wine but I want to try something different. Something unfamiliar. Something more…virile than I’m used to. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Something that will make me feel something.

I remove my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust to the lighting in the store. It’s twilight outside, perfectly believable that I’ve been out all day and just forgot to remove my sunglasses until now. The man at the cash register nods at me. I’ve never been to this store without Russell before. I’ve barely been anywhere in New York without Russell, now that I think about it. How sad is that? I wave at the man and try to look like someone who isn’t coming in here to grab a bottle of alcohol to take home and get drunk on by herself.

I hear the jostling of the bells above the door as I plant myself in front of an aisle full of bottles that look like they mean business. Tonight I’m not interested in those bottles of wine with the punny names and cute labels. Tonight I want a bottle with a skull and crossbones on it—well, a cute skull and crossbones at least. Tonight I want…I turn my head to look at the guy who’s talking to the man at the cash register. They are joking with each other with ease—that Carroll Gardens neighborhood familiarity that I just don’t have yet because I’ve always had Russell by my side.

Speaking of sides—the view of this guy’s back side is enough to drive a girl to drink. He must be a butt model. Is that a thing? The way his butt looks in those jeans just makes me want to do a little happy dance. This is the first time I’ve let myself pay attention to a cute guy butt in three years. Russell’s butt was perfectly decent, but nothing to write home about. I would write a blog about this guy’s butt. I could write a dissertation on this guy’s butt.

He’s wearing a grey V-neck T-shirt and black jeans, expensive shoes. I don’t know why, but it looks like he could just get totally naked in three seconds, like the clothes are only there to keep him from getting arrested. I also don’t know why I can’t stop picturing this guy naked and on top of me. I have to tear my eyes away from him. My cheeks are on fire. What is happening? I’m a first grade teacher from Bloomington, Indiana—I do not have sexy thoughts about complete strangers in New York liquor stores. I didn’t even allow myself to fantasize about Tom Hiddleston while I was in a relationship with Russell and I really really wanted to. I’ve never seen this man before in my life, and already I’m imagining what it would feel like to have him inside of me. The kind of guy I’ve never spoken to before, the kind of guy who’d never pay any attention to me.

I look away and back to the liquor bottles in front of me at the exact moment that I see him turn towards me out of the corner of my eye. I can feel my heart racing. I feel like I’m thirteen and just spotted a cute boy while buying bubblegum at the 7-11. This is so dumb. I’m going to count to ten in French and when I’m done I will be as calm, cool and collected as a French lady.

Un, deux, trois…

Oh merde, he’s standing four feet from me. He smells amazing—like a spicy misty forest that I want to run through in a white silk nightgown.

“You look like you could use a little help.”

Oh God, that sexy voice. I can feel that voice in my panties. I glance over at him. He’s smirking. Oh God, that smirk. I look behind myself, but there’s no one directly behind me. He’s looking at me. He’s smirking at me. His whiskey-brown eyes are making me feel warm and tingly down through my center, and they should come with a warning label but I bet every single woman he looks at the way he’s looking at me right now would ignore it anyway.

“Me?”

He laughs. “You.”

Do not say anything about him helping you by getting naked or putting his penis inside of you. “Oh. Yes. Do you work here?” I’m so proud of myself for saying six words without stuttering.

“No, but I do know my way around liquor. Professionally. I used to be a bartender. You looking for anything in particular?”

“Yes. A bottle of something with a lot of alcohol in it.” I barely recognize my own voice. It’s husky. Maybe I’m coming down with a summer cold.

“Well, you’ve come to the right store.” He was probably born with a husky voice.

“I usually drink wine, but I wanted to try something with a little more of an…edge?” I smirk.

I smirk?

I don’t smirk.

I am definitely smirking.

He grins and crosses his arms in front of his chest. This seems to please him. He leans towards me and looks kind of like a doctor diagnosing a patient and says: “Okay. You want something you can mix with something else, or straight up?”

“I should probably mix something with something else first. Nothing too girly or fruity though.”

“Got it.” He passes behind me and stands to my left, scanning the shelves. The nearness of him is almost electrifying. Some people have that kind of energy—especially in New York City. I’ve been around it, never touched it on purpose. People like that are the third rail, and I’ve always stood as far away as possible from the yellow lines at the subway station. But something in this guy’s eyes tells me he has no interest in hurting me. “Mind if I ask what kind of mood you’re in?”

“Does it matter?”

“Oh yeah. It matters.”

Oh Schmidt—he has tattoos. He has a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm.

“Um. I think I’ll just get gin and tonic. Thanks, though.” The alarm in my brain is definitely telling my feet to move away from him, but they are not listening.

“Oooh. G & T?” He wrinkles his brow and steps a little closer to me. “At eight o’clock in Brooklyn, alone on a Monday night? I don’t think so. Gin and tonics are for sipping on your yacht at the Hamptons while you’re watching the sunset like an asshole.”

“Oh well I guess that’s what I’ll be drinking tomorrow then.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and face him, wrinkling my brow, mirroring him. “I’ve never watched a sunset like an asshole before. What exactly does that entail?”

He shrugs. “Loafers, no socks, if you’re a guy. Staring at your phone the whole time and twirling your hair if you’re a girl. You don’t seem like a gin and tonic type to me. Not right now, anyway. You look like you need something with a little more personality and muscle.”

My eyebrow arches up. I step away from him. “Uh huh. You know what—I think I’ll just grab a bottle of merlot and call it a night.” I start to wander towards the wine section.

He follows me, not too close. “Oh God, not merlot.”

“Why, is that what assholes drink in Miami at midnight?” Now I’ve said “asshole” out loud twice in one night. Who am I?

He releases a quick, surprisingly boyish laugh—so unexpected from a guy like him. “Not even close. What’s your name? I’m Vince.” He holds his hand out.

“Hi Vince. I’m...Susan.” I shake his hand. It’s strong and a little bit rough and he could do a lot of things to me with that hand. Wait—what?

He lets me pull my hand away, shoves his hands casually into his front pockets as his eyes travel slowly down to my shoes and back up to my glossy pursed lips. “Hi Susan. What’s your real name?”

Oh what the heck. “It’s Nina.”

“Nina.” He nods, accepting that answer. “Hey. How about this—there’s a bar two blocks down called Bitters, you know it?”

“Yeah, I walk by there all the time.”

“I used to work there, why don’t you let me make you a drink. I think I know what you need…”

“Well, thank you for the offer, but I’m not in the mood to get raped or murdered tonight, so…”

Judging from the look on this guy’s freakishly sexy face, no one has ever foregone the opportunity to get roofied by him before. Hey, I get it. He’s very attractive. I would love to stare at his face and other parts of him all night. But I also don’t want to get raped or murdered.

A smile slowly spreads across his face. “Right. Good call, Nina. You don’t know me. Let’s be clear about this—you can watch my hands the whole time.” He holds his hands up. His strong, slightly rough, very capable hands. “I’ll make sure you can see exactly what’s going to be going in you before you decide if you want it or not. Sound good?”

Gulp.

“Hey, Marty,” he calls out to the man behind the counter, hands still raised in front of his chest, eyes still fixed on me. “Tell Nina here I’m a good guy.”

“He’s a pretty good guy.”

“Thanks a lot, Marty.”

I laugh.

He turns his head towards Marty, body still angled towards me. “If anything happens to Nina tonight, you can tell the cops where to find me, right?”

“Leave me outta this, you.”

“You got it.” He smiles at me. He’s got one beautiful smile, this guy, and it fades so fast I have a feeling not many people get to see it. “What do you say, Nina? Two blocks. Neighborhood bar. One drink?”

I wrinkle my nose. “So…People do this? Meet in a store for the first time and then go get a drink?”

He laughs, that brief, surprised laugh of a boy being tickled, before going back to being seriously hot. “Some people. Sometimes.”

I mean…I guess that sounds better than drinking vodka from a bottle alone in my apartment while belting out Patsy Cline songs.