I was looking at the man next to me at the bar with mild disgust, yet total enthrallment. The way he said my name– staring at me like I was one of the seven wonders of the world.

I certainly was a wonder of sorts, mascara running, eyeliner thick, the once-perfect curls depleted to a frizzy essence of effort.

When you dedicate your life to the pursuit of drinking, the secondary task being to get a degree, this kind of experience becomes natural. That is, if you're pretty.

I don’t mean to sound conceited, after all, I’m a feminist. But being a feminist doesn’t mean you can't buckle under the weight of 5 vodka sodas, 2 tequila shots, and… maybe a few beers? I could never remember how much I drank, but after all, that was never really the problem.

The problem was the men.

Very few were nice, most were awful, but I ran around with them all anyway. It felt

good to be desirable, even if they treated me horribly.

My mother, after years of my problematic behavior, once characterized me as “open for business.” Like she was one to talk, she had recently gone through her 4th divorce.

But still–ouch.

***

The man (actually a boy) at the bar next to me was 19. Now, you may be wondering, he’s not old enough to drink? Well, this is a shitty dive bar, and the college boys desperate enough to wait in line get in with fake IDs. No woman was safe from the wrath of underformed offenders.

He was cute, and he had bought me a drink. Even if they were ugly, the rule was always you accepted the free drink, a vodka soda was still fucking $10. We had probably been talking for 10 minutes, but it felt like an hour. Everything had been said, our majors, our hometowns, our involvement in Greek life, and where we lived. I knew I was in bad shape when I didn’t care that he lived in a dorm.

At one point, I got bored and tried to get away. As I looked around for my friends, I realized Mr. Saturday Night by Jon Pardi was playing for the second time in a row, but no one was complaining, the men all fancied themselves Mr. Saturday Night. And the girls all wanted to be Mrs. Saturday Night.

“I can’t see my friends,” I told the boy, standing on my tiptoes.

“What do they look like?” This was an odd question. Normally, a guy would make no effort to help you find them because that meant you were left stranded with him. 

“Um…” I struggled to describe the five girls I had come with, “One is wearing a cheetah vest, she’s blonde.”

“I don’t see a cheetah vest, but I’m also having trouble picturing what that looks like.” Fair answer. It sounded pretty insane, like something out of the 80s.

“Oh well,” I said, taking a long sip of my vodka soda. The cold, bitter taste washed over me, and I suddenly felt very bold.

“Why are you talking to me?” My tone surprised me, I sounded like a bitch. I didn’t know where I was going with this. He looked like a baby deer in headlights.

“Um… because I think you're pretty.” What a stupid fucking answer.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Well.. um… I can leave you alone if you want. I was working up to asking for your number.” His blue eyes reflected the red and blue of the neon Coors Light sign that was opposite the bar. I didn’t understand why he was so nervous, but realized he was being genuine and started to feel bad, so I responded with manufactured enthusiasm,

“Well, you can have it!” I mean, what was the harm? I didn’t have to text him back, but he looked so tense, I had to give him something.

“Great,” he said, fumbling for his phone.

I had the sudden realization that I didn't remember his name.

***

The next morning, my roommates and I sat around on the living room couches, surrounded by their Taco Bell litter from the night before and abandoned drinks on the coffee table.

“I’m confused. Why didn’t you go home with him?” Amelia asked me after I recounted the story to them. We had spent the rest of the night in the nearby Mexican restaurant, scarfing down burritos and talking until 3:00 AM before he called me an Uber home.

“He didn’t want me to,” I said matter-of-factly. It was true, neither of us had brought it up, probably the first time in my college experience that a man hadn’t expressed interest in sleeping with me .

“So he wasn’t into you? Why didn’t you ditch him and meet up with us?”

“No, I think he liked me, he was just really nice.” I smiled, quickly wiping it off my face, realizing that if I showed my friends that I had actually liked this guy, they would crucify me. As a group of self-diagnosed and deliberate man-eaters, my friends would be appalled to know that my motive wasn’t just purely sexual. Having a “crush” was not normal, and was a threat to our shared lifestyle.

“Nice? Becca threw a drink in a guy's face for touching her ass last night, and you missed it because you were off talking to a nice guy?” She used air quotes around the word nice.

“Yeah, well, he was really young and…” I searched for the right word, “innocent.”

“So what? You said he was cute and tall, why didn’t you bring him back here?” This was the first time a statement like that had ever felt completely alien to me. The thought of doing that to him seemed very wrong. In my mind, he was like an adorable little puppy. I didn’t want to hurt him. And it was at this moment that I realized I was the problem. One big, slutty problem.

“Well, I guess he was too good for me.”

***

            “You look terrible Maxine. Did you sleep at all?” My mother emerged from her black Mercedes in front of my house, black jeans and a thin blue striped sweater that was tight enough to show off her private Pilates lessons, but not too much so that it became scandalous.

            “Nice to see you too, mom.” I snarked back, although she was right, my mascara from last night was caked under my eyes, and I was still in my pajamas, the concrete driveway cold on my bare feet.

“I told you I would be here at 10, why aren’t you ready?” She made her way over to me, Jimmy Choos making their distinct click-clack sound on the pavement. She turned up her nose at me when she got a closer look and touched my hair, rubbing it between her fingertips as if this would reveal something important about me she needed to know.

            “I just woke up. You can come in…” I stepped back from her towards the house.

            “No, I'll wait at the restaurant.” She headed for the car; I could tell she didn’t want to look at me anymore.

“I will send the car back for you in an hour… and Maxine,” she held her hand up to signal to the driver not to shut the door yet, “Take a fucking shower.”

***

            I went back into the house and found my roommates making plans to go to Finnegan’s, the local breakfast bar that had discounted pitchers of mimosas during the day. We spent a lot of time there on the weekends.

            “I’ll meet you there later. And Becca, a pitcher is going to do a lot more damage than a drink, I hope no one touches your ass.” They all laughed and I felt satisfied they weren’t suspicious of my crush.

In the shower,  I couldn’t help thinking about Warren, which I had later found out was Mr. Cutie's name. His shy mannerisms and long limbs brought a warmth to my chest more comforting than the scolding water. I wondered what sex with him would be like, but for the first time, I was rating him on a scale that didn’t consider sex as a factor. I found myself wanting to talk to him, to tell him what a bitch my mother was and have him comfort me. I tried to push him out of my mind, mentally preparing for my date with Satan in Chanel.

“Maxine, you look…” My mom looked me up and down when I entered the restaurant, and that’s all I needed to know that she hated my outfit. I cut her off before she could think of just the right words to hurt me,

“Didn’t think to order me one?” I grabbed her peach Bellini and took a sip, a power move.

“I’m sure you drank enough last night.” She grabbed it out of my hand, returning it to its rightful place beside her.

“A little hypocritical, don’t you think, considering I know for a fact you drank an entire bottle of wine last night.” HA, got her.

“Don't be snarky, I want this to be a nice visit. I have something to tell you.” FUCK, not again. I glanced down at her hand gripping the Bellini, and there it was. A big fucking rock on her finger. I lost it.

“Who’s it going to be this time, mom? A big shot lawyer who beat his last wife? The contractor who renovated your bathroom? The doctor who does your Botox? Please, tell me, I’m thrilled to hear who the lucky winner is!” I’d gotten louder as I went on, waving my hands frantically, and people in the restaurant were staring.

“Maxine, calm the fuck down.” She whispered through gritted teeth, “You're causing a scene.” I’m causing a scene? Her entire life was one big scene, moving on from one guy to the next ever since my dad.

“Tell me who it is,” I whispered, the rage rippling through my body.

“His name is Richard. He’s my Pilates instructor.” She smiled as if this were the most pleasant thing in the world.

“Wow, not only are you marrying another dick who wants your money, this time his name is actually dick!” I laughed at my own joke, anger dissipating into the hysterical nature of the whole thing.

“He is not a dick, Maxine, I actually think you will really like him, he’s funny, like you.”

“Great, we’ll make a banging comedy duo.” I sat back in my chair, relaxing slightly, because after all, there was nothing I could do about it.

The waitress appeared, asking us if we were ready to order,

“We’re going to need another minute, honey,” The ingenuine kindness in my mother’s voice was familiar, she always addressed service workers with a sense of airy entitlement. She watched the waitress walk away, then turned back to me and grabbed my hands, the sharp corner of the diamond grazing my palm.

“Maxine, I understand how you feel about my relationships, but I am doing what makes me happy, and I want you to support me.” I suddenly became aware that my mother and I had the same problem. While she would never have a one-night stand, she does marry inappropriate men based on the hope that she will, for a short time, get the satisfaction of being worshiped. She never really loves them, she loves what they give her– for a while she’s not an unmarried 50 year old divorcee, that is, until it ends and she has to look for the next victim. I felt a sort of sympathy I’d never felt for my mother, she and I with gaps in our lives we fill with shitty men.

“Ok,” I said, and I looked in her eyes, which were searching me for any form of approval, for a sliver of support. I forced a small smile, “Can I have that Bellini now?”

The rest of the breakfast went well enough, she bit her tongue and didn’t insult me, I asked polite questions about Richard, the whole time trying not to throw up or scream.

Three Bellinis later, in the black Mercedes, I told her I wanted to be dropped off at Finnegan’s to meet up with my friends. The last 15 minutes with my mother on that drive, we sat in buzzed silence, an understanding having passed between us. When we arrived, I got out quickly, already hearing the familiar country songs and buzz of voices emanating from the outdoor patio.

“Bye, mom, See you at Christmas.”

“Yes, Richard will be spending it with us this year.” Fucking great. I moved to shut the door.

“Wait, Maxine,” She paused, leaning across the seat to make eye contact with me. “I love you.” It wasn’t like she didn’t say it often, but it meant something different this time.

“I love you too.” I shut the door and headed straight for the picnic table on the patio my friends had taken hostage. Two pitchers of mimosa stood empty with two more being slowly drained.

When I revealed the news, they literally gasped, a chorus of “no way” and “that’s crazy” echoed back at me and I could hear the drunkenness in their shocked voices. I didn’t feel like elaborating quite yet so I headed to the bar to get a pitcher.  While I was waiting for one of the busy bartenders, someone tapped on my shoulder. When I turned around, my heart skipped a beat.

“Warren!” I said excitedly, looking up into his wonderful blue eyes, realizing I needed to play it more cool. 

“Hey Max, how are you?” He was holding a pint of beer, and I wondered if he even knew those went  half off at four, and it was really a better deal to drink mimosas till then, since they were discounted during the day.

“Not great, my mom is marrying her Pilates instructor.” My nerves made me blab. Be cool, be cool!

“What?” Of course that would confuse him. What the hell was I doing?

            “I’m sorry, you don’t know what that means.” I could feel myself blushing and I looked down at my boots, unsure what to do or how to act.

            “Your mom is marrying her Pilates instructor, so…” He paused, and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a sly smirk, “does that mean she’ll get a discount on classes now?” I couldn’t help but giggle, it was the perfect thing to say.

            “I sure fucking hope so.” My head tilted almost at its steepest angle upwards so I could study his face, and I realized how mature he looked for his age, he was man-handsome, not boy-handsome. I could see the goodness in him, the polite boy his mama had raised to be decent in a world full of indecent men. He stared back at me, grinning slightly, his eyes seemingly darting between all the features of my face, and once to my bulging chest in the tight sweater, but I didn’t mind at all. The confidence of the three Bellinis and hotness in my blushing cheeks made me blurt:

“Do you want to go for a walk? I’ve had a weird day.” He glanced down at the beer in his hand.

“Yeah, one sec.” He started to chug the beer, which had been about three-quarters full, and didn’t stop till he had downed the whole thing. I was amazed, impressed, and laughing. He clutched his chest and let out a loud burp. I was starting to really like this guy.

“Good job! That was awesome!” I was beaming.

“Thank you, let’s go.” He set the pint glass down on the bar, took my hand, and we walked out of the restaurant. 

“Where are you going?” Becca yelled from across the patio, a puzzled look on her face. Instinctively, my hand loosened around Warren’s, but he only gripped mine tighter.

“Relax, I’ll be back!”I yelled in response, turning away from my friends and smiling at Warren as we kept walking. I knew they’d be whispering, drunk and confused, wondering why I was leaving them for some guy in broad daylight, probably even more baffled that I was abandoning half-full mimosa pitchers.

“Don’t drink all the mimosas!” was my final response and I snickered to myself, revelling in my own mystery– wherever this boy led me I would follow, who cares what they thought. I felt grounded, tethered to something good and protective of something real—no longer the hollow, expired party girl. Becca answered just before we got out of earshot,

“Oh, we definitely will!” No doubt about that.