Page 91 of The Fake Husband Play
And by “it,” I mean a man like Tanner Bryce.
Tanner, with his kind eyes, easy laugh, and sexy way of julienning a carrot. Tanner, who was my teacher and my friend, and then, the day I graduated from culinary school and was no longer his student, my lover. He was fun and deep and thoughtful and silly, my perfect match in every way, except one.
He was twenty-eight and ready to settle down; I was newly twenty and ready to take the world by storm. He wanted to get engaged and start looking for a house; I wanted to backpack around France, learning to bake pastries. He wanted to be mine; I wanted to see what itfelt like to kiss boys aside from my high school boyfriend and former teacher.
At twenty, forever felt like a cage.
At thirty-two, it sounds like freedom.
What would I give to be free from the shackles of swiping right and blind dates and learning to be naked with someone new and hoping and losing hope and breaking up and getting ghosted (or worse) and never feeling completely safe or loved?
What would I give to have a man say my name the way Grammercy Graves says Elly’s?
A lot.
I would give a lot.
It’s not that I’m jealous of Elly’s miraculous love story, I’m just…sad. And on the verge of losing hope for a happily ever after of my own. Aside from the eighteen months of my disastrous, impulsive marriage four years ago, I’ve been on the dating market nonstop for over a decade, and Prince Charming has yet to make an appearance.
It’s enough to make a girl look up her old culinary school teacher in a moment of weakness, only to learn that he lives in Brooklyn with his beautiful artist wife and their two sweet little tow-headed baby boys and looks very,veryhappy…
Yeah, I did…
Last night, in fact.
And now, I’m here, draining a Trash Panda with a speed that probably isn’t wise. Cobb is a heavy pour, and I barely had time to shove a sandwich in my mouth between catering jobs this afternoon. Alcohol, a mostly empty stomach, and encroaching despair are never a good mix.
With that in mind, I chomp into my first Slim Jim, marveling that something made almost entirely of organs and nightmares can be so fucking tasty…
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The karaoke host—a woman dressed as a poodle with pink hair—bounces onto the tiny stage, giving me hope that our ears are about to get a break.
The past three singers were horrendous, but in my experience, people with pink hair tend to know what they’re doing with a microphone.
“I’m Mindy May, your host tonight,” she continues. “Thank you so much to all the talented people who have already entertained us. But we still have thirty minutes before the band arrives. Come on, friends, don’t leave us thirsting for entertainment. Surely, there are still a few brave souls out there who love singing and songs featuring animals. As you know, here at The Brass Monkey, it’s animals only.”
Someone in the back yells something about animals being full of shit, but Mindy just cheerfully flips them off and goes back to trying to drum up suckers to keep the Ear Bleeding good times rolling.
God, I love this place.
I can’t believe I let months go by without a visit.
I’m contemplating whether I’m drunk enough to attempt my Elvis impression on “Hound Dog” when a voice behind me shouts, “Eye of the Tiger! Somebody has to sing Eye of the Tiger.”
I spin on my stool to see an unexpectedly yummy sight.
Well, hello, Mr. Potential Sadness-Banishing One-Night Stand…
This tall, bulky drink of water has serious potential.With his shaggy, dark blond hair, easy smile, and worn jeans that hug his strong legs in all the right places, he looks like the kind of well-toned meathead who knows how to show a girl a good time. He’s clearly an athlete or gym rat of some kind, but he looks too old to be in college, which is great.
I’m not opposed to dating a younger man, but if I never have to meet a guy’s ten roommates on the way out of his frat house on the morning after again, it’ll be too soon.
And weirdly, this cutie looks sort of looks…familiar.
“Why don’t you get up here and make it happen then, handsome?” Mindy calls back, her eyes flashing with appreciation.
Familiar Guy laughs. “I can’t. Not drunk enough yet. Maybe after this next Trash Panda.”
I sit up straighter.
