* * *
I hadn't been out for years and immediately found the bar loud and dirty and, worst of all, sticky.
"Was it always like this?" I shouted over the noise as Sandra bulldozed a path to the bar for us.
She laughed as we found two barstools and wiped off the discarded peanut shells.
"Give it a shot or two and you'll feel differently."
Sandra ordered us each a shot of whiskey and a Bud Light and by the time we'd finished both of them I'd explained what made me decide to give Michael the chance to meet his daughter. Sandra nodded.
"I think you're doing the right thing, Abs," she said over the blare of the jukebox. "But that doesn't exactly explain why we're here tonight."
I glanced around the crowded bar and then leaned in toward my friend. "Just because I'm letting Michael in his daughter's life doesn't mean I'm letting him into my life," I answered, lifting my eyebrows meaningfully at her.
Sandra's eyes widened with excitement. "Does this mean…?"
I was silent, but my smile seemed response enough. Sandra clamped a strong hand on my shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially.
"I want you to be crystal clear about this," she said, jabbing a finger at my chest. "Do you, Abbi Miller, want me, Sandra Phillips, to act as your official wing woman for the purposes of getting you, Abbi Miller, goddamn laid?"
I laughed.
"I have to hear it from your lips," Sandra insisted, deadly serious. "The power I wield is immense. I need to know this is what you want, what you really want."
I nodded empathically. "Work your magic, girl."
Sandra threw back her head to holler wildly, which startled several people around us, who moved away with their beers clutched protectively to their chests. Sandra waved down the bartender for another round. He went off to pour our drinks and she shouted after him.
"Make them doubles!"
Sandra had been telling me about her superhuman abilities as a wing woman since pretty much the first day I'd met her, but I had yet to take her up on her offer until that night. Suffice it to say, she had not at all been overselling her qualifications.
By the time the bartender announced last call at just past 2 a.m., Sandra and I were staring at dozens of crumpled napkins marked with names and numbers spread across the sticky bar top. I was fairly certain we were seeing double at that point, but even if there were only half that number of prospects, that was still impressive as hell.
With Sandra by my side, I wasn't a personal assistant, I was managing the top talent of an international legal firm. I wasn't a college dropout, I was an enterprising intellectual who valued the education of real life. I wasn't a tired mom, I was an experienced lover who didn't have time to waste on foreplay.
I was not just the sexiest woman in Denver, but the smartest, the most talented, the foxiest, the coolest, the richest. Sandra was quite simply a fairy godmother and she didn't need a wand to twist her magic, just a little whiskey and a whole hell of a lot of confidence.
"Well?" she asked, gesturing her hand over the napkins as we swayed against the bar. "Who's the lucky guy gonna be?"
I closed one eye to try to get the numbers to stop moving. "Umm…"
During the night I'd managed to find something wrong with each guy Sandra roped in for me. My excuses ranged from the legitimate (“pretty sure he's twenty-one”) to the petty (“I mean, an orange tie, come on”) to the downright silly (“he's too tall, you know?”).
"Umm…" I stammered again, trying to place a single face to a single name.
They'd all just blurred together in our whirlwind night of drinking and dancing and laughing and waiting in line for the girl's bathroom.
"Umm…"
Sandra went to put a hand on my shoulder but must have guessed the wrong shoulder, because she missed and had to try again before getting something solid.
"You know," she said, "as your wing woman, I'll tell you which one to pick."
"Thank you," I said, slouching onto an open barstool, the peanut shells hard under my ass.
I watched drunkenly as Sandra proceeded to grab napkin after napkin, ball it up, and throw it into the trash behind the bar. It took me longer than it should have to realise she'd eliminated all my options. As this dawned on me, I turned to face her with confusion.
"Come on, Abs," Sandra shouted over the music. "You must see it."
"See what?"
"Who you really want to be with."
I shook my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sandra levelled her eyes at me as best she could in our drunken state. "You found something wrong with like twenty guys."
"Those were legitimate reasons!" I protested.
"Really?" Sandra asked, crossing her arms over her chest; the motion nearly sent her toppling over. "'Looks too much like Chris Hemsworth' is legitimate?"
I shrugged and tried to casually drink my beer, only to find it empty. "I don't see your point," I said, peeling at the label.
"My point is you've been comparing every guy you met tonight to him."
I glared at Sandra. "I'm over him!" I shouted.
"Yeah, right."
"I am!"
"Abbi Miller, you are full of shit!"
I leaned back and stared at her. "You're full of shit!" I shouted back, laughing.
She laughed, too. "Well, you're fuller of shit."
Lots of whiskey plus a tiny bit of laughter always equal unstoppable laughter. It was like rolling a stone down a hill; once it got started there was no stopping it.
Sandra will swear I was the one who started crying from laughing so hard first, but, as we've established, she is full of shit. As we laughed harder and harder, we leaned against each
