I decide to change the subject. “Okay, I would like to officially thank you guys. For all of this. The drinks, Paolo, everything. But can this intervention of whatever it is be over now?”
“Hell no, you know us better than that,” Fi says, signaling for another round of shots. “We’re just getting started. Just remember,” she says, “this is all because we love you.”
“Thank you guys for the dancer,” I reply, starting to feel a little called out, “but I’ve got this.”
Fi runs a finger through her hair in exasperation. “You absolutely do not got this. You deserve so much better. How long ago did you and what’s his name break up, anyway?”
I do some drunk math in my head. Then I re-run the numbers. Work is so busy I barely have time for a personal life anyway. It’s going on six months since I threw him out. Six months since I dated or even had a nibble of interaction with a guy.
I have to admit that’s a long time. And as much as I hate Angie and Fi trying to set me up with oiled up boy toy, at least he had offered. That’s something.
“Um, it’s been like six months,” Angie says, looking to me for verification.
I nod. It’s true.
Our friend Abigail, who’s working tonight as a server, arrives with a tray of shot glasses filled with my favorite: pineapple upside down shots.
I reach for a shot glass filled with yellow liquid on the top, bright red splash of grenadine in the middle, and a cherry on top.
Abigail bends down to whisper conspiratorially. “Sweetie, is it true you turned down Paolo? Because he’s using that little tidbit to rack up all kinds of sympathy right now.” She turns and points over her shoulder to a spot across the bar.
I follow her gaze and there is Paolo, across the bar, mobbed by women.
“Somebody’s getting laid tonight,” Angie says, shaking her head. “It could have been you, Kaylee.”
“Look, I love you guys, but I can get a guy on my own.” I throw down my pineapple upside down shot. “Another, please?”
“You got it,” Abigail says as she heads back to the bar.
When I turn my attention from the drink back to my friends, Fi has that look in her eye. Again. Uh-oh. “I know that look,” I say, frowning at Fi. “We already had a dancer, what’s next?”
“The challenge.” Angie and Fi grab the napkins in front of them, dump out the silverware, and then use the forks and knives to drum on the table. “Chall-enge. Chall-enge. Chall-enge.”
It looks like fun, so I join them. Even though I have no idea what the hell is going on. “Chall-enge. Chall-enge.” In the light of the tiki torches it feels like we are in an episode of Survivor and somebody is about to get thrown off of the island. I hope it’s not me.
What are they going to ask me to do now? Walk a plank into the ocean? Do an unlit ropes course while drunk? Probably not those things. And now I’m out of ideas. Plus, none of that has anything to do with getting a boyfriend.
Angie flashes me a grin and puts her silverware back down. “Yeah, Fi, what’s the challenge?”
Fi slaps her hand down hard on the wooden table, jolting me and Angie. And also everybody within three tables of us. It’s an entirely unnecessary move since she already has our attention. Still, Angie and I watch Fi with rapt, drunk, attention.
Fi looks around the crowded bar and then makes up her mind. Then she leans in to whisper. “Alright, Kaylee. The challenge is this. You have to get a guy’s phone number. Right now, right here in this bar.”
“Yeah, and he has to be hot,” Angie chimes in.
I shoot Fi a look. It’s a little anticlimactic after all the chanting. That’s hardly a challenge at all. “Seriously?”
“Hey, that’s what you get for turning down Paolo,” Fi adds.
Then they grab their silverware again. “Chall-enge. Chall-enge. Chall-enge.”
The pounding on the table started out fun, but now it’s giving me a headache. “Okay, I’ll do it. Just stop banging on the table.”
Angie frowns at me, but she puts down her silverware. “Fine, I’m unarmed.”
Then we get down to business and rotate our chairs outward from the table so the three of us can survey the crowded room together.
I am relieved to hear the challenge. It’s a piece of cake and they know it. This particular bar is practically synonymous with pickups. Rich tourists in tuxes and sequined dresses make nightly appearances here. Either bringing dates or trolling for locals looking for a good time.
I come for the fresh air and the drinks and my friends. And also the comforting sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Seriously, I could sit here all day and night and be perfectly happy. But now is not that time, now is the time to focus. I’m in the middle of a challenge. One I intend to win.
My number one rule is to never date tourists. Angie and Fi know this well. Abigail knows it. Hell, everybody in this town who has spent more than ten minutes with me knows my damn rule.
That means that this is nothing more than an exercise in boosting my confidence. And frankly, I appreciate it. Maybe this is just what I need to get my life back on track. Who knows?
Although I suspect my love life decline has more to do with working around the clock now inside a resort kitchen and less to do with lack of interest. Nonetheless, challenge accepted.
I scan the crowd for an easy target. It’s crazy that most of the men are wearing suits and tuxes despite the fact that even at this hour, the
