directly toward the set. It takes only a second to spot him. As usual, he’s surrounded by a gaggle of hangers-on, whose purpose in being there is a complete mystery to me. Before nerves can set in, I march up to him.
“Wynn, can I talk to you for a sec?”
The hangers-on gape as though I’ve just proposed marriage to him. But Wynn says “Of course,” and touches my forearm in a very intimate way. I know it’s just my forearm, but in my current heightened state, it might as well be my nipple. When we’ve moved a suitable distance from his entourage, he says, “What’s up?”
“I’d like to go out with you—for a drink with you,” I blurt. “If you still want to.”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies smoothly. “If you’re sure you’re not too busy scrapbooking.”
“What?” Then I remember my previous lame-ass excuse. “I don’t even scrapbook,” I admit. “I just didn’t think it was a good idea … you know … before …”
“Before what?”
I know he’s just flirting, but I suddenly feel on the verge of tears. “Before I caught my husband and his fat slut at a bar last week! Before he emailed me and asked for the double bed from the spare room so he and that bitch have somewhere to fuck!” Instead, I shrug, trying to compose myself.
“Are you okay?” his hand massages my shoulder, and it no longer feels sexy. It feels comforting and kind and supportive. Shit! The tears seep out of my eyes before I can stop them.
“No,” I mumble, stifling a sob. “I’m not okay.”
TRENT AND I MET AT A PARTY when I was a twenty-two-year-old college student. He was drinking something pink and slushy that turned out to be rum, ice, and pink lemonade crushed in the blender. By way of introduction, I pointed at his drink and said, “Yum.” He said, “Want one?” I said, “Sure,” and followed him to the kitchen. Three hours and four rum and pink lemonades later, we were making out on a ratty futon mattress in a small bedroom with a Nirvana poster on the wall.
At the risk of sounding like a drunken floozy, most of my dating was done while under the influence of alcohol. I had a boyfriend in high school (I got the nerve to tell him I liked him after I’d had two kiwi coolers before our eleventh-grade Halloween dance). Then there were two one-night stands in college (rye and Cokes were to blame in the first instance, Kokanee beer in the second). In my second year, I made eye contact with a guy in my sociology class for three weeks before we ran into each other at a bar. I was on my fourth Corona when we literally bumped into each other and ended up dating for six months. It turned out he was a pompous know-it-all who wore glasses without a prescription and started smoking a pipe at twenty-three, but for a few months, I’d considered him sophisticated. And then came Trent.
Obviously, picking up men while intoxicated has not had a very high success rate. But it was infinitely easier than the position I find myself in now, trying to carry on a sober conversation with a guy I barely know, who is thirteen years my junior and a teen sitcom sensation. While I rarely overindulge these days, I take an enormous sip of the gin and tonic before me. The situation calls for a little social lubrication.
“That lobster suit was so stupid,” I say, chuckling lamely. We’re in a seedy sports bar in a remote area of Burnaby. Given Wynn’s recent Choice Hottie win, he needs to keep a low profile. You can’t get much lower than Maxwell’s Bar in the Kingsway Inn.
In response, Wynn lifts his mug of beer and twinkles his eyes at me. I’d never thought eye twinkling was a skill that could be done on cue before, but he seems to have mastered it.
“What were they thinking?” I blather on. “The Central High Lobsters. So dumb! I mean, do they really think teens are so stupid that they’d buy that? Are the writers just lazy, or what?”
“How long were you married?” Wynn asks. His eyes have stopped
“Wynn, can I talk to you for a sec?”
The hangers-on gape as though I’ve just proposed marriage to him. But Wynn says “Of course,” and touches my forearm in a very intimate way. I know it’s just my forearm, but in my current heightened state, it might as well be my nipple. When we’ve moved a suitable distance from his entourage, he says, “What’s up?”
“I’d like to go out with you—for a drink with you,” I blurt. “If you still want to.”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies smoothly. “If you’re sure you’re not too busy scrapbooking.”
“What?” Then I remember my previous lame-ass excuse. “I don’t even scrapbook,” I admit. “I just didn’t think it was a good idea … you know … before …”
“Before what?”
I know he’s just flirting, but I suddenly feel on the verge of tears. “Before I caught my husband and his fat slut at a bar last week! Before he emailed me and asked for the double bed from the spare room so he and that bitch have somewhere to fuck!” Instead, I shrug, trying to compose myself.
“Are you okay?” his hand massages my shoulder, and it no longer feels sexy. It feels comforting and kind and supportive. Shit! The tears seep out of my eyes before I can stop them.
“No,” I mumble, stifling a sob. “I’m not okay.”
TRENT AND I MET AT A PARTY when I was a twenty-two-year-old college student. He was drinking something pink and slushy that turned out to be rum, ice, and pink lemonade crushed in the blender. By way of introduction, I pointed at his drink and said, “Yum.” He said, “Want one?” I said, “Sure,” and followed him to the kitchen. Three hours and four rum and pink lemonades later, we were making out on a ratty futon mattress in a small bedroom with a Nirvana poster on the wall.
At the risk of sounding like a drunken floozy, most of my dating was done while under the influence of alcohol. I had a boyfriend in high school (I got the nerve to tell him I liked him after I’d had two kiwi coolers before our eleventh-grade Halloween dance). Then there were two one-night stands in college (rye and Cokes were to blame in the first instance, Kokanee beer in the second). In my second year, I made eye contact with a guy in my sociology class for three weeks before we ran into each other at a bar. I was on my fourth Corona when we literally bumped into each other and ended up dating for six months. It turned out he was a pompous know-it-all who wore glasses without a prescription and started smoking a pipe at twenty-three, but for a few months, I’d considered him sophisticated. And then came Trent.
Obviously, picking up men while intoxicated has not had a very high success rate. But it was infinitely easier than the position I find myself in now, trying to carry on a sober conversation with a guy I barely know, who is thirteen years my junior and a teen sitcom sensation. While I rarely overindulge these days, I take an enormous sip of the gin and tonic before me. The situation calls for a little social lubrication.
“That lobster suit was so stupid,” I say, chuckling lamely. We’re in a seedy sports bar in a remote area of Burnaby. Given Wynn’s recent Choice Hottie win, he needs to keep a low profile. You can’t get much lower than Maxwell’s Bar in the Kingsway Inn.
In response, Wynn lifts his mug of beer and twinkles his eyes at me. I’d never thought eye twinkling was a skill that could be done on cue before, but he seems to have mastered it.
“What were they thinking?” I blather on. “The Central High Lobsters. So dumb! I mean, do they really think teens are so stupid that they’d buy that? Are the writers just lazy, or what?”
“How long were you married?” Wynn asks. His eyes have stopped
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