least Owen didn’t stand me up on my birthday.
How could she forget?
I won’t cry. I won’t do it. I’ve shed enough tears over that woman and she’s not causing any more.
The waitress is back at the table, refilling my drink. My nonalcoholic drink.
I’m drinking a pathetic soda, sitting alone in a restaurant, being stood up for the second time this month, and it’s my twenty-first birthday.
“I’ll take the bill,” I say, defeated. The waitress gives me a look of pity as she lays the bill on the table. I pay it and leave.
I hate that I still have to walk past his studio on my way home from work. Or in this case, on my way home from being stood up. Sometimes the light is on in his apartment upstairs and I get the urge to set the place on fire.
Not really. That’s a little bit harsh. I wouldn’t burn his beautiful art.
Just him.
When I reach his building, I stop and stare at it. Maybe it’s worth walking an extra block or two from now on, just so I’ll never have to pass it again. Before I reroute myself, maybe I should leave a confession. I’ve been wanting to leave one for three weeks and tonight everything has lined up perfectly for me to finally be pissed enough to do so.
I walk to the front door of his building and stare at the slot while I reach inside my purse and pull out a pen. I don’t have any paper, so I dig around until I find the receipt from the fantastic birthday dinner I just shared with myself. I flip it over and press the receipt to the window and begin my confession.
I met this really great guy three weeks ago. He taught me how to dance, reminded me of what it feels like to flirt, walked me home, made me smile, and then YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, OWEN!
I press the button on the end of the pen to retract it. I put it back in my purse. Oddly enough, getting that out on paper actually made me feel a little better. I begin to fold the receipt but flatten it back out and retrieve my pen in order to add another sentence.
PS: Your initials are so stupid.
Much better. I slip the confession through the slot before I give myself enough time to think it through. I take a few steps away from the building and bid it farewell.
I turn toward my apartment and my phone sounds off. I pull it out and open my text.
Lydia: Sorry! I got sidetracked and it’s been such a crazy day. I hope you didn’t wait long. Heading back to Pasadena in the morning, but you’ll be at dinner Sunday, right?
I read the text and all I can think is, Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.
I’m so immature. But come on, she couldn’t even tell me happy birthday?
God, my heart hurts.
I begin to put the phone back into my pocket when it sounds off again. Maybe she remembered it was my birthday. At least she’ll feel a little guilty about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have called her a bitch.
Lydia: Next time, remind me before I’m supposed to be there. You know I have my hands full.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, big huge bitch.
I clench my teeth and scream out of frustration. I can’t win with her. I’ll never win with her.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I need a drink. An alcoholic drink. And lucky for me, I know just where to get one.
“You lied.”
Harrison is looking at my ID.
I assume he just noticed that today is my birthday and I wasn’t at all twenty-one when I walked in here with Owen the first time.
“Owen made me.”
Harrison shakes his head and hands me back my ID. “Owen does a lot of things Owen shouldn’t do.” He wipes down the bar between us and tosses the rag aside, but I’m hoping he’ll elaborate on that comment. “So what’ll it be, Ms. Reed? Jack and Coke again?”
I immediately shake my head. “No thanks. Something a little less assaulting.”
“Margarita?”
I nod.
He turns around to make my first legally ordered alcoholic beverage. I hope he puts one of those tiny umbrellas in it.
“Where’s Owen?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Do I look like Owen’s keeper? He’s probably
How could she forget?
I won’t cry. I won’t do it. I’ve shed enough tears over that woman and she’s not causing any more.
The waitress is back at the table, refilling my drink. My nonalcoholic drink.
I’m drinking a pathetic soda, sitting alone in a restaurant, being stood up for the second time this month, and it’s my twenty-first birthday.
“I’ll take the bill,” I say, defeated. The waitress gives me a look of pity as she lays the bill on the table. I pay it and leave.
I hate that I still have to walk past his studio on my way home from work. Or in this case, on my way home from being stood up. Sometimes the light is on in his apartment upstairs and I get the urge to set the place on fire.
Not really. That’s a little bit harsh. I wouldn’t burn his beautiful art.
Just him.
When I reach his building, I stop and stare at it. Maybe it’s worth walking an extra block or two from now on, just so I’ll never have to pass it again. Before I reroute myself, maybe I should leave a confession. I’ve been wanting to leave one for three weeks and tonight everything has lined up perfectly for me to finally be pissed enough to do so.
I walk to the front door of his building and stare at the slot while I reach inside my purse and pull out a pen. I don’t have any paper, so I dig around until I find the receipt from the fantastic birthday dinner I just shared with myself. I flip it over and press the receipt to the window and begin my confession.
I met this really great guy three weeks ago. He taught me how to dance, reminded me of what it feels like to flirt, walked me home, made me smile, and then YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, OWEN!
I press the button on the end of the pen to retract it. I put it back in my purse. Oddly enough, getting that out on paper actually made me feel a little better. I begin to fold the receipt but flatten it back out and retrieve my pen in order to add another sentence.
PS: Your initials are so stupid.
Much better. I slip the confession through the slot before I give myself enough time to think it through. I take a few steps away from the building and bid it farewell.
I turn toward my apartment and my phone sounds off. I pull it out and open my text.
Lydia: Sorry! I got sidetracked and it’s been such a crazy day. I hope you didn’t wait long. Heading back to Pasadena in the morning, but you’ll be at dinner Sunday, right?
I read the text and all I can think is, Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.
I’m so immature. But come on, she couldn’t even tell me happy birthday?
God, my heart hurts.
I begin to put the phone back into my pocket when it sounds off again. Maybe she remembered it was my birthday. At least she’ll feel a little guilty about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have called her a bitch.
Lydia: Next time, remind me before I’m supposed to be there. You know I have my hands full.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, big huge bitch.
I clench my teeth and scream out of frustration. I can’t win with her. I’ll never win with her.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I need a drink. An alcoholic drink. And lucky for me, I know just where to get one.
“You lied.”
Harrison is looking at my ID.
I assume he just noticed that today is my birthday and I wasn’t at all twenty-one when I walked in here with Owen the first time.
“Owen made me.”
Harrison shakes his head and hands me back my ID. “Owen does a lot of things Owen shouldn’t do.” He wipes down the bar between us and tosses the rag aside, but I’m hoping he’ll elaborate on that comment. “So what’ll it be, Ms. Reed? Jack and Coke again?”
I immediately shake my head. “No thanks. Something a little less assaulting.”
“Margarita?”
I nod.
He turns around to make my first legally ordered alcoholic beverage. I hope he puts one of those tiny umbrellas in it.
“Where’s Owen?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Do I look like Owen’s keeper? He’s probably
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