On the Rocks by Erin Duffy Page B

honor, being the head bridal groupie, was ready to begin. So was I. I had a full beer, I was good for a while.
    “What did you do on your first date?” she asked, saying every word slowly, lest one of the monosyllabic words confuse the contestant. Wow. Scandalous stuff.
    “We went for pizza and a movie, and then he walked me home to my apartment and kissed me on the sidewalk. I knew right there that we’d be together forever,” the bride gushed, proud of herself for knowing her own personal history so well.
    Bullshit. I thought. You probably got drunk and don’t even remember going home. Then you sat by the phone for two days wondering if he was going to call you and you know it.
    “Okay, that one was too easy!” the maid of honor said as she handed the paper to the girl sitting to her right. “Where’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex?” girl number two, a non-T-shirt-wearing member of the wedding party, asked.
    “The Dumpster behind my parents’ house in Florida,” the bride said without hesitation.
    What? I thought as I choked on my beer, spattering foam onto my dress. Seriously?
    “No,” the girl replied, stifling a giggle.
    “The parking lot of the ferry in Hyannis?” the bride guessed again.
    “No,” the questioner shrieked, the girls at the table laughing so hard it was a wonder one of them didn’t fall off her chair.
    How are you getting these wrong? And why aren’t you hooking up indoors?
    “The swing set in my neighbor’s backyard?”
    “No!” the girl yelled as the table erupted into laughter. “Drink!”
    Oh God. I’m more out of my league than I thought. Apparently people didn’t even have sex inside anymore. When did that happen?
    The printout was passed to the next girl, who was drinking a margarita through a straw like it was last call in a women’s prison, but my spy session was interrupted when I heard the screech of metal chair legs on pavement as the chair next to me was pulled out. “Hey,” an amazingly stoned guy said as he sat down and began making conversation with me as if we were old friends. Which was interesting, since I had never seen him before in my life and was pretty sure that he was seeing three of me at once.
    “Hey, yourself,” I said as I turned my attention back to the bridal party and tried to hear the next question.
    “How are you?” he asked, his eyes darting from side to side as if he was afraid someone was going to jump out from behind the potted plant and murder him. You know, because that happens all the time.
    “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said politely. I know I said I’d be open to meeting new people, but maybe I should’ve stipulated that that didn’t include guys who were very clearly drugged out of their minds.
    “Oh, no, I know. I was wondering, do you happen to have any blow?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
    “Huh?”
    “Blow. Cocaine. Do you have any?” he repeated.
    I wasn’t a drug user, dealer, or connoisseur of any kind, but I knew enough to know that this guy didn’t have a clue what he was doing. I looked down at my white halter sundress and flip-flops and wondered if eyelet was now some kind of signal to the narcotics-using underground that you were a drug mule. If so, someone needed to alert J. Crew immediately, because I really don’t think that was what they were going for when they put out their spring line.
    “Dude, don’t worry. I’m not a cop. I swear. It’s my buddy’s bachelor party, and he wants to get high,” he said, as if that explanation somehow made his question more normal.
    “I can’t help you,” I said as I stood to leave. He stood and attempted to walk with me, reaching out to grab my forearm before I had a chance to pull away.
    “You have two seconds to let go of my arm before I scream,” I hissed. This night was not going the way I wanted it to.
    “Sorry, sorry. Seriously, I’m not a cop.”
    “That’s great. And I’m seriously not a veterinarian,