My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [11]
Crush works his way around the room, and we spy him chatting up a particularly beautiful girl in a raspberry beret.
Oh, honey, Prince called—he wants his cliché back.
Crush lingers there for a while. “Huh,” I remark. “I wonder what they’re talking about. We already got the Jake thumbs-up, which means I am totally eight dollars richer. I wonder why he’s not coming back?” Raspberry Cliché giggles at something Crush says, and they put their heads closer together. Her hair brushes his face, and he casually smoothes it back for her. “So, whaddaya think, Stace, you like him or not?”
Stacey purses her lips. “Definitely as a friend, but I can’t tell if there’s any electricity or not.”
“Really? How come? I mean, he was your Jake Ryan, for crying out loud.” I gesture so grandly that half my Diet Coke sloshes out onto my boot.
Stacey swipes at a stray curl on her forehead and levels her gaze. “Um, because before we got a chance to connect, you and your eight-dollar bet sent him off to talk to every single attractive girl in this place.”
This? Right here? Is exactly why you can’t take me anyplace nice.
“Oh, no! I’m SO sorry!” I gasp. “It never occurred to me that I just provided your crush with the world’s greatest opening line!”
Stacey pats me on the shoulder. “Jen, it’s fine. I’m not mad; it’s funny. But you really are the worst wingman ever.”
I’ve got to make this right. “Want me to help you meet someone else here?” My mind begins spinning. Maybe I can get one of the elbow-patch academic guys to talk to her? I know Stacey saw Syriana because she’s the one who had to explain it to me.
I take a bracing sip of my Diet Coke. Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll find the tweedy blazer guys, and I’ll tell them that Stacey’s not only cute but totally smart because she wasn’t all distracted by Clooney’s child-bearing hips and double chin in Syriana, and she’s actually able to see him as a serious actor and doesn’t just think of him as the guy who starred on the later seasons of The Facts of Life and had that stupid mullet and—
She quickly throws her hands up into the universal symbol for stop. “NO! No. Thank you. I’m okay on my own.” At this point Fletch arrives. He’s shaking the snow out of his hair, and his face breaks into a sweet smile when he spots us.
He kisses me, then gives Stacey a hug. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I had a client issue that took forever to resolve. What’d I miss?”
“I just made an eight-dollar bet with Stacey’s high school crush and, in so doing, accidentally sent him out to talk to every woman at this party.”
Somehow Fletch doesn’t seem surprised by this news. He tells Stacey, “She’s truly the world’s worst wingman.”
“Agreed.” Stacey nods.
“What are you drinking?” he asks me.
“I’ve had, like, nine Diet Cokes,” I admit.
Fletch turns ashen. “Stacey, you can’t let her have that much soda. Ever. You think she’s a handful when she drinks? That doesn’t hold a candle to her with a caffeine buzz.”
But I’m pretty sure she already figured that out.
Crush eventually joins us again,21 and while the grown-ups discuss the mayor’s latest budgetary follies, I discuss this week’s follies on the first-ever winter edition of Big Brother. As they debate the merits of a flat tax, I debate how flat the top ten female semifinalists were on American Idol. While they grouse about their jobs, I grouse about who was just fired on Celebrity Apprentice.
At some point I interrupt my own personal version of Talk Soup to mention the delicious brisket I had at lunch. Turns out Crush hates brisket, and I argue that it’s impossible to hate brisket and that EVERYONE loves brisket and that I now have sixteen dollars22 to prove it, and before you know it, I manage to turn the argument into a chance for Stacey to cook him brisket.
We hang out for a little while longer until Fletch notices I’m practically levitating after too much soda and not enough protein. The four of us decide to grab some grilled cheeses at Four Moon Tavern, which is now a bonus date for Stacey on top of the brisket date.
See? I’m NOT the worst wingman