Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [8]
“Been on any good dates lately?” he asks, absentmindedly sliding a Sheryl Crow CD into his computer dock. “Any new boys?”
“An actor,” I say, reflecting back on the previous weekend. I don’t mention that the actor is someone I met at an after-party and barely remember taking back to my place to make out.
“Really? Has he been in anything?” Brian looks captivated.
“A couple indies,” I say, suddenly realizing that I don’t, in fact, remember the guy’s name. Eric? Seth? Denny? Fuck.
“Think it will go anywhere?” Brian asks.
“Probably not,” I say. “The pen I’m holding is probably more intelligent and more stimulating.” I realize as I say it that the comment sounds sexual, and I’m embarrassed, more embarrassed than I’d be if I’d been talking to my real dad.
Brian looks even more uncomfortable than me. “I should get back to work,” he says, and I scoot out the door, altogether forgetting that I’d come in there to talk to him about work.
Later, I’m sitting at my cubicle regretting those extra two shots of Absolut that Stephanie and I did at Hyde last night when my phone rings.
“Please be someone good,” I whisper to the phone, actually believing this will help determine who’s calling. When I was little and really into having pen pals, I’d go with my mom to check the mailbox and actually believe that if I wished hard enough, I could control what would be in there.
“Amelia Stone,” I say into the receiver, sounding far more efficient than I feel. I used to answer the phone with, “This is Amelia” until I noticed that Stephanie always used her first and last name as a greeting. I decided that’s what people who want to get ahead do and have copied it ever since.
“Hey, it’s me,” a male voice says.
I know exactly who it is but absolutely hate it when guys start phone conversations this way—unless, of course, it’s a guy I’m sleeping with, but somehow those guys never seem to do it. “Who is this?” I ask coldly.
“It’s me—Chris. How are you?”
Why Chris has taken to calling me regularly I cannot imagine. I’m not sure which surprises me more—the fact that he continues to call me when I’m nothing but rude in response, or the fact that he actually is trying to make a girl he met through a ménage into his girlfriend.
“What do you want?” I want to ask but I’m too chickenshit so instead I settle on, “What’s up?” in an I-couldn’t-care-less tone.
“Not that much. Just the end of another long, busy week. My boss has been, like, a complete nightmare. Claiming I’m not giving him messages because some agent didn’t call him back and he’s completely paranoid. He can’t accept the fact that his ideas just aren’t…”
Chris continues to drone on ad infinitum. Does he honestly think I give a fuck about what he’s saying? More important, does he really think this kind of rap is the way to woo a girl?
“Look, things are really crazy here right now,” I say to get him to shut up. Even though it couldn’t be further from the truth, it’s my permanent excuse, my go-to line whenever I want to get off the phone—which means, essentially, that Chris must believe my workplace is balls-to-the-walls craziness at all times.
“Oh, of course,” Chris says, sounding apologetic. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me to a Rob Thomas concert on Thursday?”
Think fast. “Thursday? Oh, yeah, that’s the night I have to work late.”
“The tickets are free—I got them through work.” He’s clearly not going to make this easy for me.
“That’s great, but I think things are going to be pretty crazy around here for a while.”
“But what about dinner? I mean, you have to eat, right?”
What can I say to this? And why can’t I bring myself to ask him to leave me alone because he reminds me too much of how out of control I can be, and inform him that I wouldn’t hook up with him again even if I was on a hundred hits of Ecstasy?
“Look, I have to go,” I say, and I hear him trying to say something in response but I cut him off. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
I slam the phone down, wondering why I always seem to attract guys who are gluttons for punishment.
5
“Can we please concoct