CHAPTER THREE — DAVID
The enthusiasm I had a couple of hours ago has all but vanished.
"So, what do you think?"
"What?"
I'm jolted back into the present by Jocelyn's high-pitched voice.
"Are you even listening to me?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.
"Yes, yes," I say, clearing my throat and trying to focus on her dark brown eyes, but it's difficult.
As expected, this place is loud. Actually, it seems even louder than when I last visited it, what, 10 years ago? Which doesn't even make sense, because if anything, my hearing should be worse. But maybe I'm crankier. Who knows?
In addition to that, it's hard to see anything in this damn place, given how dark it is. There are strobe lights, and the music and the lights seem almost the same: pulsing, chaotic, incoherent, annoying.
I'm tempted to call it a night, but for Jocelyn's sake, I'm trying to be a good sport. I mean, I was the one who asked her to come here. I grab my glass of whiskey and down it. I make eye contact with the bartender. She's a woman in her mid-20s, I would say, with jet-black hair.
"Another Macallan?" she asks, glancing at my glass.
I nod.
At least she isn't chirping me this time. When I ordered my first glass of scotch, she raised her eyebrows so high I thought they'd practically disappeared under her bangs.
You'd think that somebody from such a progressive generation would be a bit less judgmental, but no. Apparently, if you don't order a vodka soda or shots, you're persona non grata here, or uncool at the very least.
"Thanks," I say, as she sets the heavy glass down on the wooden countertop.
I pick it up and gulp half of the drink down in a few seconds. It takes a second for the burning feeling to hit me, and then a feeling of warmth as the peaty mixture washes down my throat.
"Sorry, you were saying? It's hard to hear!"
I scoot my chair closer to Jocelyn's. She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
In this moment, I feel a mix of pity and contempt for her.
Pity that she's at this god-awful club with a man who doesn't even like her, and contempt that she isn't smart enough to realize I have no goddamn interest in her air mile points, or whatever the hell she was talking about before I tuned out.
I would feel guiltier, except she's the worst date of all time. I guess I'd somehow forgotten that since I last saw her, or maybe I've just gotten used to being entertained. Has Stephanie ruined me?
I'll say this: as much as she frustrates me and gets under my skin, there's one thing I can say about her.
She's not boring. That girl keeps me on my toes.
And before anything developed between us romantically, we had a few discussions about life, politics, et cetera.
She's smart. I like that about her. And that's not to say Jocelyn is dumb, exactly.
Jocelyn's high-pitched voice breaks through my thoughts again.
"...I just think Kim is really underestimated. She's trying to be a lawyer."
"Kim Jong Un?" I blurt out before I can think about what I'm saying.
She looks at me quizzically.
"Who's that?"
Oh, God.
"Hey, are you almost done?" I ask, looking at her drink.
She is, in fact, not almost done; she's only taken a few mousy sips of her pink concoction. Which, now that I think about it, the bartender gave her even more flak for than she gave me for my "grandpa drink," as she called it.
I remember when Jocelyn first ordered it.
It had some kind of fruity, frou-frou name, like a "Pink Lady Pearl" or some nonsense like that.
The bartender told her they didn't have it, and they had to go back and forth for five minutes, settling on a suitable alternative.
At the end of it, the bartender gave me a look like, I feel sorry for you.
I tried to avoid her eyes. After all, it was just the start of the date, and I didn't want to start off on a negative note. But it turns out she did have a good reason to feel sorry for me.
But this is too much. I can't handle this any longer.
"Not really," she says. "But anyway, Kim Kardashian, like I was saying, was—"
Oh God, I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Just then, a voice rings out. For some reason, despite how loud it is in here, I hear her clear as day.
Her voice is so distinct; I think I would be able to pick it out anywhere.
It's a bit gravelly, like a smoker's, although I'm pretty sure she doesn't smoke.
My head swivels in that comical way you used to see in old movies or sketches. It's like a reflex. I can't help it. And within a half second, my eyes latch onto her.
She's radiant. Despite the million different strobe lights pulsating around her, she stands out.
I breathe in sharply. She's wearing the most outrageously sexy dress I've ever seen. Green, low-cut, short. I feel a mix of protectiveness and lust wash over me. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm standing up.
"Hey, where are you going?" Jocelyn grabs my arm.
"Oh, right."
I look at her. Her eyebrows are knit in confusion. Then I glance back at Stephanie. My eyes go to her hand. It's wrapped tightly around another one.
I look up. It's that guy from the block party. What was his name? Patrick? Fillmore? Wait. Philip. I scratch my head, confused. I thought she wasn't into him.
I study her face. She's smiling, almost beaming.
For the first time in a long time, I feel a surge of jealousy come over me.
I didn't feel jealous when I found out she slept with Philip a few days ago.
She was really loud about it, and so it's obvious she was doing it to make me jealous, which means she doesn't like him.
But looking at her now, I can tell she likes him. And besides, it's not like she knew I'd be here. Fuck. I instantly regret everything. I regret how I immediately left earlier tonight, how I've tried to create emotional distance between us, and most of all, I regret coming here with Jocelyn.
Although, maybe it's better that I know. But I glance back at her face and see that it's turned towards Philip. Pain cuts through my stomach. No, I wish I hadn't seen this.
"So, did you want to go?"
I look down. It's Jocelyn, still sitting there.
Although I was ready to go, I look back at Stephanie, and that jealousy hits me again. I know this is all my fault, but I don't care. I want to make her feel the way I feel.
I don't know if that's possible, because she doesn't seem to care right now, but she did care once, or else she wouldn't have tried to make me jealous with Philip.
Maybe I can still do something to salvage this.
Obviously, the emotionally healthy thing to do would be to tell her how I feel, but I know that won't work.
Stephanie doesn't like weakness. She doesn't like it when men chase her. She likes the game. No, there's only one thing I can do here, and that's to make her jealous too.