Chapter 3
3
Sybil
I looked around the bar for Carl with the great eyebrows, and I scrolled through social media, looking at nothing in particular, and spun the lucky penny from that morning on the table, admiring the way it picked up the lighting overhead. He had texted he was running late, but I scanned the crowd every few minutes hoping to spot him.
“Where are the eyebrows of your dreams?” The familiar voice from behind me made me grin, and I turned to face Emi.
“Running late,” I said, glancing at my smartwatch. Twenty minutes late so far. “Where’s Marcus?”
Em motioned to the bar, where her roommate, a head taller than everyone else, was trying to wrestle away the bartender’s attention from a pack of women who, if I had to guess, got in with fake IDs. He held two thumbs up toward us before returning to the task at hand. Em had met both her roommates randomly, and although she didn’t share my thoughts on luck, we both agreed she’d hit the jackpot with Marcus. He was kind, clean, loved to cook, and would do anything for her.
“So, are we celebrating?” Emi sat in the seat next to me. “Did you ask for the job?”
I spun the lucky penny again and shook my head. I’d rushed in just in time to literally run into the clients in the lobby and drop everything on the floor, including my purse. If the ruined snacks weren’t bad enough, one of the clients who was trying to help me up slipped on a wayward ChapStick tube rolling across the floor and inadvertently took a colleague down with him. As I told the story, Emi’s eyes grew wider, and her hand went over her mouth. “Oh no. What happened?”
“Well, after the ambulance showed up to take care of the client who hit his head on the way down and I cleaned up the donuts, Josefina fired me.”
Emi rested a hand on my arm. “Oh, Syb. I’m sorry. You were really hoping the event planning job would come through.”
I’d been certain Josefina would give me the job. We’d had such good vibes! Sure, I wasn’t great with details and sometimes I was a little late, but I had such good ideas, which she’d told me on multiple occasions. What I hadn’t told my friend was how I’d looked into training courses and made plans for how I could learn more about the event planning field. I didn’t want anyone to see me actually trying—that would make it worse if I failed. The disappointed look that followed someone noticing I’d failed was a constant reaction my whole life, usually paired with “please pay attention,” “focus, Sybil,” and “try to get it together.” I’d try and try, but I could never quite do it. Here was one more example of trying and failing spectacularly. Luck was easier to lean on than effort—no one could fault you for luck. “Oh well,” I said, brushing off Emi’s concern and swallowing my disappointment. “Another temp job down, on to the next. And I still have my date with Carl.”
Em looked at her phone. “Or you could hang with us since he’s late.”
My phone buzzed, and I saw a message. I’ll be another 30 minutes. Or maybe… The dots bounced on his next message.
“He’ll be here. Despite my getting fired, it’s still my lucky day, and I like him.” I held up the penny. “I know your prince charming ended up being a dud, but I don’t know…this could really be…something, he’s—” I clicked on the new message from Carl and stopped mid-sentence.
Filling my screen was an out-of-focus, erect, and badly framed penis. The tattoo of the Monster Energy drink logo on the pale white skin of his thigh highlighted his less-than-impressive and poorly groomed package.
Carl: …just meet me at my place?
I blinked at the image on the screen. “Oh.”
“What?” Emi set her wineglass down on the table and stretched to peek at my screen. “Oh, you’re right. That really could be something. I guess the landscaping stopped with his eyebrows.”
Marcus chose that moment to return to the table with drinks, sliding a glass of white wine across the table for Emi. Things would have been easier for me if I could have just fallen for Marcus, the smooth-skinned, deep-voiced, damn-he-works-out sweetheart who’d moved in with my bestie. But he was young and so earnest and innocent that I couldn’t bring myself to risk corrupting him. Marcus was like bizarro Deacon, her other roommate and my onetime fling, who was across the room behind the bar flirting with a trio of blondes. These were my people, and when Marcus took a seat next to Emi, he asked, “What could be something?” He followed Emi’s gaze to my phone and paused, studying the screen, his expression unchanged. “Whose dick am I looking at?”
“Meet Sybil’s soulmate,” Emi said, bringing the wineglass to her lips. I noticed how Marcus’s gaze followed the movement of her hand. Poor Marcus—nothing was ever going to happen between him and Emi, but the flash of his hound dog expression made me feel for him.
“He seemed like a good guy.” I dropped my head onto the table. “We talked about politics,” I defended myself.
“Guys who send unsolicited dick pics can still care about politics.” Marcus’s voice was as even as ever; he was always the more responsible and even-keeled of Emi’s two roommates. “Given the state of the country, I think it’s obvious those guys still vote.”
I heaved another sigh and motioned to the phone. “Why are men like this?”
Emi reached across the table and flicked my arm. The grown-up, adult, best friend way of comforting me, I guess. “We’re just kidding. Sit up. Turn off your phone. We’re here.”
“But it was supposed to be my lucky day.” I groaned but lifted my head. “He was supposed to be a good guy.”
“C’mon,” Emi said, motioning to the door. “We’ll take this party to our place, and you can wallow out of the public eye.”
I took a gulp from Emi’s glass. “But there’re cocktails here,” I whined. “I need cocktails.”
“I can make you cocktails at our place.” Marcus handed me my jacket from the back of my chair.
“And there’s plenty of cock on your phone. And we haven’t looked in a few minutes. Might be some tail, too.” Emi finished her wine and held out her hand for me. “C’mon, lucky girl, let’s go.”
I leaned against Emi as we stood from the table. “All I wanted was a nice, normal guy. Someone who might convince my family I’m making good choices. Are there any guys left who don’t send dick pics?”
“I don’t,” Marcus offered as we stepped out into the night air.
“Deac probably does,” Emi mused.
I shook my head, enjoying the chilled air on my face. “Yeah, but he always asks first. And they are usually wonderful photos. He’s got a real eye for it.”
Emi and Marcus stopped walking and laughed as I shrugged. Deacon and I might have a slightly regrettable history, but it wasn’t a secret. “I mean, they used to be wonderful photos. I haven’t seen his penis in over a year,” I added, focusing on the way my feet fell onto the pavement. “Or…well, it’s at least been a few months.”
Emi and I started walking again, nearing the gas station. Marcus walked on our right, hands shoved in his pockets. “What is the secret to a high-quality dick pic?”
Emi and I answered at the same time. She said, “When you find the right person, you can ask them what they like.”
I said, “Good lighting,” earning a punch to the arm from my best friend. “Or what she said,” I added.
“Let’s get some water,” Marcus said, holding open the door. “Deac had a heavy pour tonight, and you had most of Emi’s wine.” His palm on my elbow was gentle.
“Your fault. You paid my tab,” I mumbled, looking around the store. A rack of Little Debbie snack cakes caught my attention. “Think how sober I’d be if left to my own money.”
“Good point,” he said in a way that made me think he was actually weighing out the logic of the statement. “I’ll give you a liquor allowance next time.”
Emi plucked three water bottles out of the case, and Marcus walked an aisle over. “You two would make pretty babies,” I said wistfully, appreciating my slight buzz. “Please, just take that boy’s virginity and begin a beautiful life together.”
Emi shoved a bottle of water into my hand. “Me and Marcus? Not happening.” We strode to the counter and met Marcus, who took my water bottle to hand to the cashier. “Too busy with work.”
“Yes, yes. You with your grown-up job and lack of parking tickets. My mom would love having you as a daughter.” I pointed at my friend. “How do you do that?”
“Mostly I avoid parking illegally,” she said, looking at the label on a packet of mints. “But we just do things differently. Your mom is proud of you.”
She wasn’t, but it was easier to pretend it didn’t bother me. “She certainly wouldn’t have approved of Carl,” I said, holding up my phone.
“Who would?” Emi tapped the screen with her fingertip.
I giggled, but my gaze snagged on the sign advertising the current jackpot amount. “That.” I waved my index finger toward it. “Forget finding a responsible man and a good job. That’s what I need.”
“You need three hundred fifty million dollars?” Marcus raised one eyebrow.
“Yes. That’s all I need! Three hundred fifty million dollars doesn’t send you a picture of its dick instead of showing up for your date. Three hundred fifty million dollars is all I need to be taken seriously.”
Marcus eyed the illuminated sign. “At least a third would go to taxes. Are you sure two hundred and fifty million dollars is enough to get the job done?”
I reached for my wallet—the one that I’d found in our driveway near where I’d picked up the lucky penny—and nudged him out of the way. “I can make that work. I need two hundred and fifty million dollars. And maybe a donut, too.”
The cashier looked bored by our conversation, and I wondered how many times a day he heard some iteration of the same musings. In the harsh light of morning, and in a month when I wasn’t jobless, apartmentless, and the consummate disappointment of my family, I might have sat longer with that question. Instead, I asked, “Do you sell donuts that replace genuine human affection and professional achievement?”
He shook his head slowly. He pointed to what could dubiously be called a bakery case, where four sad, dry donuts rested, and I leaned my head on Emi’s shoulder. “Nothing is going my way. I can’t even get two hundred and fifty million dollars and a donut, Em.”
With a shrug, the cashier added, “There’s a place down the street open late.”
I tapped my phone on the card reader, ignoring the voice in the back of my head reminding me I didn’t have that many more dollar bills to my name. “That’s right. Thanks!” I still had the petty cash in my wallet, and I followed his motion to see Joe’s Donuts down the street.
The cashier handed me the ticket. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”