"They were asleep, but I think the baby just woke up."
I can still hear his child wailing.
"You think?"
His breath quickens, like he's running through his apartment. "Listen, I'm going to change him, then call you back."
I can tell he opened the door to the baby's room because the crying has intensified five-fold. The fact that we are having this conversation while his kids are in the next room makes me feel like a monster.
I run my sentences together so he doesn't have a chance to interrupt and challenge me. "No, do not call me back. You know where I stand on things. Save your marriage and do not call me again."
I end the call with shaking hands and a churning stomach. I know that Dan isn't going to let things be because that kiss had a totally different meaning for him than it did for me. In my mind, it was a sloppy, embarrassing wake-up call, like A-Rod's 2014 suspension for doping. But that doesn't mean my life is over. Look at A-Rod now, hooked up with Jennifer Lopez and living his best life. I'm headed to a random bar with a guy I met at a farmer's market, but hey, you have to start your rehabilitation somewhere.
Eight
My GPSpolitely tells me to make a U-turn because I've missed my turn onto a side road for the second time. I swear colorfully, find somewhere to flip the car around, then reduce my speed to twenty. Finally, I locate the turn for Zebediah Church Road. The turn-off is hidden by a clump of overgrown bushes, and the street sign has fallen down. In the dark, it's nearly impossible to see that there's a road here at all.
It's questionable at this point whether I'll find Ricky's before I run out of fuel. I'm down to less than a quarter tank and haven't passed a single gas station on this godforsaken road to nowhere. If Seth had mentioned that this place was impossible to find, I would have accepted a ride from him. Maybe.
Zebediah Church Road is even less commercial than the two-lane highway I turned off of a moment ago. Other than a few houses and falling-down barns, there's nothing out here. If I run out of gas, I'm spending the night in the car.
I'm starting to question whether Ricky's exists. What do I really know about Rhett anyway? He could be a serial killer or a survivalist with a stockpile of guns and ammo. Maybe he's a cult leader, and I'm heading straight for his compound. He probably tells people he's an organic produce-loving vegan to throw them off the trail of his crimes.
I'm giving myself five more minutes to find Ricky's, then I'm turning around and heading home.
GPS woman tells me that my destination is in a half mile, which gives me some comfort. I try to remember what Rhett looks like, but all I can come up with is light brown hair and green eyes. He was definitely cute, but tonight is only about getting a drink and socializing with people my age. Is Rhett my age? Seth was probably messing with me when he said Rhett was "barely legal." He's at least twenty-one if he's hanging out at a bar, and that's certainly old enough to engage in consensual sex, not that it matters.
I still don't see the lights of a business or any signage for Ricky's. After I round a hill, a dirt driveway appears on my right and GPS woman calmly indicates that I should turn into it. Just in time, I make a sharp swerve into a large gravel lot that's mostly full of pickups and SUVs. Adjacent to it is a long flat brick building. There's a hand drawn sign—black paint on white wood—announcing that this is indeed Ricky's Bar and Grill. The proprietors helpfully placed a janky old spotlight on the ground below the sign so it can be seen. Stephen King would appreciate the vibe of this place, but me, not so much.
My car tires crunch over rocks as I stare down four rows full of vehicles, with not an empty space to be found. Finally, I locate a slice of dirt between two huge pickups and guide my tiny car inside it. I sit in the car for a few minutes, dwarfed by the vehicles on either side of me, wondering why I'm here. Rhett might not even be here tonight, and even if he is, do I really need to be out flirting with someone who's potentially only a couple years older than my students? I'm still trying to get rid of Dan, my New York mistake. I don't need to make another error in judgment.
The alternative to going inside Ricky's is sitting on the porch glider by myself, attempting to readMrs. Dallowayagain, a depressing prospect. An evening at Ricky's is at least good for some stories to take home, and I'll make it clear to Rhett, if he's inside, that we're just going to be friends. I take my lip gloss out of my purse and glide it across my lips, fluff the bottom of my hair and inhale deeply. If it's awful, I'll make another U-turn and head home.
The door to Ricky's is industrial strength, but even before I open it, I can hear the music inside the bar. I'm expecting Rascal Flatts or Blake Shelton, but it's Coldplay's "When I Ruled the World." The room inside is dim, the floor is sticky and the stench reminiscent of other dive bars: stale beer and cheap liquor with undertones of piss and man sweat. Directly to my left is a long wooden bar that runs the length of Ricky's. Most of the stools lined up in front of it are housing the rumps of middle-aged men. Above the bar are neon signs lit up with the names of beer companies, as well as a framed certificate proclaiming the sanitation grade Ricky's has received: 91%. Raymond would be out of here like a shot. Actually, he never would have made it past the parking lot.
The majority of the room is full of pub tables, and, as the parking lot indicates, it's a full house. It's going to be difficult to find Rhett in this crowd so I decide to begin the evening by getting a drink. The head of every dude sitting at the bar swivels to check me out as I approach. Pretty sure every woman who walks toward them receives this treatment.
I'm looking forward to getting a drink, but my limit is set at two. I don't want to get drunk and find myself re-enacting the parking lot scene fromThelma and Louisewith any of these creeps. As I wait for the bartender to come my way, I check out the crowd. The patrons are pretty much all white, and they range in age from "he must have a fake I.D." to "older than dust." The older crowd has a redneck style: boots, wranglers and beer bellies. The younger contingent varies widely from Southern preppy to crunchy granola to scary biker. Even if I don't find Rhett, people watching here will be interesting.
The bartender has tan, deeply lined skin, and she's missing at least one tooth. Standing here in the light of neon beer signs, she brings to mind the saying "rode hard and put away wet."
"What can I get for you?" She wipes down the counter with a once-white towel and waits patiently for my order.
"What do you have on tap?"
"Miller, Miller Lite, and Rolling Rock." She lists the available beers with the enthusiasm of someone who already recited them four hundred times tonight.
"And in the bottle?" I ask.
"Bud, Bud Light and Corona."
The pickings are slim out here in the boondocks. I could order a gin and tonic, but those go down too easy, and I need to drive home tonight. A beer or two, some conversation with Rhett (assuming I can find him), and I'll call it an evening.
I rummage through my purse for the cash to pay her.
"I'll have a Rolling Rock."
She fills the glass efficiently, barely a head on it, and slides it across the counter to me.
