“Are you sure you’re gonna drink?” I ask.
“Just a sip. I need to relax. What do you suggest?”
“A cocktail. Something really girly, nothing too strong.”
“You’re the bartender, babe. Pick something for me.”
I know this will be the first time she drinks a full cocktail. Taylor’s incredibly responsible for her age, but I think the combo of her father’s death anniversary and that heartbreak she went through pushed her to her limit. She needs to let loose.
A few minutes later, once the bartender hands over our drinks, I give her a Cosmopolitan.
She rolls her eyes.
“This is such a cliché. Are we channeling that old showSex and the City?”
“Why not? We’re single and we’re in Manhattan. Let’s drink in honor of the queen herself—Carrie Bradshaw,” I say, referring to one of the show’s leads.
Just as she reaches for her drink, her phone lights up with a new message.
She shows me the screen. It’s from the hot doctor.
I grab the phone and read aloud:
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.Oh my God, Taylor! Subtlety is definitely not his thing.”
She repeats the message under her breath, as if processing it.
“What do I say?”
“What do you want to say?” I ask.
“Nothing appropriate.”
“Like…yes, absolutely?”
“Exactly. But I know I shouldn’t.”
“Send him a photo of your drink, thank him, and tell him you’ve moved on.”
“I can’t do that.” She pauses. “Idon’t wantto do that.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know… but I won’t lie. I haven’t moved on.”
“Then show him the drink and invite him here.”
“What? Are you insane?”
“No, I know exactly what I’m doing, baby. Send him a picture of the drink, drop the name of the club, and make your doctor sweat a little. If he’s really into you, he’ll come.”
“And what if he doesn’t?”
“Then you’re lucky to get rid of a loser, Taylor. Anyone worth having will make at least some effort.”
She takes a sip of the cocktail before following my advice.
She snaps a picture of her drink, attaches it, and types:At Vanity in Manhattan, having the time of my life. Hope you’re enjoying your night too, Mr. Marshall.
