“It’s so weird to hear you talk like this,” I tell her.

She laughs.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”

“That’s much more familiar,” I chuckle.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.

Yeah, I get the karmic bullshit in the situation.

I’ve been looking off into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.

“You know you want to,” she says.

“Wrigley…”

“Stop being such a baby,” she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“

“I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

“Oh, you’ve had enough for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”

“No,” I tell her.

“Then, come on,” she says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn a bra, I could have—”

“Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll take the fucking shot.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t read too much into it.”

I hesitate.

“Seriously,” she says. “I won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”

I laugh, but I’m thinking about what Leila would think of the scene.

You know what? She kind of gave the right to care when she just left without even saying goodbye.

She hasn’t been answering my calls, and the only reason I know she’s all right is because she sent over her stupid fucking friend—who I hate, by the way—to tell me that she didn’t care enough to see me before she took off.

My mouth is around the shot glass a moment later.

“There you go,” Wrigley says, running her fingers through my hair like some weird oedipal hallucination. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

I pull the now empty shot glass out of my mouth and set it on the table.

“You know what?” I ask.

“What?”

“It does,” I tell her.

She smiles.

“I’m glad.”

“And you know what else?” I ask.

“What?”

“You were right. What she did is bullshit, and I’m not going to sit here another week feeling sorry for myself about it.”

“Good for you,” she says. “Does that mean we’re going to fuck?”

And my momentum is stalled.

“Too soon?” she asks with a chortle. “Got it.”

“But you’re right,” I tell her. “What am I accomplishing by sitting here feeling shitty about everything? I’m just making it impossible to be happy. I mean, she’s doing what makes her happy, why shouldn’t I?”

“Okay, now I’m back to unclear as to whether—”

“Tonight, things are going to change. I’m going to stop trying to be that guy who sits at home, bummed because his girlfriend left him. I’m going to reintroduce myself to an old friend.”

“Great, so we’re gonna—”

“Myself!” I declare. “You know, I’m pretty fucking good company when I’m not acting like a bitch.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Wrigley says. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to stop pretending like I owe her something. We’re not together anymore.” I stand up. “Why am I wasting my fucking time when I could be out there, having fun and I’ve really got to sit down.”

I sit back down and Wrigley gives me a polite round of applause.

“That was great,” she says. “I’ve never actually been in the room when someone made an inspiring speech to themselves.”

“Glad I could be of help,” I tell her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just stood up too quickly,” I tell her and then stand again (this time, much more slowly.) “Mark the day,” I start again. Couldn’t tell you why, but the over-dramatization seems to be helping. “Tonight is the first night of the rest of my fucking life!”

“Eh,” Wrigley says with a shrug. “A bit cliché there at the end, but I can get behind it.”

“First thing’s first, though,” I say.

“Yeah?” she asks. “What’s that?”

“We’re going to need more alcohol.”

*                    *                    *

Wrigley and I make a quick trip to the liquor store, and we crack open the bottle once we’re outside.

I haven’t paper-bagged it for years, and damn it, tonight is my throwback to the dynamic son of a bitch I was before I met Leila. Tonight’s going to be a fucking good night.

“What now?” Wrigley asks, wiping the vodka from the sides of her mouth.

“Now,” I tell her, “we’re going to do something that’s not only stupid, but absolutely brilliant.”

“What’s that?” she asks.

“I have absolutely no idea,” I tell her. “I’ll come up with something.”

She laughs and hands me the bottle. I take a swig and hand it back.

“Are you open to suggestions?” she asks.

“I’m open to pretty much anything right now,” I tell her, wondering whether I’m really ready to jump back in bed with her.

“All right,” she says. “I’ve got an idea, but we’re going to have to take a little trip to get there.”

“All right,” I tell her. “We’re young, we’re drunk, let’s fucking do it!”

“Okay,” she says, “you’re going to need to work on your inside voice, though. Otherwise, we’re not going to be able to pull it off without getting arrested.”

“Something that could get us arrested,” I say. “Now you’re talking.”

She smiles and hails a cab in her usual style.

While it may not be the most dignified technique, that shit works. We’re in a cab less than a minute later.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

“Why are you whispering?” she whispers back.

“You told me to work on my inside voice,” I tell her.

She grins. “You can talk normally until we get there,” she says.

“Okay. Where are we going?” I ask in my normal tone.

She finishes taking a pull before answering, “We’re going swimming.”

“Ooh,” I mock. “Now that’s living on the edge.”

“It’s a little more than that,” she says. “You’ll see when we get there. First, though, we’re going to need to stop by my place to pick up my briefcase.”

“Your briefcase?” I ask.

“Just trust me,” she says.

We pull up to her building and I wait in the car while she runs up. She’s back a few minutes later, briefcase in hand.

“All right,” she tells the cabbie as she’s getting in, then she gives an address that I’m completely unfamiliar with.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I told you to trust me,” she says.

We eventually pull up to a building downtown. It’s late, so the building is mostly dark, but there are security guards in the lobby.

“Okay, so what are we doing here?” I ask. “I don’t think this is the pool.”

“Oh,” she says, “they have one. Just let me do all the talking.”

“All right,” I tell her.

“And chew one of these,” she says, pulling a tin of mints from her pocket. “We’re not going to get very far if they know we’ve been drinking.”

I take a mint and we walk through the front door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bliley,” the guards say in near unison, standing.

I’m not entirely sure I want to know how they know her this well.

“Hey guys,” Wrigley says. “This is Tom Durant, he’s my new assistant, and I’m showing him what it’s like to work late. Is Phil in?”

“He’s out for the night,” one of the guards answers.

“That’s a shame,” she says. “Oh well, I guess it’s just the two of us, then. They haven’t locked up already, have they?”

“Nope, the floor’s open.”

“Great. You guys have a good night,” she says.

“You too, Miss Bliley,” the guards say and we walk to the elevators.

Barely moving her mouth, Wrigley whispers, “Not a word until we’re on the elevator. Until we get where we’re going, you and I are simply professionals acting professionally, got it?”

I nod.

The elevator door opens and we get on. She presses the button for the thirty-sixth floor, and we stand quietly as we wait.

The doors open again and we get out. I trail half a step behind her because I haven’t the slightest clue where the hell we’re going.