Veronica sighed wistfully. “The one who could cook.”
“Right? Dude made his own pasta. Fucking dream guy. But, I swear, I was begging to meet his mother by date five — after I told him no strings, and he was so about it. He slowly backed toward the door, said he’d call me, and I never heard from him again. There’s a chance he died in a gutter somewhere, but I’m pretty sure it was from his phone exploding from the eighty-four-thousand text messages I’d sent him. And that was just a mild case of stalking — I’ve crossed the line so many times, I’m surprised I’ve never had the cops called on me.”
“You’re too cute for jail,” Veronica said with a laugh.
“Not when my crazy eyes get going.” I crossed my eyes and drew a circle in the air around my ear. “Rodney trained me to trust no man, so ninety percent of the time, I convince myself they’re lying to me about where they are, what they’re doing, how they feel. I go clinger. I’d rather be clung to.”
“I dunno. See, I disagree with Veronica,” Ramona said. “I think the rule makes sense. Penny, you’re larger than life. I’ve been friends with you for eight years, and I’ve seen how guys treat you. Every hetero man in the room notices you when you walk in. It’s like every curve on your body is sending a signal directly to them. They want to know you, and some, like Rodney, want to control you. This is a way for you to protect yourself against the whole thing. You break hearts so yours doesn’t get broken. And who knows? Maybe someday you’ll meet somebody who changes your mind.”
I laughed. “God, I hope not.”
She smiled like she knew better than me. “How long have you been on the three-date wagon now?” Ramona asked.
“Two whole years,” I answered, proud of myself. “Two years of normal dates with no crazy on either side of the line. Everything has been perfectly smooth ever since I really decided to stick to the rule. This is better for all parties involved, trust me. I’d rather not put my heart through the meat grinder again, thank you very much.”
Veronica snickered. “She said to her friend whose wedding is in two weeks.”
“Oh, stop it. That’s what I’m saying — Ramona and Shep are perfectly perfect. I’m just a mess, like Courtney Love but with tidier makeup.”
But Ramona’s face had fallen into a sad expression. “Two weeks. That’s all we have left for this.”
Veronica looked the same. “Less than that. You’re moving next week.”
Ramona’s eyes misted up. “What am I going to do without you guys?”
I knelt down between them. “You’ll start your life with Shep, and it’s going to be everything you ever wanted. We’ll see each other at the tattoo parlor every day. And Ronnie and I will be here, doing our makeup and trolling for boys at least three times a week, so you can come with us anytime. Be our wing woman.”
She laughed and rubbed her nose. “Ha. As if you need help.”
I smirked. “I wasn’t talking about me.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha. You’re a fucking riot, Penny.”
I shrugged innocently. “I mean, if you weren’t so picky, you’d be able to find a guy — at least for a night.”
She made a face at me. “Maybe not all of us want a guy just for a night?”
“That’s fair. But not even sometimes? I’d love to be your wingwoman, but it’s exhausting, and I’ve got goals of my own.”
“Yeah, to eat every dick in Manhattan,” she shot, eyes twinkling and lips in a smile.
My mouth popped open, and I laughed. “You bitch. I don’t have to eat them all, but having them in or around my vagina would be fine. You know, as an alternative.”
“So slutty!” Veronica shook her head.
“Thank you,” I said sweetly. “I love being slutty. I don’t make any promises, and I know exactly what I want. What the hell is everyone’s problem with that anyway? Who cares who I sleep with? Does it affect anyone but me and the guy involved? Answer: No. And I tell all the guys I whatever with what my expectations are, and they agree. It’s not my fault if they catch feelings.” I shuddered. “It’s like the emotional equivalent of gonorrhea — the clap, but for your heart!”
Veronica laughed. “I mean, with that endorsement, why wouldn’t you want a boyfriend?”
“Precisely my point. And anyway, it’s such a fucking double standard. Guys are allowed to fuck whoever they want, and other dudes are like, Way to go, bro, and slap them five. Girls are supposed to be all demure and pure and rely solely on their vibrators if they’re not in a committed, monogamous relationship. Fucking patriarchy.”
“Fuck the patriarchy!” Ramona crowed as she held up her hand for a slap.
I obliged.
I rapped the chorus of “I’m not a player” like Big Pun. “Ronnie, you need to crush a lot. I’d even settle for a little crushing. You’re too hot not to crush as much as humanly possible.”
Veronica laughed. “Maybe tonight. Wing me.”
My mouth popped open. “Oh my God, seriously?”
She nodded, closed lips smiling. “You won me over with your slut speech.”
“Finally. I’ve been working on you for years. I can’t believe I’ve seen the day. And I’m not even in Depends!”
She laughed and pushed me over, and I couldn’t even be mad about it.
* * *
A half an hour later, we were walking into a bar on Broadway called Circus that had popped up a few months before. The thing about themed bars was that they were hit or miss. That was mostly because, in an attempt to be cute, the bars would end up overdone, and within a few months of the novelty wearing off, the bar would close and a new one would take its place.
Not Circus.
A circular bar stood in the center of the room, and it was made out of a small version of a carousel. It looked like someone had plucked the top off a carousel and hung it from the ceiling. Around the top, Edison bulbs lined the panels of alternating mirrors and vintage paintings of circus scenes, and long white bar lights spoked from underneath the center, like a wheel. Red-and-white striped fabric draped from the peaked top of the carousel and out into the darkness of the edges of the ceiling, and the barstools were all saddles.
Everything in the bar had a circus feel — from creepy-cool oddity art to brushed brass fixtures on everything. The bartenders were dressed up like ringmasters, complete with handlebar mustaches and red tails, and the cocktail waitresses were all dressed in tails too. Rather than shirttails, they wore black bras, and rather than pants, they wore high-waisted shorts and fishnets. They even had little top hats on.
I swear to God, if I hadn’t had my dream job as a tattoo artist, I’d have dropped everything and joined the Circus.
I led the charge through the crowd and to the bar with my roommates behind me, squeezing in between two gigantic guys to lean on the bar.
They looked down at me.
“Hey, fellas.”
They smiled.