Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  She looks longingly at my father, currently scrolling through his phone. “They were a present for my birthday. Two weeks ago. You might have remembered that I invited you to my little garden party? The one you missed because you refused to come home for half the summer? I’m still a pillar of salt about that, Drew. There were some lovely young women I wanted you to meet. A few families of generous means have moved to the area this year, and every one of them has a lovely young woman of college age.”

  “Bit young for me, really.”

  “Nonsense,” both of my parents say, because that’s what gets my father to look up from his phone. “You’re barely in your thirties. That’s still plenty appropriate for a relationship with a young woman, as long as you keep it civil for the press,” my father continues. “It’s only when you reach forty that it starts to look a bit untoward. Then you have to wait until you’re sixty for it to be en vogue for you again.”

  How do I keep from rolling my eyes at my own father? I wish I could say he comes from a different time, but he’s hardly twice my age. You know, that magical time when it’s suddenly okay for him to date twenty-year-olds again?

  “Still, it’s nice of you to come since your sister couldn’t,” my mother says. “Even if your ulterior motive is to butter those men up for your new business.” She sighs. “Changing careers can’t be good for you at your age. Why you couldn’t stick with consulting, I’ll never know.”

  “I’m more weirded out that he’s going into matchmaking.” Father shakes his head. “No offense, my dear, but that’s women’s work.”

  My mother shrugs. “I suppose that gives him an advantage, though. Who would you rather get matchmaking services from? A woman you barely know, or a young man who was raised the way we raised him? He knows what men like you are looking for in women like us.”

  “He’ll have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. There are so few good women out there these days. Young women are such floozies.”

  Instead of getting offended, my mother sniffs and agrees. “Even if you were a hussy in my day, you still kept it to yourself. Your husband was none-the-wiser, and everyone was happier for it. These days, young women are advertising their number of boyfriends on social media. Can you believe it?

  My father pockets his phone before anyone could see what he was looking at on Instagram. (Let me guess… sexy bikini-clad “influencers?” I would be disappointed, otherwise. Also, not cheating on my mom my ass. He’s probably sliding into some DMs where he sits.)

  “Dating is rather a chore, yes,” I say, and leave it at that.

  They’re right, though. The only reason I’ve decided to attend this soiree with them is because it’s one of the biggest in downtown Portland all year. It’s a great opportunity for me to shake hands, remind colleagues of who I am, and namedrop my new business venture I plan on launching later this fall. Brent nearly fell out of his chair when I told him, but said he’d be down for anything I had in mind. My old business is closed. We’re turning away prospective new clients and will soon rebrand with a new office and a new name. I’m still kicking a few around. Benton Matchmaking sounds hokey, but it’s my placeholder for now. I’ll probably consult with an old buddy of mine who is killing it in marketing. Granted, he does toothpaste and paper mills, but I’m sure he’ll spare some time for his old frat buddy who has some money to throw at him.

  This is simply me testing the waters, anyway. I plan to expand my business to here in Portland as well as Seattle, because I’m familiar with the men (and women) in both. I’m sure I’ll bump into some of my old clients who are agog that I’m going into matchmaking when I just broke them up with their old bloodsucking honey.

  I really don’t want to go, though. It’s Portland. Fancy rich people will be there. You know who else will probably be there because of that?

  If you said Cher Lieberman, than you really are paying attention!

  I know she’ll be there, unless she gets food poisoning at the last minute. The question is… does she know I will be there? Second question: what will I say when I ultimately see her walking around with some new guy?

  Let’s assume I don’t actually see her. How disappointed will I be? Will I go home and wonder what I’m doing with my life? Why I’m still hung up on a woman who slapped me in the face on her way out the door?

  We’ve established that I was in love with her. I still am, I guess. I haven’t done a damn thing about getting her back, though. That’s not my style. She wouldn’t respond to it, either. That would reek of desperation, and any chance I had of getting her back would blow away.

  No. Getting her back includes a long game. Some distance between us. Giving her time to calm down and become open to talking to me again. Don’t think I’ve been sitting on my ass, though. I’ve been rehearsing an apology speech. Will I say it to her tonight? Probably not. It will be enough to make a quick appearance in her line of sight. Maybe coolly sip my champagne as we lock gazes. I’ll turn around first. Make her think I’m not interested in her anymore. If anything, I’d like to find out who she is dating now, because I don’t believe for two seconds she’s stayed single. In fact, I’d be disappointed. That wouldn’t be the Cher I know.

  And love.

  We reach the venue twenty minutes later. You know Portland has changed in my lifetime when we step out of our limo and meet an empty city street. Not entirely empty, I suppose. There are valets and security present, but the only through traffic are the buses. The sidewalk is closed to pedestrians and scooters, something your average man couldn’t score without greasing some serious wheels at city hall. For all I know, the mayor is here tonight. We are certainly serenaded by the voices of those put out because they have to cross the street to get around the building. But the hearts of the people attending this party tonight are too “soft” to put up with what Portland really looks like on a daily basis. It honestly doesn’t feel the same without someone screaming at me to give them money or simply screaming at themselves. At least we still get that faint whiff of pee.

  Nothing makes a man feel fancier.

  “Stay close, dear.” My father wraps his arm around my mother’s and escorts her fragile soul into the building. I stay a bit behind to chat up the doorman, mostly because he looks familiar. Turns out he used to hang out with a buddy of mine and we’ve met at a party before.

  My parents know I can take care of myself, so they go ahead. This party’s fancy, but it doesn’t require us to be announced together. I’ll saunter in once I’m done saying hello to everyone who looks half-familiar. By the time I enter the ballroom, I’ve had my fill of heady perfume and overpowering cologne. One of my father’s golfing buddies runs up to shake my hand. Did I say golfing buddies? Actually, I know him best as a former client of mine. Seems he has a new squeeze in his life, or else I’m misremembering the lovely young lady clinging to his arm. This guy is in trouble. How do I know? Because she looks like the same woman I humiliated for him a year ago. Not the same, though. He simply has a type, and that type will be his downfall one day.

  Many of these men are with women who will probably clean them out, either in a divorce or when the men aren’t looking. I don’t only mean the younger ones who are clearly hanging on for the money, either. I mean the First Wives Club, some of whom are currently none the wiser about their husbands’ wanderings. Or he’ll come home one day with a brand-new Porsche and she’ll realize he’s cleared out the retirement fund to fuel his mid-life crisis.

  Sometimes the women are at fault, of course, but after you’ve seen a number of these breakups, you notice that the most common denominator is the clueless guy who doesn’t realize he needs to change himself before he finds lasting love. Why do that when his money always ensures the next hottie is around the corner?

  Here’s my first ethical quandary about my new business. Should I attempt to get my future clients to understand their own relationship failings? Am I selling a lasting relationship? Or do I merely give them what they want at this mome
nt? Which is almost always going to be young, nubile pussy…

  Tonight would be an excellent chance to test those theories. There are many single men here, as well as those that seem happy in their long-term relationships (for now, anyway.) Even some of the ones who are with their young sweethearts continue to look at them with hearts in their eyes. Some of those young women look at them with the same hearts. Almost makes me believe in love, you know?

  Fuck. Of course I believe in love. I’ve felt it, haven’t I?

  I don’t get a chance to test any hypotheses. I’ve barely bumped into my father over by the open bar when he quickly grabs me by the arm and turns me to the man he’s been talking to since I wandered away.

  “Drew! Let me introduce you to my new friend, Brian Samuels. Been playing a bit of golf with him. He has a handicap of negative six down at the country club! Can you believe it?”

  I flash a smile at the man who can’t be that much older than me. Brown hair and a brand-new tux clings to his body as if he’s wearing it for the first time. Outside of somebody’s wedding a few weeks ago, it probably is. You can always tell who is used to wearing a tuxedo and who is pretending to be used to them. How often they tug their jacket down is the number one indicator.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Brian. I’m Drew.” I withdraw my hand after our firm shake. No, I have no idea who this guy is. Should I? I can’t be assed to remember every single acquaintance my father introduces me to. I can barely remember what I had for breakfast sometime. Unless I liked you at some other party or you’re one of my former clients, I’m probably not going to remember your face or name. You know, unless you’re a woman. “Don’t listen to whatever my father tells you about his handicap. I know for a fact that his golf game is much better than his story-telling skills.”

  My father claps me on the back before wagging a finger in my face. “How can you know when you’re never down at the links anymore? Do you know how long it’s been since he last went golfing with his old man?” he asks Brian. “Three damn years! We’re lucky he ever comes down from Seattle these days.”

  I chuckle. “Never was much into the game, if you can believe it.”

  Brian’s smile is as fake as his laughter. What a kiss-ass. Like I can’t tell what’s going on here. Before I know it, my father will tell me that Brian is in software development. Everyone knows that Benton Basics is one of the biggest software creation and deployment firms in Portland, and that’s with a smaller crew than some of the others around here. My father was always a believer in spending extra money for the right talent. “You buy Italian loafers that will last you ten years, don’t you?” he once explained to me. “Why wouldn’t you entice the best in their field to come work with you, even if you spend a little more on their salary and benefits? They’ll make you back double what someone cheaper ever could.” Sound advice, Dad. Now, hire more people to ensure that great, bright talent you’ve hired doesn’t die of exhaustion before they retire with your generous 401k.

  For all I know, that’s what he’s doing with Brian here.

  “I’m not as good as he says I am, anyway,” Brian says. “I’m always getting distracted on the course.”

  “Damn straight he is!” My father claps Brian on the shoulder like he’s the golden son. Fine by me. I can only get beaten up my dad so many times before my doctor questions the clap-marks on my own shoulder. “Last time we met, he couldn’t shut the hell up about this girl.”

  Blushing, Brian replies, “Are you complaining, sir? Gives you an edge.”

  “No edge is worth it if not honorably earned. Then again, from the way you tell it, you’ve got an edge over all of us in the romance department! Drew recently broke up with a girl.”

  I shrug. “Not all of us can be so lucky in love.”

  “Ah! Here comes the lovely young lady.” My dad flags down someone. I don’t bother turning my head, although the splash of color in my peripheral vision piques my interest. “Why don’t you introduce your lovely girlfriend to my son. Careful, though, he might steal her.”

  My father jams his elbow into Brian’s side. Brian, who is still all laughter as he coddles his bruised rib looks at me as if it might be true. I’m compelled to wink at him. “I am a bit of a ladies’ man,” I say. “I make no promises.”

  Brian’s face falls. My father roars in laughter.

  “That would certainly match everything I’ve heard about you, Mr. Benton.”

  Such a familiar voice was expected tonight, but not now. Not like this, on the arm of a guy who barely looks like he’s out of college and making his own way in the world.

  Yet there she is. The radiant queen who has graced us with our presence. A woman so above us with her lofty ambitions that she makes my father’s businesses look positively quaint.

  I’m statue-still as Cher places a gentle arm on Brian’s arm. He turns to her with that knowing look of lust in his eyes. Right here, in front of God and me, he kisses Cher on the cheek and turns to me in a dare for me to steal her.

  I just might.

  Chapter 32

  DREW

  She’s wearing a cherry red off the shoulder dress that brings the eye straight to her bare clavicle. The sultry slit running across one of her thighs reminds me of the night we met, when she wore that gorgeous black number that still makes my head spin. Her makeup is different from that night, though. Bright red lipstick complements the dress, and the generous use of pink mascara reminds me of a girl I used to know in high school. Only because she wore pink eyeshadow every damn day. Cher looks much more sophisticated with it, though.

  So sophisticated that I already feel about five leagues beneath her. That must mean Brian’s ten leagues lower.

  “This is, uh…” Has Brian forgotten the words now that he’s in her presence? I suppose kissing her cheek so brazenly would do that to a man. “Cher. Cher Lieberman.”

  My father waggles his eyebrows before sending me a somewhat dour glare. No, that’s not a reprimand toward me. That’s a look that says, “I’ve heard about this woman.” Gee, Dad, so have I. How about that?

  God. Imagine if I ever brought Cher home for the family to meet. I’d never hear the end of it once my dad figured out who she really was. “My buddy Ross Jenkins – you remember Ross, right? Come on, you remember! – used to date that Jezebel. She cleaned him right out before heading straight to his business partner’s bed! Stay away, Son. For your own good.”

  “Cher, this is…”

  “We’ve met,” she softly says, gaze never leaving mine. “We actually travel in many of the same circles.” Her white and red smile is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Probably because this is her fake, put-on smile meant to bedazzle and charm, to help her keep her emotional distance, and to make men like me fall in love with her. Wouldn’t this be the moment where I realize she always had a genuine smile around me? Or am I thinking else?

  Like how much I’d love to rip that red dress off her body and relive the old times?

  I clear my throat and address the men before me. “Indeed. Cher and I have met a few times before, but it’s always nice to see a familiar face around these parts.”

  “Indeed,” Cher concurs.

  Does my father pick up on our energy? Does Brian get that we’ve slept together? Do I give a rat’s ass?

  Not really.

  “Excuse me,” I say to everyone. “I was actually on my way to say hello to an old college buddy of mine.” I nod to Brian. He nods back. To my father, I say, “Thank you for the introduction. I’ll be around.”

  “Now, Drew…”

  I’ve firmly put my back toward them and have no intention of looking back. Instead, I shall head straight to the open bar and attempt to figure out my life.

  You see, I thought I had things figured out before I got here. I thought that a few weeks was enough distance between me and her. That I would face her, look into her devilish eyes, and be stronger than I am.

  I was a fool.

  What is this asinine feeli
ng taking me over right now? I ask for a gin and tonic to get me through these next few minutes. This feeling… I can’t tell if it’s jealousy or sadness. Is it possible for both to roll into one? Can I be so jealous that it makes me sad? Because looking at that nobody kiss her cheek sent me into a tiny tizzy. A little one. I swear.

  He doesn’t deserve her. She definitely deserves someone better than Brian, whoever the hell he is. Sounds like the kind of guy she’d pick up in the lounge where we met. Oh, God, was he that guy who had to leave before I swooped in and charmed the panties off her? Oh, my God. That’s almost worse. She went straight to him to feed when she was done with my shit.

  That guy is fucked. She really wants nothing to do with him, does she?

  Why do I care? Shouldn’t I be relieved to know she’s not in love with him? Why does this make it worse? That she’s probably sleeping with him, although she doesn’t love him? Would it really be better for her to go to bed with a loser who golfs with my dad if they are in love? Does that make it easier for me?

  Is this what it’s really like to be in love? Because I fucking hate it.

  I down my drink in about two gulps. Although the alcohol burns like a bitch, I tell myself it’s for the best. Maybe I deserve some burning for the dumb shit I said to her a few weeks ago. You know, when I had her in my grasp? When I was learning everything about her, in the most wonderfully hellish way? God, I blew it. I really blew it. Cher may play by her own ethics, but she still has some integrity. It told her to get the hell away from me, and I don’t blame it. I would’ve ran for the hills when I said something as stupid as you get off on feeling like a slut and that’s why you sleep with so many guys and bail on any relationship that get serious.

  What was I thinking? I wasn’t, was I?