Milkrun

“Jackie!” he says, untangling himself from Natalie’s arms. “I didn’t know you were in Boston.”

Oh, God, oh, God. That means that Jer doesn’t talk about me to his friends! Apparently I’m so insignificant in his life that I don’t even merit being mentioned. Jackass.

Or maybe Andrew and Jer aren’t even talking anymore. Yes. I like that possibility better. They are so not talking anymore.

Andrew even kind of looks like Jer. Well, not really. They’re both pretty tall (I know, I know, everyone is tall next to me). Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Jer is more Ethan-Hawke-hot, scruffy-sexy (he even had that goatee thing going for a bit) whereas Andrew is more clean-cut, boy-next-door cute. Jeremy’s hair is light brown and Andrew is a redhead. Not redred, but blond with red highlights. Real ones though, not chemical dirty blond streaks like mine. And Andrew’s eyes are brown. They’re a nice brown, though, like dark chocolate, but they’re not Jeremy’s big baby blues. Okay fine, Andrew looks nothing like Jer, but they used to hang out, so he reminds me of him, okay?

“I got a job here,” I answer.

“Where? When did you move?”

“Cupid’s. A few months ago.”

“Really? Are you writing?”

“No. Editing.”

“Good for you. Have you met Fabio?”

I’m not sure why everyone asks me this question whenever I mention I work for Cupid.

“No, I haven’t met Fabio. I don’t deal with the covers that much. What have you been up to?”

“I was working in New York the past couple of years and now I’m doing my MBA.”

“Really? Where?”

“Harvard,” he says, trying to hide his smile in a I-love-beingable-to-say-I-go-to-Harvard-but-I-don’t-want-to-sound-like-a-show-off kind of way.

Aha. This explains Natalie’s sudden interest.

“That’s fantastic,” I tell him.

“It’s quite incredible, Andy,” Natalie coos, placing her hand on his shoulder. Andy? Since when is he Andy?

“Thanks,” he says. “Do you girls want a drink?”

Natalie’s attention is already distracted. Some tall guy in an Armani suit is beckoning from across the bar. “I’ll be back in a minute, ’kay?” And off she goes.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. We push our way back to the bar. I wonder if I should ask him about Jeremy. No, bad plan. Even though I’m absolutely convinced the two aren’t talking to each other anymore, what if he tells Jer I asked about him, and I look completely pathetic?

Ms. Cleavage asks Andrew what we want. His eyes flick to her exposed flesh and then back to me. “What’s your drink of choice?”

I will not ask about Jeremy. I will not ask about Jeremy. I will not even mention Jeremy’s name. “How about Lemon Drops?”

“The lady has decided,” he says, placing his plastic on the counter.

Lady? “How much?” I ask.

“My treat.”

“Thanks.” Sounds good to me.

“Ready?”

“But of course.”

Sugar…vodka…lemon…mmm.

“Ready?” he asks again.

“Yup.”

Sugar…vodka…lemon…mmm.

He motions to two empty seats along the bar.

I will not ask if he’s heard from Jeremy. I will not ask if he’s heard from Jeremy. I will not ask if he’s heard from Jeremy.

We sit down.

“So what’s new with you?” he says.

“Not much,” I answer. “Have you heard from Jeremy?” Damn.

“No, not since he left for Thailand. You guys still together?”

Uh-oh. Suddenly tears are dripping into my mouth and I’m tasting a weird lemon/sugar/vodka/salt concoction. I will never mention Jeremy’s name again. If I absolutely have to think about him, I will use an abstract symbol, like Prince did. From now on he is “

.”

I cover my eyes with my hand so that maybe Andrew won’t realize I’m crying. I feel like that kid in the second grade who used to cover his nose with one hand while he picked it with the other. Except we all knew what was going on.

Andrew, of course, knows what’s going on. He puts his arm around me and I start to cry right into his chest. I’m probably making a huge wet stain on his gray shirt, and my mascara is going to be all over my face, making me look like as if I’m in the middle of exams and haven’t slept in weeks, only periodic naps at the library between several cups of black coffee—

His chest is awfully hard.

Okay, so he’s no Ethan Hawke, but he’s certainly cute, and an MBA from Harvard will make him even cuter. I can seduce him tonight and we could have wild, passionate animal sex and then we’ll wake up smiling in each others arms and go for breakfast, strolling hand in hand along the river—

He smells very, very good.

He smells like

.

I absolutely cannot have a wild affair with anyone who wears

cologne. You see, the whole point is to be with someone who does not remind me of