Good Men Are Like Unicorns

Chapter 1:7: Just How Drunk Were You?

Regina

The guard at the gate shone a flashlight in my face as I pulled into the parking lot of the Hartford Apartment Complex. “Oh, hello Miss Regina,” Tom said with an apologetic smile. I’d lived at the Hartford for three years, and I still didn’t know Tom’s last name.

The fancy gold-lettered sign advertised “furnished apartments for working professionals, short and long-term leases available.” The building was butter-yellow, trimmed in dark brown. The parking lot was well lit with solar lights. I pulled into my assigned parking space and sat for a minute trying to gather my thoughts.

It was a boring conference anyway, I reasoned. I should have left early, regardless of the fact that I had run into my ex at the bar. I wasn't being a coward, and I certainly wasn't being unprofessional. I pulled my keys from the ignition and gathered my luggage for the climb up to the second story. There was an elevator, but it was located at the opposite end of the long building, and it was more work to use it than it was to use the stairs.

I stopped outside my apartment door, dropping my computer bag and the carry-on so that I could fumble with my keys. When I finally unlocked both the regular lock on the knob and then deadbolt, I was too tired to bend down and retrieve everything, so I just used my foot to kick my bags inside. Once I had pushed them far enough to clear the door, I shut it behind me, and automatically turned the dead-bolt.

I reached for the wall and turned on the main switch. The special “daylight” bulbs were supposed to mimic natural sunlight, and help dispel the seasonal depressive disorder that was brought on by the long, dark winters in Vermont. I squinted in the glare and cursed as the bright light skewered my aching head.

The apartment had come fully furnished and already decorated in a monochromatic theme of black, white and shades of gray. It was supposed to be hip and modern, but the effect was a sterile, soulless space. There was a big window in the center of the far wall, a bed to the left, my desk to the right. A little sitting area in the center, and a kitchenette near the front door. And in the three years I had lived in the studio apartment, I had never done anything to change it. I hadn’t added any color, I hadn’t put any houseplants in the bay window, and I hadn’t hung any artwork or photos on the walls. If it wasn’t for the clutter on my desk in the corner, and the bananas that were turning brown on the counter, one might think no one lived there at all.

I went to the refrigerator on autopilot, and pulled open the door on the shiny black appliance. The inside was as barren and depressing as the rest of the apartment. There was a jug of very suspect milk, a carton of long-forgotten Chinese food. Some sugar-free ketchup that was too disgusting to eat, and something long and green that might have been a cucumber, or maybe a zucchini, but it was impossible to tell because it had turned to mush and was beginning to liquify inside the plastic produce bag.

I slammed the refrigerator door closed and pulled open the freezer. I shoved aside the bag of riced cauliflower, a couple of frozen TV dinners, and found what I was looking for hiding near the back. A pint of Vermont’s Finest: Ben and Jerry’s. I pried off the lid, and found the container half full and only a little freezer burnt.

It would do.

I grabbed a spoon from the drawer and carried the pint back to the black faux leather couch. I lounged back into the cushions and put my feet up on the coffee table. I considered the remote next to my feet, but decided that my head didn’t need the noise and flashing lights from the TV that was mounted on the slate-grey wall.

The ice cream was cold and creamy on my tongue, but it did little to comfort the gnawing feeling in my gut. I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts. My five best friends were all there on auto dial. Dallas would already be at the club for the night, and Adalee was probably just sitting down to dinner with her stuffy husband. Malia would undoubtedly give solid advice, but it seemed rude to complain about my ex-husband's drama to someone who had tragically lost hers. I finally chose Patti from the list and dialed.

“Hey,” my friend picked up the phone. As usual, there was a riot of noise in the background. A TV blaring, music blasting, the sounds of a pre-teen girl having some kind of animated conversation with someone, I guess on her own phone. But that was Patti’s life: barely controlled chaos.

“Hey,” I answered back, “Um, do you have a minute,” I rubbed the throbbing pain between my eyebrows. “I need to talk.”

“Of course babe, I always have time for you,” Patti seemed to sense that there was something heavy weighing on my mind. “Give me a sec, let me shut myself in the bathroom…”

There was more noise, a bang, some barely muted shouting, and then, at last, a bit of quiet on her end as she shut the door to the bathroom. I could just picture her sitting on her toilet, holding the phone, which was probably on speaker, while she rested her feet on the edge of her bathtub. “What’s up?”

I sighed, propping the phone on my shoulder so that I could stab the icecream viciously with my spoon. “I saw Jeff today.”

“What? Jeff? The Jeff? No way! I thought you went to some boring publishing conference?”

“I did go to the conference up at the Grand,” I said with a groan, “And Jeff was there, for a wedding or something.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I heard his cousin was getting married. Wow, what are the odds?”

“One in twelve-billion,” I grumbled, sticking another spoonful of ice cream in my mouth.

“So spill! What was it like? Was it hella awkward? Did he speak to you? Did you speak to him? Oh my God, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall!” She hushed her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "How did he look?"

I sucked on the spoon, trying to decide exactly how much I should tell my friend, and how I would explain what had happened. “It was a little awkward at first, but, um… I was a little drunk.”

I winced. "And he looked really good.

There was a long, thoughtful pause from Patti’s end as she processed that information. “Uh…Regina?”

“What?” I could hear the defensiveness in my voice.

“Just how drunk were you?”

I took too long to answer.

“Like,” Patti continued, “Made eyes at him across the room, drunk? Got a little flirty, drunk? Swapped spit, drunk?” She sucked in a breath, “Slashed his tires, drunk?”

“Worse,” I whispered, but she heard me loud and clear.

“Oh Reggie,” she moaned. “What did you do?”

I felt tears burning under my eyelids. I threw the carton of ice cream back on the coffee table, not caring that it tipped over and melted ice cream was spilling across the glass top. I tried to blink them back, but they escaped and rolled down my cheeks in hot rivulets. My voice came out small and broken. “I slept with him.”