Milkrun. Sarah Mlynowski

every photograph, searching for a before-picture. Of the thirty-five frames prominently featured throughout the huge house, not one featured her before the age of eighteen. Suspicious?

      And she dresses just like Buffy (sort of). Her Dolce and Gabbana black tube top and tight red pants must have cost more than my month’s rent. Luckily, she’s the type of person who can pull that outfit off—financially and aesthetically. As for myself, I tend to camouflage instead of highlight.

      Nat volunteers at various mental-health clinics. One day she plans on doing her master’s degree in psych. One day mentally disturbed people might go to her for help. Scary. Even the remote possibility that she actually gets in to one of these programs terrifies me.

      Eight minutes later, as promised, we arrive to find twenty fidgeting people lined up by the door, huddled under the metallic silhouette of a woman’s head thrown back in complete orgasmic abandon.

      Natalie walks to the front. “George!” she squeals to the intimidating six-foot, very bald bouncer whose wraparound sunglasses remind me of the Terminator.

      “Hey, sexy,” he says. Kiss, kiss. Kiss, kiss.

      “George, I want you to meet Jackie. She’s one of my best friends.”

      “Hi,” I say meekly, and into the bar we walk.

      

      “How’s the sky?” Natalie says, raising her head. That’s her code phrase for “Do I have snot in my nose?”

      “Clear,” I answer.

      “And the street?” That’s the code for “Do I have anything in my teeth?” What could possibly be in her teeth escapes me, considering I’m pretty sure she doesn’t eat. Her smile gleams the way I’m sure capped teeth should.

      “Clean. Me?” I ask just in case. I go for the two-in-one: I smile and tilt my head simultaneously.

      On our left is the coat check. I’m thankful that this late September weather has allowed me to get away without wearing any kind of overclothes. (I need to expose as much as I can get away with right from the start; Nat, on the other hand, could wear a burlap sack and still leave ’em panting.) On our right is the dance floor. Some scantily clad women—good God, do I look like that?—are gyrating to a thumping song I am having difficulty deciphering: boom, boom, boom slut, boom, boom, boom, go down on me. Lovely.

      “Let’s go.” Straight ahead is the bar. I motion in front of me, maneuvering my way through the crowd. A waitress with way too much breast exposure asks me what I’d like.

      I’d like to have your cleavage, I think but don’t say. She’d think I was some sort of pervert if I did. But I really, really would like to have her cleavage. It’s true I fill out a solid Victoria’s Secret B-cup, and Jeremy certainly seemed happy enough (“More than a handful…” he’d say), and this waitress can’t possibly be wearing more than I am, but let’s face it, I’d need a serious WonderBra to achieve that look. But here’s the thing: what happens when you take a guy home and the bra comes off? How does one explain that exactly?

      I order two Lemon Drops and try to keep my eyes leveled on the busty waitress’s face. I love this shot—first you lick a sugar-covered lemon, then you shoot the vodka, and finally you suck the lemon. Very fun. It’s like buying a bingo lottery ticket; it not only serves its purpose, but doubles as an activity. “Ready?” I ask.

      “Cheers,” says Natalie.

      Yay! I’m going to get drunk! I’m going to have fun! I’m already having fun. I’m having so much fun, I’ve practically forgotten about the jerk.

      Natalie reaches into her bag and takes out her calorie notebook. I’m surprised she didn’t ask for Sweet’N Low for her lemon. “Look, there’s Andrew Mackenzie!” she says, pointing across the room and waving.

      Please, please tell me, how am I supposed to forget about Jeremy when his Penn buddies are all over the place? Particularly the one who practically fixed us up.

      Andrew waves back and pushes his way toward us.

      “I was hoping to run into you, hon,” Natalie says. “I heard you were in town. We were just talking about you.”

      We were?

      “What were you saying?” he says, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

      What were we saying?

      “Just how sexy you are,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck.

      Natalie is a terrific flirt. She may not know which way is north, but she can certainly find her way around the male species. She’s not exactly the queen of originality, though. Who uses a line like “just how sexy you are”? But usually these guys just lap up anything good ol’ Nat has to offer. And at this moment I’m not sure what her sudden interest in Andrew is all about, because I tried to set her up with him about a gazillion times so that Jer and I would have someone to double with. Correction: could have had someone to double with. Anyway, Andrew had been all for it, not that this was much of a surprise—what guy wouldn’t be interested in Nat? But she claimed he wasn’t her type. Too nice, she said.

      “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?