Chapter 4 "A Little Sugar In My Bowl" (excerpt)

“So, Ms. Lockhart.”

“Mr. Chaplin."

“Where have you been keeping yourself?”

I smile. “Oh, out of trouble, mostly.”

“Ha, ha. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“How about you?” I ask. “Where have you been for the past two years?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “Oh, I’ve been busy with my stuff, you know. No rest for the wicked and the self-employed.”

The waitress returns with our beers. “Are we ready to order?” she asks, looking bored.

Mark flips open the menu. "Well, we'll need something vegetarian-friendly. How about the Quattro?" He looks at me. "Cool?"

"Fine."

"And let's add pineapple and green peppers to that."

He remembers what I like on my pizza. After two years. Maybe there's hope after all.

“That’ll be extra,” the waitress says.

“Not a problem,” Mark assures her, and she collects our menus and disappears.

He raises his beer in a salute. “Here’s to a beautiful evening.”

We clink bottles. Stay calm, you can do this.

He takes a swig of beer and sets the bottle down firmly. "You're absolutely breath-taking," he says, raking his eyes over my face and chest.

“Thank you." It’s amazing how well this shit works when it’s coming from Mark. “You look nice, too.” He does. He's wearing a silky, silvery gray shirt and matching tie. “I feel underdressed.”

Mark shakes his head. “No, no-you’re perfect.”

I’m wearing a fitted berry-colored top and black pants. I didn’t have time to go home and put on something more appealing, but I did fix my makeup before I left work and found a tube of shimmery, fuck-me lip gloss in the bottom of my purse.

“Soooo,” Mark drawls in his Lake Woebegon accent. “What made you decide to come out with me tonight?”

“Hmm,” I say, trying to buy some time while I bite back the truth. Because I was so ecstatic that you asked me, I couldn’t say no. Because I’d like to have sex with you again. And I want to see if there’s a chance that we’ll have a relationship this time, because I haven’t stopped thinking about you in two years. “I thought it would be fun to catch up."

He clasps his hands together, looking pleased. "Me too."

"So. Do you still have that little place on Washington?"

"No, I bought a house last year over on 46th and Primrose. It's a fixer upper, but
it's coming along."

"Cool."

"How are things at the Art Guild?"

I shrug lightly. "Same old, same old. You stopped doing chair massages there, huh?"

"Yeah, I got too busy setting up the new office. I'm there full-time now."

"I'll have to book an appointment."

The pizza arrives, and it's the best thing I’ve eaten in months. The tomato sauce is sweet, the cheese dense, and the pineapples and peppers crisp and juicy. I quickly scarf down my half of the pie and put away the next beer that Mark orders for me. I lean back in my chair, suppress a burp, and sigh.

“You made short work of that,” Mark says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and glances at his watch. “Shit, 7:45. We’d better get going.” He pays the check, helps me with my coat, and we hurry out the door.

“I’m just down the block a little ways,” he says, grabbing my arm. I hold my breath against the icy wind as he leads me briskly down the sidewalk to where his beat-up Honda Prelude is parallel parked. He unlocks the passenger door and holds it open for me.

“Thanks,” I tell him, smiling at his chivalry. Our eyes meet, and I seize him by the lapels and tug his face down towards mine for an impulsive kiss. He tastes like pineapple and garlic.

When I release him he looks at me a moment, then moves in for another. He parts my lips with his tongue and I feel his hands clutching my shoulders.

When he lets go, I’m nearly panting.

“We’re going to be late,” he says.

We are late. By the time we make it to the Murat and are shown to our seats by a visibly annoyed usher, Act I is well under way.

We are seated six rows from the stage. The theatre is packed, and I am wedged between Mark and, on my right, a portly man who hogs the armrest. There is not enough room to comfortably remove my coat, so I sit and sweat. If Mark does get my clothes off tonight, I am afraid I will reek.

But halfway through the first act, Mark reaches over, peels my coat from my left shoulder, and begins massaging my neck with his fingertips. I remember now what it is about Mark. I can't put it into words, but it's something my body knows.

After the final curtain call, Mark turns to me, smiling thoughtfully as the house lights go up.

“Are you up for a drink?” he asks.

“Let’s go.”

It’s too frigid to walk, so we drive the few blocks to the Chatterbox, snagging a lucky parking space across the street. Mark orders us two glasses of Merlot at the bar, and we settle into a booth in the corner.

“So, how have you been?” he asks.

“Well, work is going well. I got a pretty decent raise at my last review."

“I didn’t ask about your job. How are you?” He takes a long drink of his wine, eyeing me intently.

“I’m doing well.”

“How’s your love life?”

“What would you like to know?”

“So, you really don't have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“That surprises me.”

“Why?”

“I figure they’d be banging down your door.”

“Not quite. I was dating a ballroom dance instructor for a while.”

“Really? How was that?”

“He was fun. It never really got serious. We dated about six months or so.”

“What happened?”

“He moved to Florida."

“Wow, that’s too bad.”

I shrug. “Not really.”

Mark ponders this for a moment, and I catch his eyes drifting down to my tits.
“So,” he drawls, cocking his head. “How long has it been?”

“Since?”

He doesn’t answer, he just sips his wine, a mischievous glint in his eye.

I lean back, folding my arms over my chest. “Since I got laid?” I haven’t swallowed enough wine yet to not be perturbed by that question. I almost tell him it’s none of his fucking business, but I don’t want to give impression that it’s been as long as it has.

“A month or two.” I tell him shortly. It’s actually been three. Paul was kind enough to give me a goodbye fuck the night before he toddled off to Miami.

“How long has it been for you?”

“A lot longer than a month or two," he says, grinning. I’m not sure I believe him, but the thought of Mark fucking someone else makes me slightly queasy, so I don’t challenge it.

“Is that why you asked me out?” I say. I can’t help it. My defenses have suddenly gone on high alert.

“Oh, Jordan, no.” he looks alarmed. “No. Not at all. Come on.” He frowns at me, turning the corners of his mouth down in a show of exaggerated disappointment.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I say. “I had high hopes for tonight.”

Mark’s wineglass freezes on the way to his lips. “Did you now?”

“Sure. Girls have needs too, you know.” I shift in my seat, suppressing a smile.

"Well," Mark says. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm that easy."

"Have you forgotten our first date?"

He smiles. "I remember it well. You ordered the mango chutney."

I roll my eyes. "No, that was just lunch. I'm talking about our first real date. At the Pawn Shop Pub?”

He rubs at his chin. "I remember what we did after dinner that night."

I smirk. "Yeah. My point exactly."

We sit and look at one another a moment. Under the table, my knees are bouncing up and down furiously.

“Would you like some more wine?” Mark asks.

“Sure, why not. Twist my arm.”

“I’ll save that for later.” He rises and slinks over to the bar, hands in his pockets.

I slump down in my chair, feeling like I need one of those big, fluttery eighteenth-century style fans I can waft in front of my face.

Mark returns with another glass of Merlot. I take out a cigarette and reach for my lighter, but look up to see that Mark has whipped out a pack of matches and is holding a lit one in his hand, waiting. I smile and lean forward to touch my cigarette to the flame.

“You’re good."

“Make a wish," he tells me.

I hesitate, then blow out the flame just before it singes his fingers.

“What did you wish for?” he says, leaning back in his seat. He is grinning broadly and starting to get that look--Iris calls it "the Merlot glow."

“Okay,” I tell him, deciding to lie. “I wished I would quit smoking. I wished that I would never ever want another smoke. Ever.” I look at the cigarette in my hand. “Starting now.” I take a deep drag, and exhale slowly. “And I want to quit wanting everything else that’s bad for me.”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “Nobody can be good all the time."

“Some people can,” I say. “I’m just not one of them.”

“Well, speaking of being bad,” Mark says, and I snap to attention. He is fingering my pack of cigarettes. “May I?”

I nod and he draws one out of the pack, fires it up and inhales deeply.

“Wow, that’s nice. I haven’t had a cigarette in about six months.”

“Six months?” I repeat. “So, is this just a little minor slip-up, or have you officially fallen off the wagon?”

“We’ll soon find out,” he says.

“I must be a bad influence."

“I must need a little influencing.”

I stare at Mark, and that’s when I know for sure. We’re going to fuck tonight.
I slip my purse over my shoulder.

“I’m going to run to the restroom.”

“Run fast.”

On the toilet, I sit staring up at the graffiti covering the restroom walls. The Chatterbox attracts an art school crowd and is famous for its weird bathroom graffiti.

I’ve accidentally glued myself to God’s yo-yo. This is written in big block letters on the wall opposite the john.

Unfortunately, we are not robots is scrawled above the toilet paper dispenser.

And in flowery script next to the mirror:
Schizophrenics build castles in the sky
Neurotics live in them
Therapists collect the rent
I live in the dump

I return to Mark, who is happily drumming his hands on the table to strains of Paul Simon’s “Late in the Evening” emerging from the jukebox. I slide into my seat and drain the rest of my glass.

He gives me a toothy grin. "So?"

“Yes?” I reply, pulling out my compact mirror and the fuck-me lip gloss. Instead of using the spongy applicator tip, I put a dab of the goo on my index finger run it slowly over my lips. It’s a little trick I’ve seen Genna do. I glance up at Mark nonchalantly. He’s watching my finger, mesmerized.

“Your lips look like candy.”

A little shiver goes up my spine. I am so charmed by Mark’s twisted, geeky innocence that I lean forward, cleavage on the table, and kiss him softly on the mouth.

“Thank you,” he says, when I pull back. Now he's wearing half my lip gloss. He reaches up to adjust his glasses. My heart aches a little.

I look at him, tilt my head, and give him the doe eyes.

"Would you like to come back to my place?” he says.

“That sounds nice.”

Mark looks at me like a child watching his first sunrise.

Excerpt from chapter four of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.

Chapter 3 excerpt
(Continued)

I spot a waitress slinking through the crowd with a tray full of red wine.

“Score.” I tell Iris, giving the wine chick a wave. She sidles up to us.

“Hey Val,” said Iris, selecting a glass of red from her tray. “They got you working tonight, huh?”

“I’m doing this as a favor to Ben,” says the waitress, shaking her dark curls. “This is his night.”

“What an honor,” Iris grins. “Val, this is Jordan Lockhart. She works in jewelry, too."

“Oh cool,” she turns to me. “Do you have any stuff here tonight?”

“No, I wasn’t able to get anything together in time for the show.”

“Silver jewelry?” Val asks me.

“I do beadwork mostly. Glass and ceramic beads, some semi-precious stones.”

“Oh, cool.” Val says, looking unimpressed. “I love your tea set, by the way,” she tells Iris.

“It’s a sake set, actually. But thanks.”

“Oh, right.” says Val, giving her a weird crooked smile. She gestures toward her tray. “Well, duty calls. Nice meeting you.” She sashays off.

Iris and I look at each other.

“One of my former students,” she says. “She took my ceramic tile course last semester, and was always trying to tell me how to run my class.” Iris pauses. “I gave her a C.”

“Good call.” I smile. “Did you see her turn up her nose when I said I did beadwork? I’m sick of people acting like I’m some sort of hack.”

“Oh Jordan, don’t worry about it. I’ve had people tell me that pottery isn’t an art, it’s a craft. I’m a craftswoman. Makes me sound like some old lady folding origami birds.”

“Well, at least you have an art degree. That makes you way ahead of most supposed artists, anyway.”

Iris snorts. “Yes, my degree,” she says. “Thank God for that. Otherwise, I’d have to work two waitressing jobs instead of just one. This way I have so much more time to work on pieces no one buys.”

“Whatever, girl.” I say. “You done with your food? Let’s toss these, I can’t eat and drink at the same time.”

We locate a trash bin and dispose of our plates.

“Okay Jordan,” Iris says. “Point me toward the most fucked up guy in the room so I can get this over with.”

“You’re on your own tonight, sis,” I tell her, scanning the gallery. “I don’t recognize anyone here. They must all be Herron people.”

“Look, there’s the Skipper.” Iris deadpans, pointing with her glass at a rotund, white-haired man in a black turtleneck. He’s clutching a whisky glass in his fat fingers and talking enthusiastically to a skinny blonde, who looks like she’d rather be receiving an enema.

Iris cranes her neck, searching the room for Genna.

“I don’t see Genna--oh Jesus, are those elbow patches on that jacket?”

I follow her gaze past the Skipper, where a lanky man in a turd-colored corduroy blazer is standing with his back to us, chatting with a pale redhead.

“Yep, those are elbow patches. He’s going for that junior college professor look, I think.”

“Lord, the fashion crimes you see at these things.” Iris shudders. “That’s gonna drive me to drink.” She swallows the last of her wine.

I can’t put my finger on it, but something about the guy in the corduroy jacket seems eerily familiar. It’s something in his stance and demeanor, something that’s giving me a déjà vu feeling in the pit of my stomach. I raise my wineglass to my lips, obscuring my face from view as I squint across the room, trying to get a better look at him.

“Jordan, what are you staring at?” I hear Iris say.

I take a large swallow of Merlot just as the corduroy guy turns to the woman on his left, giving me a full view of his profile.

“Holy shit!” I gasp, sucking wine into my windpipe.

“Are you okay?” Iris says, thumping me on the back. “Jesus, what happened?”

“That guy over there," I cough. "I used to go out with him."

“Who?”

“The corduroy jacket,” I say.

“Patches?” Iris cackles loudly. “You used to go out with him?”

“Shh!” I hiss. “That’s Mark. I’ve told you about Mark before,”

“Mark,” Iris repeats blankly. “Oh, Mark,” she nods slowly. “Yeah, weren’t you like, majorly in love with him at one point?”

“I can’t believe he’s here,” I say, ignoring her question. “This is too weird.”

“What, seeing him at an art opening?” Iris says. “Why is that weird? Do you know how many men I’ve slept with in this room?”

This revelation prompts startled looks from two women admiring a nearby glass vase.

“Say that a little louder. I don’t think everyone heard you."

Iris stares openly at Mark while I duck behind her, cringing.

"I hate to break it to you, but he’s not cute at all. I don’t see why you’re freaking out,”

“It just caught me off guard,” I say, “I haven’t seen him in two years.”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“What am I going to say?”

“I don’t know…ask him why he’s wearing my father’s corduroy jacket from 1983."

“Shut up. You’re not helping anything,” I take a slow drink from my glass, trying to steady myself.

“You’re shaking like a crackhead!” says Iris. “I don’t believe you. Just grow some balls and go over there.”

“I can’t. I don’t want him to think I noticed him first,”

“Oh my God,” Iris rolls her eyes. “Jordan, it’s happened. You are officially lame.”

Genna reappears then, a bemused smile on her face.

“Okay, number one, where did you and the waiter run off to, and number two, how big is he?” Iris says.

“Number one, we were over by that steel sculpture--which is his, by the way--and number two,” Genna pauses, shooting a disdainful glance at Iris, “I have no idea. He has a wedding ring, anyway.”

“So?” Iris shrugs.

Genna cocks her head. “No. Uh-uh. I am not about to be the other woman,”

“If it’s not you, honey, it’ll be someone else,” says Iris, shaking her head.

“This argument sounds mighty familiar,” I say, rolling my eyes at both of them.

“You guys are tight-asses,” Iris proclaims. “I need a cigarette.”

“Hold on, I’ll join you in a minute,” I say, looking over her shoulder at Mark, who is now engaged in an animated conversation with Ty and his big Afro.

Iris huffs, tossing her head in frustration.

“Oh, come on, I’m not standing around with my thumb up my ass until that dork notices you.”

“What dork?” asks Genna.

“Mark’s here,” I tell her.

“Mark who?” she says loudly.

“Shh!” I hiss, and Iris cackles.

“Remember? Mark Chaplin? The massage therapist?” I say.

“The one who was really good in bed?” Genna asks, eyes wide. “Wasn’t he an asshole or something?”

“Of course he was an asshole. Jordan dated him,” Iris says.

Genna and I both look at her.

“Excuse me, I think you’re the one with the asshole fetish, hon.” I say.

“Yeah, one word: Frank,”

Iris just shakes her head.

“I’m going for a smoke. Screw you both."

Genna turns back to me.

“Well, where is he?” she asks excitedly.

“He’s over there in the brown jacket, talking to the dude with the ‘fro.”

Genna squints in his direction.

“That’s Mark?” she asks, looking puzzled.

“Okay, I know. He’s not George Clooney.”

“No, he’s kinda cute.” Genna said. She looks at me, then back over at Mark. “He’s
cute in that nerdy sort of way that you go for.”

“Yeah,” I agree, smiling wistfully.

“So are you going to talk to him?”

I hesitate. “I think so. I’m nervous, though.”

“Have some more wine."

“Yeah, liquid courage. That’s what I need.” I look around for the waiter. “Where’s your man?”

Genna shrugs.

“I dunno. Maybe refilling his tray. Do you want me to go get you a glass?”

“That’d be great,” I say, still not wanting to move.

“Okay, I’ll be back. Deep breaths."

I watch Genna’s retreating form, chewing my nails, then turn and pretend to study the giant stone vagina.

“Well, how are you doing, young lady?”

I turn, startled, to stare into the big red face of the Skipper.

“Good,” I manage to gasp.

“Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you there,” he chuckles, and reaches out to squeeze my forearm. I look down at his hand, wondering why I’m being groped by the doppelganger of a dead sitcom star.

“Oh, that’s okay, you didn’t,” I say, laughing artificially along with him.

He studies me, his eyes narrowing.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Oh good Lord. What a time for one of these. I try to force another weak smile, knowing for sure that at least I’d never slept with the guy.

“Um,” I fumble. Okay, elderly artsy guy, I think, searching for a possible connection. “Do you-know my mother?” I ask.

He looks vaguely insulted. “Ed O’Malley,” says the Skipper. “I monitored the Stone Sculpture class last spring.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.” Okay, now I’m remembering him. He used to leer at me creepily when I would go in to check on the Wednesday night Stone class. “I, uh-I guess I just didn’t recognize you without your safety goggles.”

The Skipper coughs out a loud, wheezy laugh, and I fidget with my glass uncomfortably.

“I was actually working on this piece during that time,” he says, gesturing toward the giant stone vagina. So this is his work. That makes sense.

“Yes, it’s very nice,” I say robotically.

The Skipper rubs his chin and looks at his masterpiece, then at me.

“You all by yourself tonight?” he asks my breasts.

I open my mouth to answer, scanning the room for Genna or Iris. They’re nowhere in sight.

“I’m here with some friends and my boy-“

“Jordan?”

Suddenly Mark is standing next to the Skipper, smiling at me with wonder and amazement.

“Hi,” I squeak.

Mark doesn’t answer right away; he just stands there for a moment in his brown corduroyed glory, his eyes crinkling up as he takes me in, grinning with approval. I
stare back at him paralyzed.

“Wow,” he finally says, shaking his head slowly. “It is so good to see you.”

He then grabs me by the arms and pulls me into an embrace like we’re best friends. He feels warm and surprisingly familiar. His neck smells of soap and water, and as my cheek brushes his shoulder, I catch a faint whiff of cigar.

He lets go after a moment and I take a step back, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look beautiful,” he tells me, and takes both of my hands in his. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears.

“Yeah, you look, uh-you look great.” I stutter. I notice that his hair is different-it’s shorter on the sides, and he’s got the top gelled up 1950’s hipster style. The lines around his mouth and eyes have deepened slightly, but it flatters him in that irritating way that it does with most men. He’s also traded in his fashion victim black horn-rims for smaller eyeglasses with angular, wire frames. It’s a definite improvement.

“So, what’s up? Do you have work here?” he asks me. He’s still clutching both of my hands in his, giving me little squeezes every few seconds.

“No, not this time,” I say, trying to breathe through the fluttering in my stomach. “I haven’t submitted anything in a while-I’ve been so busy working.”

“Still at the Art Guild?” he asks.

“Doing the starving artist thing, yeah.” I say. I suddenly realize that I’m giggling after every sentence. Jesus, I sound like a total bimbo.

“You two old friends?”

Mark and I both turn, surprised. Oh, the Skipper. He’s still here.

Mark purses his lips and narrows his eyes, pondering Skipper’s inquiry.

“Old friends,” he says, nodding at me slowly. “I guess you could say that, yeah.”

“That’s one word for it,” I agree, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

The Skipper smiles uneasily in response, gives me an odd little wink, then turns to slowly wander off, red-faced and sweating.

“Anyway,” I say, shaking my head. “What are you doing here?”

“I came out to see Tyler Dutton’s work-he’s a client of mine.” Mark says, gesturing towards a stained glass fixture hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the room. Oh, Afro Boy. Damn, it’s a small city.

“I brought my sister with me,” Mark went on. “That’s her-the one in the green over there,” he nods at the pale redhead he had been standing with earlier. “She’s staying with me for the holidays.”

He turns to me again, and that damn grin is back.

“What?” I ask, regarding him warily.

“You’re still gorgeous,” he says, unblinking.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Mark doesn’t respond, he just cocks his head to the side and continues studying me.

Christ, either the wine is distorting my take on the situation, or he really is genuinely glad to see me. Normally running into ex-boyfriends is not a pleasant experience.

“We should have dinner sometime,” he says decisively. “Are you seeing anyone?”

My heart drops down somewhere into my lower intestine.

“Not at the moment,” I tell him, my voice wavering. What the hell am I doing? This is Mark Chaplin, for Christ's sake. This man completely devastated me when he left. I can’t go through this again.

Excerpt from chapter one of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.

Chapter 3 - Steppin' Out
(excerpt)

"C'mon Gen, let's mingle."

She looks around apprehensively.

I tug at her sleeve. "They're just artists. They won't bite. Even though some of them look like they might."

We venture into the gallery, checking out the artwork on display. It's an interesting show--the title is "Rocks and Hard Places". No paintings or photography--just some elaborate silver jewelry, pottery, and several steel, stone, and clay sculptures.

I'm admiring a ceramic bust of an old man entitled simply "Luke" when I feel Genna give me a sharp nudge to the ribs.

"Ouch!" I exclaim, and turn to see the horrified expression on her face.

"That's a giant pussy," she whispers.

"What?"

She nods toward a large stone sculpture in a corner of the gallery. It's about six feet tall and oval shaped. A long slender opening is carved into the center, flanked by several layers of folds and creases. Yeah. It's a giant pussy.

"Oh Lord. Someone has a few mother issues."

"At least," says Genna, unable to tear her eyes away from it.

I grin.

"You're out of your element tonight, girl," I tell her. "You banker types don't get to see too much freaky shit like this, do you?"

"Not really, no."

Iris bounds up to us, clutching a disposable camera. "Okay, who wants a picture with the big stone vagina?"

"Who the hell made that?" Genna says disdainfully.

"I don't know, but I can't wait to find out," says Iris. "Probably an Art Guilder. I bet Jordan was the inspiration."

I shake my head. "Come on, mine is much smaller."

A slick-looking blond waiter glides up, balancing three glasses of white wine in the middle of his tray. "Would you ladies care for a drink?" he asks, all teeth.

"How do you know we're ladies?" Iris asks. He blinks at her, confused, and I stifle a laugh.

"Yes, thank you," Genna says, ignoring Iris. The waiter gratefully turns to her, offering his tray.

"Do you have any red?" I ask.

"We have some in the back," says the waiter, unable to take his eyes off Genna. "I'll go and open it."

Genna smiles shyly as he grins, looks her up and down, then glides away.

"I think he'd like to open you, Gen." I say.

"Come on, he's cute."

"Yeah, he's cute if you like that tall, blond, Prussian-Nordic, Aryan Nazi type," I say dryly. Both Genna and Iris turn to stare at me.

"It's from a Woody Allen movie," I explain to their blank faces. "Sleeper."

"Hmm, okay." Iris says. "Well, anyway. Let's find some food."

"How can you eat again?" says Genna, incredulous. "We just had dinner."

"You wait here for your man," Iris tells her. "Don't worry about us. And here," she shoves the disposable camera in Genna's pants pocket. "Hold on to this for me. Be careful. It's very expensive."

Genna takes a swig of her wine and waves us away.

"She doesn't understand the value of free food," Iris says when we are out of earshot.

I shake my head. "She's just pissed because we were making fun of her boy toy."

We make our way through the growing crowd of people, most of them congregated in small groups, sipping their drinks and chattering away.

"Hey there," Iris greets a tall, light-skinned guy with a big round Afro. He nods and gives her a casual half-smile as we pass.

"Who's that?"

"That's Ty. He works in stained glass. You want to meet him?"

I shrug. "Maybe later."

"Oh, come on. I hear he's quite the stud, Jordy." She hands me a small plastic plate from the buffet table. "Of course, I haven't gotten personal confirmation on that yet." She grabs the metal tongs from the cheese tray and snaps them at me. "I'll let you take a crack at him first, if you want."

I laugh, grabbing the tongs away from her.

"Nah--you go right ahead babe," I say, piling little orange and yellow cheese cubes onto my plate. "I can't get into a guy who has bigger hair than me."

"Holy shit, look at Genna."

I follow Iris's gaze. Wine Boy has already rejoined Genna. Apparently he never made it back for the bottle of red; his tray is nowhere in sight. They seem to be int he midst of a deep discussion, his head is bent towards her so far he looks set to dive right into her cleavage.

"I want to look like Genna in my next life," I sigh, popping a cherry tomato into my mouth.

"Screw that. I just want to be taller."


Excerpt from chapter three of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.

Have a great weekend! Remember to drink responsibly, kids.

Chapter 1 - Lover, You Should've Come Over
(excerpt)

I never expected that a beer-guzzling, hormone-fogged 23-year-old would spurn my sexual advances. What is he, gay? I raise my head and look over at him as this thought occurs to me, then reconsider.

"What?" Elliott asks, noticing my quizzical look.

"Nothing," I say quickly, shaking my head. "Never mind." I plop my head back down on the bed. I need to leave. Or smoke a cigarette, or drink some more wine, or have an orgasm or something. I can't just lie here and help Elliott Rowe come to terms with his reluctance to screw me.

"So where do we go from here?" I ask. "Do you want me to go now? Has this night been damaged beyond repair?"

Elliott sighs deeply, stretches, and consults his watch, the only article of clothing he's still wearing.

"It's getting kind of late," he says simply. I shoot him a look. Is he asking me to leave now? Isn't he at least going to try to make amends for coming in my mouth and then giving me that ridiculous lecture?

"So you want me to leave?" I ask, trying to keep the exasperation from creeping into my voice.

"Hmm." He glances at his watch again. "Maybe you'd better.

I rise wordlessly from the bed and begin pulling on my jeans.

"Your top is in the other room," Elliott notes somberly. "I'll go get it." He disappears into the living room. I sit on the edge of the bed, still not quite grasping what the hell just happened. I look over at his bedside table, where a one-hitter lays beside a typed version of the "Footprints" poem in a little wooden frame. Oh, I get it. He's one of those Christian hippies who smokes pot because it makes him feel closer to God or something. My aunt Trish used to date a guy like that. He would sit around her apartment toking weed and playing Kum-Ba-Yah songs on his guitar. My sister used to call him Patchouli Man, because he reeked of the stuff. She told me that people used patchouli oil to cover up the smell of pot, a little factoid that came in handy years later when I was in high school.

Elliott returns, carrying my boots in one hand and my blouse in the other. He presents them to me with a weak smile.

Excerpt from chapter one of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.