21. Tequila Shots

“Hey, Whitney, want to go to a tequila-dinner event next week?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I wanted to ask, but decided that after only a week as the new girl it wouldn’t be an appropriate response to my straight-edged executive editor’s work-related question.
“Sign me up,” is how I actually responded.
He sent me the invite and I read over the details.
Tres Generaciones Tequila was hosting a three-course dinner where their National Ambassador would share cocktail recipes and information on the history of their tequila. Would I like a plus one?
I thought about it for a second. Bringing a non-journalist along to a PR event can only go one of two ways: He/She gets shitfaced and tells inappropriate jokes to the organizers while sloshing expensive (provided) libations on the marble floor, or he/she stands awkwardly outside of every social circle, regretting his/her decision to come with you, while you interview the spokespeople and mingle with other reporters. But then I thought about the simple fact that tequila makes me frisky.

I replied yes, and gave her Brady’s name.

We’d still been talking every couple nights, so he wouldn’t call Rae and I wouldn’t think about Cayden.

I was still thinking about Cayden.

I parked my car in front of the hotel that was hosting the event. I flipped down my mirror to check my teeth (nothing’s more awkward than talking to someone who has something wedged in their chompers while you stare at it, just to make sure it doesn’t unwedge and launch from their mouth to yours), added a little bit of lip gloss, and ran my fingers through my long dark brown hair, something I do too often when it’s straight because it’s a very rare occasion.
I stepped out of the car and immediately regretted the fresh coat of lip gloss as the unexpected tornado-like winds whipped my hair across my face. As I approached the door, I pushed my hair back off my face, smearing thin trails of lip gloss goo across my cheeks. Cute. One of the many downfalls to having almost waist-length hair (among others: rolling you hair up in your window and you don’t notice until you try to check your blind spots, hugging someone and having your hair get stuck in their armpits as they walk away, and—an all-time favorite—sprinting home from a night class because you’re positive a black-clad murderer with ninja moves is chasing you, and later finding out it was just a piece of your hair caught on the corner of your glasses). I wiped my cheeks and walked in.

There was Brady, standing in the lobby. It had been a year or two since I’d seen him last. He was still attractive. He stood there in his khaki pants and striped button-down shirt, smiled, then pulled me in for a hug. He seemed taller.

“You look good!” He said as he pulled away.
“As do you!” I said, and meant it.

As I was chatting with the National Tequila Ambassador, I looked over his shoulder and saw Brady, inside a social circle, laughing, joking, and planning a sky-diving outing with a few other local journalists. Gotta love him. Everybody does. With his looks, job title (chiropractor), and Southern-boy charm, Brady was a catch. But he wasn’t my catch. Watching him interact with everyone, I saw him for what he was: A good friend. A tall, goofy, good-natured friend. Not someone I wanted to rip clothes off of and have throw-me-against-the-wall passionate sex with.

Three cocktails and four tequila shots later, I changed my mind.