38. What Happens at the Box
The first person Caroline sees when she walks into the Chicken Box is…
Dylan McKenzie.
Wait—what? she thinks.
He’s standing at the bar by himself, and when he sees Caroline, his face brightens and he holds out a cold Corona.
“I hope this is okay,” he says. “They don’t have Pol Roger.”
“Um, hi?” Caroline says. “What are you doing here?”
“We had a buyout tonight, private party, so I finished early and I figured you’d be here.”
Caroline takes a swig of the beer. Did she misread the cues from last night? Dylan has been waiting for her? This is so weird. “That was
thoughtful. Thank you for this.”
“You look great tonight.”
It just so happens Caroline does look great. She finally shed her sweatpants and put on cute jeans and a yellow halter top the size of a handkerchief. She blew out her hair and put on makeup because she has a plan, which is to photograph herself having fun at the Chicken Box and post it on her Instagram and Snapchat. She’s sure now that Isaac will see it and she wants him to know what he’s missing.
It would be even better if she posted a picture of herself having fun at the Box with Dylan, she thinks.
“Let’s take a selfie,” she says. She checks with Dylan—does he want to be seen with her beyond the confines of this bar?—and he immediately wraps an arm tightly around her and cheeses (he is so hot, that can’t be denied). She
snaps a bunch of pics.
“Is my mother here?” she asks.
“She and my mom are MIA,” Dylan says. “And I’m not unhappy about that.”
The band, Maxxtone, is playing “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World, and
although Caroline is grateful for music that isn’t off the Sirius XM oldies channels (her mother’s playlists are seriously painful), she says, “I’m going to the ladies’ room real quick.”
“I’ll wait here,” Dylan says. “Then we can dance.”
Caroline threads her way through the crowd of young, aggressively beautiful summer kids. Dylan could hook up with literally any girl he wants to, so Caroline isn’t sure why he’s paying attention to her, though it’s nourishing to her wounded ego. When she’s alone in the bathroom stall, she scrolls through the pictures, picks the one where she and Dylan look (a) the hottest and (b) the most “together,” and for a caption she writes, What happens at the Box… Then she posts. Mission accomplished.
When she gets back to the bar, she sees Dylan waiting with fresh beers, but before she reaches him, someone calls her name.
Caroline’s head swivels—she spies Dru-Ann and Brooke walking in the door. She waves them over to the bar and introduces them to Dylan.
“This is Tatum’s son,” she says. “Dylan, this is Dru-Ann, Mom’s friend from college, and Brooke, her friend from Wellesley.”
Dylan says, “Whoa, Ms. Jones, I watch you every week on Throw Like a Girl. This is so cool. You’re part of the weekend thing with my mom? She didn’t tell me.”
Dru-Ann thinks, Well, dude, there’s a reason for that. Then she thinks, I’ve been fired by ESPN, as you’ll find out when you tune in on Tuesday and find Crabby Gabby in my seat. But she won’t be a buzzkill tonight. “Yes, I am,” she says, offering a hand. She assesses Dylan’s stature and build.
“Don’t tell me—college lacrosse.”
“Good guess,” he says. “I played one year at Syracuse.”
Syracuse? She’s impressed. “Only one year?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Then some things came up.”
Well, as Dru-Ann has learned with young athletes, “some things” could be grades, drugs, or sex. This kid is obviously a lady-killer so Dru-Ann is going to guess it was sex.
“Can I treat you to a round of shots?” he says.
“Yes, please!” Brooke says. It’s so warm in the bar that she gathers her hair in a bun on top of her head; she feels her cheeks flushing. She can’t believe she’s at the Box with Dru-Ann, who is so super-famous even Tatum’s son recognized her! Who cares about Electra Undergrove? (As she thinks
this, she scans the crowd for Electra because if she is here, Brooke will have to leave.) “Should we do Sex on the Beach?”
“There’s only one acceptable shot,” Dru-Ann says.
“Tequila,” Caroline and Dylan say together, and Dru-Ann thinks, Maybe there is hope for this generation.
Dylan orders four shots of Patrón; they all clink glasses, and down the hatch it goes.
The band segues into “Kiss” by Prince. “I want to dance!” Brooke says.
She looks to Dru-Ann.
“I’m not your babysitter, girlfriend,” Dru-Ann says. “Go find some hot guy and hit the floor.”
Brooke wants Dru-Ann to come with her. She isn’t quite intoxicated enough to forget that she’s a middle-aged suburban housewife. But she won’t be needy. She was at a bar not unlike this when she met Charlie; she’ll just channel her carefree twenty-five-year-old self and try to attract a person who is the polar opposite of Charlie. She heads into the pulsing crowd.
Dru-Ann says, “I could use another shot. You guys?”
“Bet,” they say, and Dru-Ann brandishes her credit card like the girl-boss she used to be.
One hour and an undisclosed number of tequila shots later, Dru-Ann, Caroline, and Dylan head out to the dance floor as well. They find Brooke— okay, wow—in the center of a circle of Chads. (Dru-Ann can’t remember what a group of Chads is called. It’s either a privilege or an inheritance.) These boys are wearing white pants, pastel polos, belts needlepointed for them by their rich, idle mothers, and loafers without socks. They’re sloshing their vodka sodas around, cheering on their new mascot, Brooke.
“MILF!” pink-shirt Chad cries out while lilac-shirt Chad twirls Brooke under his arm.
“I have to go save her,” Dru-Ann says to Caroline and Dylan. She taps Brooke on the shoulder, and when Brooke sees her, she shrieks and throws an
arm around Dru-Ann’s neck.
“This! Is! My! Friend!”
“Hey, it’s Dru-Ann from Throw Like a Girl!” peach-shirt Chad says. He holds up his phone for a selfie, but Dru-Ann swats the phone away.
“No pictures.”
“Didn’t you get canceled?” seafoam-green-shirt Chad says.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Dru-Ann says. She assesses the group and thinks: They aren’t tall enough for basketball, broad enough for football or hockey, lean enough for lacrosse or soccer. They probably play sucky golf and worse tennis. “I’m going to borrow the MILF. See you boys.” She leads Brooke to a spot over by the fire-exit doors where there’s room to breathe.
“Those guys just started talking to me,” Brooke says. The one in the peach, Archie, noticed Brooke during the band’s break when the DJ played “Through the Storm” and Brooke belted out every word. (Both her kids listen to rap and hip-hop exclusively; Brooke has heard the song hundreds of times.) Archie seemed to think a mom who liked YoungBoy Never Broke Again was cool—or maybe just an oddity—and he introduced Brooke to his friends. That was fun, but she’d much rather have been dancing with Dru- Ann.
When the band plays “Watermelon Sugar,” Dylan grinds up behind Caroline.
She raises her arm with her phone and snaps some pictures. These will drive Isaac crazy. The band segues into “Champagne Supernova” and Dylan puts his hands on Caroline’s hips and spins her around to face him. Then he leans down and kisses her. This time it goes much better—maybe because of the music or the crush of bodies around them or all the tequila. Caroline is making out with Dylan McKenzie and she’s enjoying it!
But a second later, there’s a shockingly cold, wet assault to the side of Caroline’s head. Someone’s drink runs down Caroline’s face and neck—it smells like rum and Coke—and stains her yellow top brown. Caroline wipes her eyes and sees—surprise, surprise—horrible, awful mean girl Aubrey
Collins holding an empty plastic cup.
“Get away from him!” Aubrey screams.
“Aubrey, what the hell?” Dylan says. “I’m so sorry, Caroline.” He pulls a bar towel out of his back pocket and Caroline uses it to mop herself up.
“So the two of you are Instagram official, then?” Aubrey says, sneering at Caroline. “I saw your post. But I’m sorry to tell you, he’s my baby daddy— so, girl, bye.”
Oh my God, Caroline thinks. Is this happening again? The good thing is
that now Caroline knows exactly what to do. She’s been thinking about it for years.
Caroline smiles and presses the gross bar towel into Aubrey’s hand. What happens at the Box, she thinks.
“He’s all yours, psycho,” Caroline says, and she heads out the side door— wet, sticky, and deeply satisfied.
