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Frank doesn’t know how this game even got started.
Well – he knows, obviously. It’s Friday night. He’d gone to his regular hangout, The Parlour, to grab a few drinks after work, chat up a few girls. Probably end up taking one home with him. That had been the plan, at least.
What he hadn’t been expecting was to find Laurel there, sitting at the bar with none other than Prom Queen.
The Parlour isn’t the classiest joint; it works well enough for him, but never in a million years would he think he’d find the two of them here, miles away from campus.
Laurel is still in her clothes from work: a relatively conservative but flattering blouse and skirt with tights. Michaela, however, is dressed to the nines in a tiny black skirt, low cut shirt, and fuck-me pumps, her hair done up in a messy bun.
They’re drinking together, too, which weirds him out even more. He’s pretty sure Laurel likes Prom Queen just about as much as he does – which is not at all.
Michaela seems to have fallen into conversation with a guy next to her, and Laurel is looking around, apparently unsure what to do. She catches his eye across the room just then, pauses, then picks up her drink and comes to stand next to him.
“Hey,” she greets.
“Hey. What’re you doing here? Girl’s night out with Prom Queen?”
“I guess you could say that. Now that she’s single she said she wants to… play the field. She talked me into being her wingwoman. What about you?”
“Me? This is my natural habitat. I come here every week.”
She furrows her brow. “What, like to pick up girls or something?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Oh.”
Laurel blinks. A look of something that might almost be hurt crosses her face, and she reaches for her drink.
“Well, sorry if I was interfering with that.”
“You don’t have to go,” he calls after her. “Stay. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I’m good,” she replies, a noticeable bite in her voice. “Thanks, though.”
The conversation leaves him with kind of an odd taste in his mouth – that is, until he strikes up a conversation with a short, bubbly bottle blonde sitting next to him.
Then, he gets an idea.
Now that he knows Laurel is here, he isn’t actually all that interested in talking to her. She’s his type, he guesses. Exactly the kind of girl he would take home under normal circumstances.
But what he’s really interested in now is making Laurel jealous.
So he offers to buy her a drink. Flirts. Listens to her go on and on about her work as a dental hygienist. He’s not actually sure what her name is – Emily, maybe. Or was it Emma?
Either way, they’ve been talking for way too long for him to ask her what her name is now without seeming like a jackass, so he doesn’t. He just grins when it’s appropriate, and leans in close, making a show of flirting for Laurel’s sake.
The next time he looks over at Laurel, he finds that she’s leveled the playing field.
She’s talking to a guy: tall, dark-haired, and probably good-looking by her standards. She’s standing too close to him, giggling too much; Laurel isn’t flirty by any means, and it does kind of make him jealous to see her flirting so blatantly with another guy.
He manages to ignore it for a while, until he sees her reach out and play with his tie suggestively.
Fuck. This plan has kind of backfired.
“Frank?” Emma-Emily’s voice calls him back to reality. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah,” he replies, eyes locked on Laurel across the room. “Y’know, I love a woman who’s passionate about dental hygiene. If you’ll excuse me for a sec.”
Laurel notices him approaching and excuses herself as well, meeting him in the middle of the room.
“So,” he begins, trying not to sound nearly as jealous as he is. “How’s it going with Mr. Perfect-Hair?”
“Mr. Perfect-Hair’s name is Craig. And it’s going really well, actually. He’s getting his masters in accounting.”
“I have to say, he doesn’t really seem like your type.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And what would you say my type is?”
“For starters? Me.”
“You’re not my type, okay?” she scoffs. “I-if anything, Craig is exactly my type. He’s nice. Funny. And he doesn’t have a beard.”
He chuckles. Now she’s really reaching.
“Hey, don’t knock the beard. If I remember correctly, you didn’t used to mind it between your le-”
“As long as we’re discussing types,” she cuts him off, peering over at the bar where Emma-Emily sits, “she looks… exactly like your type.”
“That jealousy I detect?” he asks, raising his voice over the music playing in the background.
“Not jealous. Just curious. What’s her name?”
“Emma,” he lies. “Speaking of which, I should probably get back. Try not to have too much fun with Mr. Masters-in-Accounting over there.”
She raises her chin, incensed. “I will. I might go home with him, actually.”
Frank tries not to let that thought bother him, but it does. Dammit. If he’s going to win at this, he’s seriously got to up his game.
With that, they migrate back to their not-so-significant others. Emma-Emily starts back up on her story right where she’d left off.
He’s not a total douchebag (although some would say that’s up for debate). He’s trying to listen. He really is, but all he can do is watch Laurel across the room, and think about how he’d really rather be talking to her instead. Somewhere quieter, more private. Preferably with a bed.
There’re a thousand Emma-Emily’s in Philly, and only one Laurel, and God. He’s in really fucking deep, isn’t he?
Somewhere along the line, Frank says something to get himself slapped. He isn’t sure what it is; some offhand, inappropriate comment he makes because he’s too distracted by Laurel to actually think before he speaks, probably.
But regardless of what it is, Emma-Emily gives a sound of disgust, reaches out, and slaps him – hard.
“You’re a pig! I can’t believe you!”
“Hey, c’mon, Emma-”
“Emma? My name is Emily, asshole!”
With that, she storms off, leaving him alone at the bar with his glass of scotch and the sting of her slap on his cheek.
Damn. He’s really off his game tonight.
Across the room, Laurel is still cozying up with Craig. The sight only sours his mood further, and so he tips back his drink, motioning at the bartender for another.
“Things didn’t work out with Emma?”
Frank turns, and finds Laurel sliding onto the barstool next to him, thankfully sans Craig. She doesn’t look like she’s there to gloat – although she could, because clearly she’s won at this game tonight.
Frank shrugs. “Irreconcilable differences.”
“Such as?”
His answer is simple. “She wasn’t you.”
“Frank…”
“So what?” he asks. “You going home with Tall-Dark-and-Handsome-Craig?”
She shakes her head. “He was nice, but… I don’t know. I guess he just wasn’t my type. Besides, I should probably make sure Michaela gets home all right. She’s really wasted.”
He follows her gaze down to the other end of the bar where Michaela sits, hanging all over the same guy from before, who now looks like he’s about ready to gnaw off his own arm to get away. They share a laugh at that.
“Well,” Laurel jokes after sobering up. “At least it’s still early. You have enough time to find another Emma.”
“Think I’ll pass, actually,” he tells her, voice heavy with meaning. “There’s only one girl I really wanna go home with tonight, and her name isn’t Emma.”
Laurel blushes and gives him a tentative little smile, her eyes lingering on his. Then, she looks away and reaches for her purse.
“I’m gonna go get her. If she decides to be difficult, can I count on you for backup?”
“You know it.”
It takes some effort on Laurel’s part, but eventually she manages to pry Michaela away from her miserable prospective beau and wrangle her over toward the door. As they pass by Frank, however, Michaela notices him and pulls away.
“Laurel! Look, it’s Frank! Wow.” Her hands go right for his chest, and she giggles. “You look really good in jeans.”
“Hey, hey,” Laurel chides. “Stop. Go wait outside, okay? I’ll be there in a sec.”
Michaela pouts but obeys, stumbling out the door. As soon as she’s gone, Laurel turns to Frank once more.
“Sorry about that. She’s going to be humiliated when I tell her she hit on you.”
Frank chuckles. She does too, and again, she holds his gaze for just a second too long.
“I-I should probably go before she wanders away,” she says, snapping out of it. “I’ll see you Monday.”
He nods. “Yeah. See ya.”
In silence, Frank watches her go, until the door closes behind Laurel and she’s out of sight.
And yeah, he goes home alone that night. Oddly enough, he’s okay with that.