That First Time

Just before Bob walked into the bar, he realized he'd forgotten to ask what Vicky looked like. She hadn't asked him, either.

But it was a Tuesday night and the bar wasn't busy. After his eyes adjusted to the light he spotted Vicky right away, sitting at a small table against the outer wall. She was the only woman in the place who looked as though someone close to her had just died, her face a white, sad oval in the low, warm light. Whatever he looked like, she spotted him too; she stood the moment he met her eyes, offering a half-wave.

He'd been trying to remember a blonde, but Vicky was a redhead, her hair in a pixie cut, though her face was a little too round for that to work. She'd dressed in a light-green blouse and black slacks. Work clothes, he thought. On the whole she looked nice, but not done up.

Bobby, she said.

Vicky.

Then she smiled at him, crookedly, maybe happy or sad or both at once—and right there, he remembered her, sitting across the table from him at the Pizza King. The smile was the key. While Annie flirted with him, Vicky's smile had gone more and more lopsided, tipping through sadness and into panic; her laughter had gotten louder and louder. The best friend getting left behind.

He held out a hand to her, but Vicky shrugged and gave him an embrace instead, quick and clumsy. When they pulled apart she said, You haven't changed a bit.

I remembered you, he said, but I wasn't sure I'd recognize you.

Vicky laughed a little. Her cheeks were dotted with freckles, and the low neckline of her blouse showed him more. He didn't remember those, but he liked them.

So, you want a drink? she said. First round's on me.

Thanks, he said. Bourbon?

Vicky walked over to the bar and Bob sat at her table. An empty margarita glass stood next to her car keys. Beside her keychain was a small photo album, closed with a clasp. She'd brought pictures of Annie along. Bob wished he had the bourbon in him already.

Vicky came back with their drinks. She sat and sighed, and said, Bobby Kline.

You know, he said, I go by Bob these days.

Oh, right. I don't know if I can do that. You've been Bobby for eighteen years.

Fair enough. You mind if I keep calling Annabeth Annie?

Her eyes flickered up. I guess not.

And you're Vicky.

And Vicky I shall remain.

He liked her. Had he expected not to? He lifted his glass, and she followed suit; they clinked rims. Thanks for this, he said.

Well, you're buying the next one.

I will. But I mean meeting me.

She shrugged, smiled her half smile. I've been spending a lot of time in my head, you know? It's good to be out.

This your bar?

One of them.

It's nice.

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. Oh, Bobby, she said. I don't know if I can do small talk.

She levelled her eyes at him, which were very green.

He said, I guess now that I've got you here, I don't know what to ask.

Vicky said, You can't figure out why she wanted me to call you.

He laughed, surprised—that was it all right. Yeah, he said.

You weren't the only person I called. The only ex-boyfriend.

I'd be real sorry if I was.

Vicky kept her eyes on him. She was very good at that.

He said, I guess for my sake I was kind of hoping I wasn't...still important.

Vicky said, You were the first guy she ever slept with. You never forget your first, right?

Bob remembered Yvonne, in the back seat of his old Impala, grinning, unbuttoning his jeans, guiding his hand underneath her skirt. You better be sure, she'd told him. This is the big time.

He'd felt the warm inside of her thigh with wonder and said, I am absolutely, positively sure.

Yeah, he told Vicky. You never do.

Annabeth was obsessed with you, Vicky said. Right from the start, when she talked to you in the park. She was crushed for months, after you dumped her.

It hurt him to hear, but he had no place to hide from it.

I was an asshole, he said. I admit it.

You were a total fucking prick, is what you were.

He kept his eyes on his drink.

I'm sorry, Vicky. I wish I could have apologized to her.

So why didn't you?

I don't know. I always thought about looking her up, but at a certain point I figured the past is the past, you know?

He was lying. It had never occurred to him to call Annie, or any of the other women he'd slept with that summer, before Yvonne showed up at his doorstep and said she wanted him back. Sure, he'd treated Annie badly, but Yvonne had come back for him, and once that happened, he couldn't turn around and stare for even a second at where he'd been. Or what he'd done.

A furrow was deepening between Vicky's eyebrows.

He said, I don't want to excuse myself, okay? I feel like shit. It's why I called you. I can't stop thinking about how terrible it is that this happened.

You can't, huh.

Do you need to tell me off? he asked. Would that make it better?

No, Vicky said. Her face was clouding. It wouldn't.

Bob wished he hadn't called her, that he hadn't come. He took another drink and turned to look over his shoulder. It had gotten dark, and the rain was coming down hard.

He asked, Did she hate me?

Vicky might have been gearing up to it for a while, but after that question, out of nowhere, she dropped her head and began to cry. Not noisily; she ducked her head and tears rolled out of her eyes, and she fumbled for a napkin.

After a while she shook her head and said, She wasn't like that.

She had to. At least a little.

Vicky jerked her head up. She wanted you to remember! Is that so fucking hard to figure out? She was dying! She shared something really special with you. Maybe she thought you might still have a heart in there, huh?

Over Vicky's shoulder the bartender was giving them both the eye. Other people were looking, too.

Vicky's voice quavered. She was the one who told me not to hate you—

Bob stood up. Vicky had started to sound too much like Yvonne, like every phone call he'd taken from her late at night, when she'd had to accuse him of anything and everything, and he had to agree.

Look, he said. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll go.

Vicky buried her face in her hands. You don't have to go, she said. I'm sorry.

Annie was a good girl. Better than me. I'll always remember her. Okay?

Vicky didn't say anything, or lift her eyes from behind her fingers. Her shoulders shook. Bob stood at her side for a few seconds, unsure whether to say anything more, or squeeze her shoulder, or what. She still didn't move. Finally he figured he'd done enough damage and he walked out the front door. The heavy rain gave him an excuse to jog the half block to his car, to pile in and drive away as fast as he could.