VERONICA COULDN’T FEEL her own hands and she couldn’t quite hear what she was saying. It wasn’t the martini affecting her, unfortunately; it was pure, unadulterated terror.
Despite the numbness, her hands were still holding the letters she’d chosen to read, and the crowd was still clapping and smiling. She couldn’t remember much of the past forty-five minutes, but maybe it was going fine. She might even be doing a good job, but she had a feeling the crowd approval had more to do with the alcohol. Not that she minded.
“And now, our sixth and final Dear Veronica letter,” she said into the microphone, lowering her voice a little to bring down the noise level in the bar. It worked. The roar subsided.
She drank the last of her now-warm cosmo and took a deep breath. “‘Dear Veronica, I feel like I’m a pretty good catch. I’m young, relatively pretty, educated and fun loving. Men ask me out. I wouldn’t say I have any problem getting a date, and my standards are reasonably high. I expect a potential mate to be employed and funny and hot as hell—’”
“That’s you, Steve!” someone yelled out, causing howls to erupt.
Veronica smiled and pointed in the direction of the noise. “Find me later, Steve.” She waited for the laughter to quiet, then continued. “‘So why do I always end up being the booty call? Why am I never the girlfriend? It makes me feel like I’m not good enough. Don’t get me wrong—I love sex, but I’d like more than that, and the last three guys I’ve dated have all ended up being casual.’ It’s signed That Girl.”
Veronica looked out over crowd. “Now...this letter might mean something to a lot of you.”
There were moans of agreement.
“Let me start with this. There’s nothing wrong with a booty call.” Veronica laughed at the ruckus that caused, then shook her head and moved on. “Sex is fun. Sex is good. Booty-call your way through life if that makes you happy. But apparently, it’s not making you happy, That Girl, so you need to figure out why you’re willingly participating in this unfulfilling little dance.
“I notice that you referred to yourself as ‘relatively pretty’ and then referred to your dates as ‘hot as hell,’ which makes me think you could be flattered by their attention. Let’s be really honest here—there is nothing flattering about someone wanting to bone you.”
She paused to let the crowd react, and a server sneaked over to hand her another martini. “Oh, thank you!” Veronica whispered, surprised and relieved. Her mouth was drying out and her hands were sweating. She gratefully took a gulp, then turned back to the audience. “I hear some disagreement, but let me be clear. There are men out there who will put their penises in a tree. There are men out there who will put their penises in sheep. You do not need to feel flattered that a man wants to put his penis inside you.
“And as for women...think of all the slimeballs out there you see taking women home every single night. Those women are happy to sleep with a slimeball, so, men, don’t be honored that they’ll sleep with you, too. Sex is not flattery! It’s one of our basic animal needs and people will do a lot of nasty shit to get it.”
“She’s talking about you again, Steve!” a man shouted.
“Okay, Steve,” Veronica said, “don’t find me later.” She winked in his direction. “But for this letter writer... You describe yourself as ‘fun loving’ and I’m afraid proving that you’re down for casual sex is part of proving just how fun you are.” She paused to let that sink in and registered a couple of women who looked as if they’d just heard the truth.
“If casual sex isn’t fun for you, then don’t do it. It’s not a requirement—it’s an option. Buy a good vibrator and take a break from being the fun girl who’s down for the superhot guy. Because if you think those men can’t tell that you’re flattered by the attention, you’re fooling yourself. If you believe they’re too hot for you, then you can bet your ass that they think so, too. And if you’re smiling your way through a booty call and pretending it’s a great way to spend a weeknight, those men are not going to try to talk you out of it.”
She took a deep breath. Almost done.
“So take a break. Reevaluate your choices. Figure out what you really want. And if what you want is to get serious with someone, then you wait for a person who’s serious about you. You wait for the guy who calls you when he doesn’t want sex.”
A few of the women frowned and Veronica smiled. “Okay, wait for the guy who’s dying to do you and also wants to spend time with you not having sex. Is that better?” All of the women cheered. “All right. Thank you very much, everyone. This has been a blast. I’ll see you in the paper!”
She waved blindly at the clapping crowd, then turned, meaning to grab her drink and retreat to the office to hyperventilate, but the glass was empty. Had she downed that whole thing in five minutes? No wonder she felt dizzy. Before she could retreat, someone rushed up behind her and squeezed her waist.
“You were amazing!” said Lauren.
“Was I? I think I’m going to faint.”
“Everybody loved it! You’re a natural.”
“I’m not,” she murmured, starting to see spots. She managed to smile toward a female voice that called out a quick thank-you, but then Veronica pointed her body toward the hallway and started walking. “I just need a minute,” she said.
She felt Lauren pat her back, and then Veronica was alone in the cool hallway and the noise of the crowd receded. She made it to the office, shut the door and collapsed into a chair.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, I did it. It’s over.” Her heart began to calm. The spots in her vision faded.
The door opened on a loud whoosh, and Veronica smiled gratefully, ready to fall into Lauren’s arms now that some of the shock had passed, but it wasn’t Lauren. It was Gerald King, the managing editor of the paper.
Oh, God. What if he’d finally seen through her stupid charade? What if he’d hated it?
“I’m not going to beat around the bush, Veronica.”
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“We were hoping to promote the paper and help pump up the locals’ specials advertising with tonight.”