Yes, No, Maybe

by Jessica Droeger

"Two o'clock, blond hair, brown shirt. No."

"I'd say maybe. He's got potential." I said.

"I'm with Melinda. No."

We're sitting in our usual happy-hour positions--me, Stacy and Melinda. Backs to the bar, sipping our fruity drinks and checking out the guys. We have this game we call "yes, no, maybe" which is how we divide up the guys to make sure we don't set our sights on the same ones. Best friends since high school, we haven't changed much now that we're in our 20s.

The game started our junior year after a disastrous night at Cindy Ward's house when Melinda and Stacy, unbeknownst to each other, both made out with Jimmy Parks. Mel and Stace didn't speak for three weeks until I convinced them that they should be pissed off at Jimmy, not at each other. The game was born at Cindy's next party and Jimmy never got a "yes" vote.

"In the corner, fabulous brown jacket, wavy hair. Absolutely." Stacy's always been a sucker for good dressers.

"Nope. I hate facial hair." Melinda likes them clean-shaven.

"Maybe." I'm feeling non-committal at the moment.

We're at Swinging Gate Saloon in Lincoln Park at a singles-only happy hour they call the "Meet 'n' Greet." Swinging Gate is brightly lit with colorful, abstract murals on the walls and a round bar in the middle of the room. The bar's glass top covers a jumbled layer of business cards that have been slid underneath it by bar patrons over the years. The swivel chair bar stools are the most comfortable in town. I have no idea why they call it a saloon because, with its modern décor, it bears no resemblance whatsoever to any saloon I've ever seen. Not that I've ever been in a real saloon, but I've seen my fair share of westerns. I used to date a Clint Eastwood freak. The noise level is tolerable and it attracts a fairly diverse crowd, which, in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago, means that there's more than one non-white person and not everyone is a banker or a lawyer.

It's my turn and I scan the room landing on a slick-looking dude with a ponytail. "Twelve o'clock, ponytail, yes."

Melinda shakes her head. The cleaner cut the better for Melinda.

"Well, I don't know. Maybe."

"Right, Stacy." Melinda scoffs. "I can just see you bringing him home to meet your mom."

I'm wondering how I ended up with such conservative friends, but perhaps I should be asking myself how I ended up so liberal, given where I grew up. I blame my mother, a creative and artistic soul. I'm the oldest of three, the only girl from a well-off but not rich family. I'm a lawyer because my father was a lawyer and I couldn't really figure out what else to do. It was the path of least resistance, I guess. I didn't get any artistic (or even remotely creative) genes from my mother. Maybe that's why I tend to gravitate towards artsy (read "poor and relatively unkempt") guys.

Melinda's turn again. She picks a WASPy-looking conservative-type in a charcoal gray suit who looks every inch Melinda's ideal man. Stacy and I both said no, not wanting to interfere with Melinda's drive to find the perfect mate. Melinda's a blond haired, blue-eyed, five-foot-nine Amazon woman who intimidates the hell out of most men. She comes from a very conservative, moderately wealthy and well-connected family. One day, she'll make a wonderful country-club wife with three perfect kids and a big estate home on the lake. For now, she's biding her time as a trial lawyer for a big firm in Chicago. I can't say I understand her intentions to quit working once she has kids. She's a good lawyer and she worked hard to get where she is but she has a grand vision for her life and it includes playing tennis and driving a top-of-the-line minivan, not taking depositions and carrying a briefcase.

Stacy is five foot five and weighs 120 pounds on a "fat" day. An accountant, she has a secret wish to be a singer but her family would probably disown her if she ever pursued it. Her dad's a doctor--a cardiologist and the head of the Cardiology Department at a large, suburban hospital. Her mom stayed at home to raise the family, of course. Her two older brothers are doctors but she hates the sight of blood so medical school simply wasn't an option for her. She, too, dreams of marriage but she's less set in her ways than Melinda and more open to different possibilities.

Stacy takes her turn, picking a bland banker-looking type with glasses. She and Melinda both say yes and I say no. When my turn comes around again, I glance to my right. My breath catches in my throat as my eyes land on Jeff Franks, someone I haven't seen since college. I watch him talking to his friends. He laughs, and I'm transported back to the freshman mixer where I first saw him. My roommate and I were standing at the keg, surveying the room. I was playing my solitaire version of "yes, no, maybe." Once I saw Jeff, the game stopped. Without even knowing his name, I fell in love with his smile, his dimples, and his wavy hair. I even fell in love with his ratty old Michigan sweatshirt. I stood there, watching him talk to his friends, until my roommate dragged me over to meet some of her high school friends. The whole night, I stole glances at Jeff wishing I could muster up the courage to talk to him. I never did.

As luck would have it, we were in English Lit together and I managed to sit next to him the first day of class. My heart skipped a beat when he recognized me from the dorm. We'd make small talk before class and sometimes we'd walk back to the dorm together afterwards, chatting about our classes, our roommates and our plans for the weekend. By the end of the semester I was hopelessly smitten but he never asked me out. There were so many times I wanted to ask him if he wanted to see a movie, join me and my friends for dinner or just study together. Thinking back on it, I had so many opportunities that fall but I never went for it. I waited, hoping that he'd make the first move. The semester and winter break came and went. I went back to school with a new resolve and a plan to ask Jeff to my sorority's spring dance. Jeff came back to school with a girlfriend. I didn't go to the spring dance.

"Earth to Trish! Are you going to pick someone?" I blink and turn to look at Melinda and Stacy.

"Yes. But I'm not playing the game anymore."

"Why not?" Stacy says.

"Because the guy I'm looking at is Jeff Franks." Melinda and Stacy look at him and then at me, not knowing what to say. They are the only people in the world who know how I felt about him.

Although I dated a few guys in college, I always had a thing for Jeff. We became close friends by the end of sophomore year and by the time senior year rolled around I had endured far too many late-night, half-drunk conversations about his various girlfriends. Senior year I made a concerted effort to distance myself from him, refusing to study in the library, staying away from our usual hang outs on the weekends. Ending my friendship with him was painful but being just friends with him was killing me. He tried to maintain our relationship but we eventually drifted apart. Thinking back, I wish I had told him how I felt. But stupidly enough, I was afraid that telling him would ruin our friendship. Not telling him ruined it anyway. I lost track of him after graduation.

And here he is, right in front of me. Laughing with his friends, looking almost exactly like he did when I first saw him seven years ago. He has to be single or he wouldn't be here tonight or at least that's what I'm hoping.

I gently place my drink on the bar and slide off the stool, keeping my eyes on Jeff. He looks over and sees me. He smiles. My breathing is shallow, my heart pounding in my chest. I've been given another chance and I know what I have to do.

I start walking towards him. "Three o'clock, blue-striped rugby shirt, wavy hair. Yes."

The Author

Jessica Droeger is a lawyer by trade, writer by heart. She lives in Chicago with her husband and their two lovely daughters.