Chasing The O

by LaBelle, Lorelai

  “Crossword buff,” I replied. “I also read dictionaries sometimes.”

  He nodded, his movements rather jerky. Did I make him as anxious as he made me? That was a silly question—of course not. I had to escape, had to get far away from these bizarre and troubling feelings.

  But before I could get the words out, he asked, “So, do you live around here?” The blunt question floored me. He must have caught on to my agitation, as he followed up with, “I ask because I wanted to walk you home. It’s the least I can do after knocking your leftovers into the street.”

  I analyzed his offer. Despite my wish to flee, another part of me desired to stay in his company. After debating with myself, quickly listing the pros and cons, I settled on an invitation. What harm could it do, right? “My car is on Thirteenth and Irving if you want to walk me to it.”

  His smile widened. “I’d love to.”

  The idea of foraging for books at Powell’s was now replaced with intense fascination with Vince, and the incident, while sobering, was also exhilarating. We strolled beside each other, and I had to fight my feet that challenged every step I took, trying to shift into speed-walker mode.

  Vince broke the brief wave of silence. “So where was the mac and cheese from?” His voice was smooth once again, with a seductive silky quality, if that were possible for a man.

  I pointed at Henry’s as we passed the restaurant, turning up Twelfth Avenue. “I had a date.” The words slipped out before any filter intercepted them.

  “Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “And how come he’s not walking you to your car?” His straightforward manner attracted me even more, showing the confidence I was now searching for, since it had chosen to abandon me at such a crucial time.

  My cheeks went crimson. “Bad date,” I said, attempting to match his frank tone.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry my friend hit your car,” I blurted, directing the conversation onto a new topic. “She has a problem with road rage.”

  “It was barely anything,” he said. “Mary Jane is just fine.”

  “Mary Jane?”

  “That’s what I call my Mustang, after Mary Jane Watson from Spider-Man.” He laughed to himself. “You could say I’m a bit of a comic book enthusiast. Not sure if you noticed, but she’s painted like Spider-Man’s costume.”

  “I was having trouble seeing that day,” I admitted. I hitched onto the better subject. “I name my cars, too.”

  “Like?” He cocked his head at me, interested.

  “I have Eddie right now,” I told him. “He’s an Escort. I always use alliteration with the names. Before Eddie, I had Carrie the Corolla, but she died a few months after I got her. Before that, I had Gary the Golf, my first car. He was stolen when I was in high school down in Oregon City.”

  “Oh, when was that?” he asked, nonchalantly, as if he weren’t asking get-to-know-you questions.

  “Two thousand eleven,” I answered, my nerves still frantic. “My senior year.” The urge to kiss him had increased over the passing minutes as we headed for Irving Street. Conflicted, my brain hadn’t stopped debating whether my decision was a good one.

  “Really?” He sounded utterly surprised. “Only a year after I graduated . . . I would’ve pegged you for a few years younger.”

  “Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment. At least I thought it was a compliment. “So, what’s the book about that had you so enthralled?” My words were coming easier now, my mind turning around despite the hard throb of my heart.

  “This?” He raised the book. “It’s just a writer I’ve been following for a while. I read the book when it was self-published and now it’s been picked up by Orbit, so I’m reading the new editions to catch the nuances. But to answer your question, it’s about thieves and love and power . . . with a lot of killing.” I flinched a little. “Not your cup of tea, I take it.”

  “Not really, no,” I said. “I’m a sucker for historical romances.”

  He waved his hand left at the street sign. “I like the honesty. I haven’t read any, myself—though I’ve read a few contemporary romances.”

  I couldn’t believe we’d walked seven blocks already. Conflicted, I didn’t want the conversation to end, and at the same time, I couldn’t get away fast enough. “Did you enjoy them?”

  “A few.”

  “This is me,” I said, nodding at the purple escort. We stopped at Eddie’s back bumper. One lesson I’d learned from my last two dates was that I no longer wanted to ask men out. No, I was going to leave that up to them. If they really wanted it, they’d make a move, right? Standing in front of Vince, My mind disputed this course of logic, begging me to release the words, “Want to get coffee?” But instead, I kept my lips tight.

  “Again, sorry about your leftovers,” he said. “I have some work to finish tonight, so I won’t keep you. It was good to finally meet after the last two times.” He flashed a smile that stole the breath from my lungs.

  “It was good to meet you, too,” I forced out, awkward, my nerves going berserk. I was afraid my mouth was going to say something unpredictable.

  “Hope to see you around the gym,” he said, waving.

  “You too.” My smile had become twitchy, my body shaking. He turned and headed down Thirteenth. The keyhole gave me trouble as I tried unlocking the door. I drew in a deep breath and exhaled, collecting myself. Why did the driver—Vince Forte, I repeated in my head—have such a strong effect on me? It simultaneously scared and thrilled me. Ugh! All my feelings that surrounded the man contradicted each other. Slightly trembling, I started up Eddie and drove in the opposite direction. Even though it was a circuitous route home, I didn’t want to chance passing Vince.

  I patted myself on the back for not asking him out, though I knew Danielle would have been disappointed. One bad date in a night was sufficient and it was obvious he wasn’t as interested in me as I was in him, so it was probably for the best we had gone our separate ways.

  The conversation played repeatedly in my head the entire drive home, and I tried desperately hard to remember all that he’d said, scrutinizing every detail. But why? Why was I putting so much effort into understanding the encounter?

  The question kept me up most of the night.

  THE NEXT MORNING I related the night’s events to Danielle and Ashley, neither believing my encounter with Vince. They also found it hard to fathom the nerve of Josh for sending such lame and vulgar texts after an appalling date that ended by splitting the bill. It made for a good laugh for them, but it doused my enthusiasm for going out on another date, especially one produced by an online source. After a gym excursion with Danielle and Ashley—which, in spite of their audible hopes, was Vinceless—I met up with Bridgett and unloaded the story, asking her advice. She told me to wait for an invitation and not to worry over relationships. But then again, this was advice from a woman who was seeking only sex as a result of a failed marriage.

  In the end I chose to heed it. Before I crashed for the night, I checked my phone and saw the new message from ThePortlandPirate. He was actually one of the profiles I’d bookmarked for later, a top candidate. He wanted to meet for dinner and a movie, so we set it up for the following Wednesday. It was the first night in a while that I slept decently.

  WEDNESDAY BROUGHT MORE PRE-DATE jitters. My heart was preparing for another letdown, and my stomach knotted, making me queasy throughout much of the morning. After work, I went to the gym and braved the second floor alone, secretly hoping to bump into Vince. Only a few people populated the level. The ellipticals were all free, so I chose the one by the window.

  Fifteen minutes into my workout, another woman joined me on the machines, taking the one right beside me. The rest were still vacant.

  I thought my headphones would dissuade her from conversation, but she turned to me and said, “Hi, I’m Emma.” She was taller than me with straight, luminous blond hair and milky-white skin, but she had the same bust, and the same slim, straight body shape
as I did. The paleness of her green eyes held my gaze for a second, stunned. They were very unusual and somewhat haunting. She wore a baby-blue racerback tank and supremely short shorts.

  I removed my earbuds, though they weren’t very loud. “Maci.” I stuck out my hand in a trained, reflexive fashion. She gripped it with a soft, delicate touch that bordered on fragile.

  “I’ve seen you around a few times on the weekend, so I thought it’d be nice to introduce myself,” she said, starting up the elliptical on its lowest level, which signaled her eagerness to carry on our chat, since she was clearly in shape.

  “Yeah, I normally go up to the third floor during the week when I’m alone.” I slowed down to match her pace. “My friends like to push me into meeting guys.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, I know how that is. So, do you do any races? You look like you do.”

  Her topic change threw me off for a heartbeat, and I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or skeptical. Backhanded compliments plagued the world of women, and she looked like the type to sling double-edged words. “I used to,” I answered, wiping my forehead with the towel I brought from home. I hated sweating in public. “But I haven’t in a long time. I’m doing the Hood to Coast this August, though, so I thought I’d get in here so I don’t look like a total fool out there.”

  She was nodding in a casual, not-really-listening sort of way. “That’s cool. I’m doing Bridge to Brews in April and a few after that. I’m not ready for a commitment like Hood to Coast.”

  I laughed. “I’m not really either, but my friend talked me into it . . .” An awkward pause settled in and I thought about putting my earbuds back in, but then decided I didn’t mind talking. “I’ve heard the after-party is pretty great.”

  “Where’s that again?” she asked, looking at the TV with a home improvement show on it.

  “Seaside.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, nodding as if the information was popping into her brain. “Yeah, I’ve heard that it’s worth doing at least once, but three legs and sleeping in a van—brutal.”

  I shot her an all-lip grin, not knowing what else to do.

  “So, do you have a place to stay?”

  “For Hood to Coast?” I asked, for clarification. She nodded. “Um—I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

  She turned and made eye contact. “Because I have a place in Cannon Beach, and you can stay there for free, if you want.”

  I scrunched my face, suspicious. “But I just met you.” There was no masking my incredulity.

  She was beaming, her eyes sparkling under the bright gym lights. “I’m one of those people, I guess. Generous. Or I try to be. And you seem like a nice person, so if you’d like the place for that weekend, it’s yours. I rarely go there, anyway.”

  “That is very generous,” I conceded, at a loss for words. “I’ll have to talk to my friend who’s running the show, but that sounds wonderful . . . thanks—uh, Emma.”

  “No problem. And you can call me Em,” she said in an energetic voice. “Remind me when you’re done, and I’ll put your number in my phone and call you later with the details.”

  “Okay, sure.” And just like that, it seemed I’d made a new friend. As we talked, something began nagging me, and I realized it was her age. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I started, pausing in a moment of hesitation. “Well, it’s just you look so young—”

  “And you want to know how I own a beach house?” She raised her eyebrows. After I shrugged, she continued, “The house belonged to my great aunt, who I was close with all my life until she passed away. My uncles live back East, and she rarely saw my cousins, and I guess she thought I should have it over my parents, so she gave it to me.”

  I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I made an apologetic nod and said, “Sorry about your aunt.”

  “Don’t be. She was old and lonely, and it was her time. Anyway, that’s how I ended up with a beach house at twenty-four.” So she was a year younger than me. I had placed her at twenty-one. “Have you ever watched the show Dexter?” she asked after a minute or two.

  “It’s in my Netflix queue, but no, I haven’t.”

  “You should,” she said. “It’s great. Though I like the books better, it’s still worth watching. I’m on the last season and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll watch it when I get home.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Hey,” she drew my attention again. “What do you think of him?” She pointed with her eyes at the benches at the front and I noticed Vince lying on his back with two dumbbells over his head.

  I went pink, sweating even more. I dabbed my face with the towel.

  “Pretty hot, huh?” Emma said, noticing my reaction. “I’ve been eyeing him for weeks, since the place opened. He’s always here with that big guy”—she nodded at Vince’s bearded friend—“but I’m pretty sure he’s not gay. Ooh, wouldn’t you like to lock him in your bedroom for a few hours, right? I’d say he’s an eleven.”

  I had seldom rated men the way I knew men rated women, not just because I found the scale offensive, but also because I never really had anyone to do it with, since Danielle couldn’t care less about a man’s attractiveness, and she only liked making vulgar sexual comments about men because it goaded my sensitivity on the subject.

  I gazed at Vince, my heart pounding, kicked into overdrive as though I’d started sprinting. I didn’t want to let on that I agreed with Emma, denying the urges that emerged in his presence. “Being generous, I’d say he’s an eight.”

  “An eight?” she roared. “Seriously? Do you need glasses? He’s definitely an objective ten.”

  I glanced down at the machine’s countdown, wondering what time it was, searching for an excuse to leave. “I have to get going,” I said, checking my phone. I slipped off the elliptical in a hurry but managed to keep my balance.

  She peered down at me. “So soon?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t realize what time it was.” I gathered up my sweater, coat, and scarf from the floor.

  “All right, well, hold on—let me get your number.” She climbed off of her machine and rummaged through her bag for her phone.

  I was about to decline when she retrieved it, so I gave her my number in a rush, making a B-line for the stairs afterward. Unable to elude Vince’s vigilance, he nodded and waved at me, starting to jog my way.

  “In a hurry,” I shrieked, keeping my eyes on the stairs. My breathing didn’t start up again until I was outside. Reaching Eddie in the bakery parking lot, I rested against his frame, gasping. I hadn’t run so quickly since track, nearly seven years ago. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what made me flee like that, but talking about Vince’s body just made my attraction too real, and made those secret urges too palpable.

  Letting the heater warm up, I beat the steering wheel with my fists. Then I headed home, scolding myself the entire way.

  I SHOOK OFF THE gym, showered, and picked out my outfit for my date with Andre—aka ThePortlandPirate—allowing for plenty of time in case I needed to change. To Danielle’s delight, I selected one on my own and stuck with it. A pair of super-tight jeggings made it look like I had a butt to speak of, and the push-up I chose could have fooled me into thinking that I had D-cups. I wore a revealing red blouse in the hopes that tonight I might move on from Ryan, in the bedroom, like all my friends kept pushing for.

  Sadly, the night ended as just another disaster for Maci Goodwin . . .

  6

  WHEN MACI MET DAVID

  Running on fewer than four hours of sleep, I forwent the gym and took a nap after work. I lay there for hours until a rap on my door woke me. “Maci, you feeling all right?” Danielle asked, worried. “Bridgett called me and said your date didn’t go well. You want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I groaned. “I don’t.”

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “No.” Even though my door had a lock, we worked off the privacy system, meaning we only entered if
the other permitted it, so I never bothered to lock it. Danielle broke that rule, cracking the door, a stream of light blinding my eyes. I squinted at her and the harsh light. “What are you doing? Go away.” I tossed a pillow at the door but missed.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said, opening the door all the way and sitting down on my bed. She peered down at me with concern. “What happened?”

  “I’m never fucking dating again,” I screamed into my pillow. “Men are such fucking jackasses.”

  She rubbed my back. “What’d he do?”

  “You wouldn’t fucking believe it.” I sat up, looking at her. “In the middle of making out, the sicko goes and turns on a porno.” Her mouth dropped. “He didn’t ask me, didn’t clue me in on what was happening until Pirates was on the screen—and two women on top of that. So then he turns to me and says, ‘You’re into girl-on-girl, right?’”

  “I told you all usernames have meaning!” she exclaimed.

  “That’s what you’re focusing on?” I shot her a nasty scowl. “Really, Danielle?”

  “Sorry, I was just saying.” As if realizing her mistake, she waved her hand for me to continue. “So he turns on a porno, and. . .?”

  “And?” My face contorted, puzzled. “And I fucking left.”

  “You just left?”

  “Just left. Didn’t say a word to him.”

  “Pornos aren’t so bad, you know,” she said, with a slight grin.

  “You and Ashley watch porn?” I asked, nonplussed. I stared at her for a moment, unsure how to move forward with the news.

  “We have, sure. Softcore ones,” she answered.

  “But they’re disgusting and degrading to women,” I countered. “How could you sit through it? It’s virtually prostitution, Danielle.”

  “Not every porno is the same, Maci,” she defended. “They’re not all graphic, hardcore raunch-fests. Some have actual dramatic plots, where the sex is tasteful, and are shot very professionally. I don’t know anything about Pirates, but maybe if you’d given it a chance . . .”