Love Broken

by J. D. Hollyfield

  “Crap, what if I call and it’s the wrong number? I will die of humiliation.” I look over at my jeans, taunting me.

  “Wrong number, wrong number.”

  “Gerdie, shut it!”

  “Die of humiliation, die of humiliation.”

  Ugh. This is pointless. I mean, oh well, if it is then I hang up. He’s probably still flying home anyway. Chances are I’ll get his voicemail. Tap, tap, tap. My fingers drum on my bed, debating my next move. Saying fuck it, I snap out of my pity party and jump up, scaring poor Gerdie. I grab for my tormenting pants and dig for the little piece of paper. Running back to my bed, I slip back under my covers. “Okay, fuck it. Here it goes…” I pull my phone up and begin dialing the numbers. I get to the last digit but can’t enter it.

  I stall too long and my lock goes on. “Shit.” I punch in my password and go to press the last number and again, I stall.

  What the hell has gotten into me? “Just dial the damn number!”

  “Dial the damn number.”

  I look at Gerdie, wanting to smack him off my bed. If I didn’t love him so much I probably would. Then I think about the conversation I had with Chase and his love for his dog.

  And then it hits me.

  I’m not one to call a guy. It’s not my style. That’s probably why I’m struggling to press that final number. It’s been burned inside my brain that it shouldn’t be the girl who makes that move. He should have asked for mine. And would you have given it to him, you chicken? Ugh, true. So maybe I need to break a few of my own rules here. Or at least bend them a little.

  Therefore, change of plans. Thank God, we’re also in the era where no one calls anymore anyway. Since texting is the new wave of communication, I decide to take the chicken way out and text him. If he never replies, then I know it’s the wrong person and I don’t have to hear a human voice tell me I have the wrong number. I can just read it and go on my merry pissed off way. I get Gerdie’s attention and snap a photo of him, looking very perched and fluffy. I type in the message.

  Me: I thought that if we decide to get to know each other we should make sure our loved ones get along. Otherwise we should cut our losses now.

  And with Gerdie’s smiling face, well, I think he’s smiling, I press send.

  Then I throw my phone across the room, landing in a pile of clothes.

  Getting myself more comfortable in my bed, I tell myself I’m really tired and if he messages back I’ll see it in the morning. I don’t really care that much anyway. Five, four, three, two, and I jump off the bed and snag my phone, flipping it over with superhuman speed and check to see if I got a message.

  No message.

  I look to see if my text has been read yet, and it hasn’t. Dang. It’s cool, maybe he’s flying. Or home and sleeping. Or… Ding. My phone goes off and I freak out, tossing it like a hot potato.

  “Shit!” The sound startled me. I just stare at it lying on the floor.

  “Ding. Shit. Ding. Shit. Ding.”

  “Gerdie, I get it.” I shake it off and lean off the bed, reaching for my phone. I keep it covered and readjust myself. I take a deep breath and while holding said breath, I flip it over.

  “FUCK!” I swear loudly, seeing a stupid notification that my phone has an app update.

  “Fuck. Shit. Ding. Fuck. Shit. Ding…”

  “GERDI—”

  Another ding interrupts. I glare at it and it’s then I see a text and a photo attachment to my reply. My finger, which is shaking like a pansy, slides my phone open to see a photo of a fluffy brown-haired dog. Below the message reads:

  369-555-2549: I showed Ellie your photo. She’s not normally into birds, but she has a good feeling about Gerdie. She knows they may not hit it off, but she’s willing to try. Maybe if you sent a photo revealing what’s under those feathers, it would help.

  My smile hitting my ears almost hurts as I shake my head. Of course, Chase and his wit and his sneaky little codes. I save his contact info and begin texting him back when another one pops up.

  Bates Motel: Ellie takes that back. She wants to see everything. A full frontal is preferred. Pup-pup-puplease.

  Oh my God! How corny is he? Playing his game, I reply.

  Me: Gerdie normally doesn’t show the goods on the first date. How about just a headshot?

  I type it, and shame on me, I place the phone in between my legs so as I get Gerdie who is in the middle of my bed, I also get a side shot of my inner thigh. I press send and regret it the second it goes through. What the hell is wrong with me? I do not send cheesy text messages. I drop my phone and cover my face with my hands and sigh, when the ding echoes around my room. I pick it up and almost choke. On my phone, is a picture of the cutest dog, lying on a naked chest. And of course, the dog is leaning to the side so I get a great view, giving away that he’s completely naked. His message reads:

  Bates Motel: Deal, I’ll match you with two headshots ;)

  Oh my God. This guy. “He is so full of himself,” I mumble as I open the picture fully and use my fingers to zoom in. Two heads is right. God, I miss him and his gorgeous energizer cock. I wish we were still wrapped up in my hotel room licking and biting. I sigh as I save the photo, the ding coming through again.

  Bates Motel: I kinda miss you, Katie Beller.

  Fuck. My heart squeezes, with a flutter in its wake. I don’t put thought into my reply, I just type and send.

  Me: I kinda miss you too, Chase Green.

  Bates Motel: Thank you for giving me a chance.

  Ugggghhhh what’s WRONG with me? His message is just a message. Why do I feel like I want to laugh and cry at the same time? Why is this guy making me feel? He’s like a wrecking ball, taking me out, one emotion at a time. In the end, I’ll be a mess. He will hurt me and I know that. Statistics know that. Society knows that. But why am I falling for it? Why do I get that giddy feeling from his words?

  I do what I do best and take the chicken way out and not respond. A few minutes pass before my phone dings again.

  Bates Motel: Good night, Katie Beller.

  Me: Good night, Chase Green like the color.

  I walk into the bar, seeing the typical Tuesday night crowd. Dressed in my normal ripped at the knee jeans and a Punk tank top with a sweet iron on face of Pee-wee Herman that reads I know you are but what am I, I walk past the bar of familiar faces and smile. I missed this place.

  “Beller!” The loud calling of my name draws my attention to Dex at the end of the bar.

  I lift my hand, but his less than happy face causes my model wave to die and fall back at my waist. Geez, what’s his problem?

  “What’s up, Dex? Thought you’d be happier to see me—”

  “In my office. Now.” He tosses the towel on the bar and walks ahead of me. The last time I felt this way was in high school when I was being led out of my class by the principal because Suzanne, the cunt, Miller told on me for accidently setting the toilet paper roll on fire in the girls’ bathroom.

  I follow Dex into the back office and…

  “Shut the door.”

  Yes, sir.

  He sits behind his worn desk, and I take a seat on the other end, plopping my Converse on top.

  “What can I help you with? You know last time you demanded I come to your office, we, ya know?” I wink, poking fun at our past little work fling. He doesn’t look happy, so I quickly decide I’ll poke fun another time. “Okay, what’s up? Why are you so grouchy? You still mad you had to cover my shifts?”

  He tosses a book at me from across the desk, and it doesn’t take too long to recognize the cover.

  Awkward.

  “Why, Dex, I didn’t know you knew how to read.” I smile, playing it off.

  “Cut the shit, Kat. When were you gonna tell me about this?”

  “Uh, never. Why? I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “Katie, you wrote a book that’s now a NYT best seller.”

  “Ehhh, I mean, it’s not like people are really reading it. What�
��s the big deal?” I give him the universal “pfft” hand gesture, re-crossing my legs.

  Pressing his elbows against his desk, Dex sighs heavily, leaning forward. “Why would you hide this from me? I thought we were solid.”

  I lock eyes with him and his eyes… They kind of look hurt. Does he actually feel offended I hid this from him?

  “Dex, it’s not that big of a deal. I just didn’t want anyone to know. I had no idea which direction the book would go. What if it failed and I told everyone, and then we had picketers outside the bar every night trying to stab me for giving bad advice?”

  He looks at me in that way he does sometimes when he doesn’t realize I’m watching. “I would protect you. But that’s not the fucking point. There are already lines of people looking for you.”

  Oh shit. “Wait, what? Like violent people?” I knew it. People just can’t handle the truth.

  “No, babe, people who want to meet you, autographs, photos, that shit. You’re like a goddamn staple to begin with in this bar and now you come out that you’re some famous writer holding the leading torch on fucking love and shit.”

  I laugh. I mean, I did play with a lot of fire when I was younger. KTP, they would call me, Katie the Pyro. Not the point.

  “Oh, come on. I’m sure you’re just exaggerating.”

  “Kat, knowing you’re back tonight, I had to hire an extra set of bouncers. It’s been like a madhouse. Thanks for the extra business, not that the regulars are happy about it, but you need to stay low. Maybe just feel it out. If it gets too much tonight, tell me. I’ll cover you.”

  What? Dude, no way. I’m working tonight. I’ve missed serving booze like people miss those Housewives shows. It’s what I do and love. “No, it’s cool, I’m gonna work.”

  Dex gets up, walking around the desk. Sitting on top, he leans over, grabbing my thigh.

  “You sure? I’ll cover you. Just don’t want to stab a motherfucker for touching my girl tonight.”

  Seriously what’s wrong with this guy tonight?

  “Awe, Dexy poo, are you getting all sappy on me tonight?”

  He squeezes my thigh, and I yelp, throwing my legs off his desk. “Fuck no. But it’s either you be careful or I just fire your ass.” Back to the Dex I know and love. We both stand.

  “Got it, captain.” I salute him, and he spanks me on the ass, causing me to jump and squeak as we walk out of his office laughing.

  “Belcher! I heard you’re famous!” Freddy yells from seven seats down as I walk behind the bar.

  “Only in the book of world records, Fred,” I tell him as I fire up the cash register. Working in a bar, you tend to not pick up the best habits. Mine was being able to belch the longest and loudest. It’s just a talent very few are born with. And since I was one of the blessed, I chose to share it often. You don’t get your last name changed from Beller to Belcher for any mediocre reason.

  “I saw your picture on that Friendsbook site. You sure are a pretty thing in a dress, Belcher,” Fred replies, gulping down his draft beer.

  So needless to say, not too many people ever see me in anything but my jeans and tank tops. One year at Halloween I dressed up like a cheerleader, which forced me into a miniskirt, but I also added my own little touch to it, which made me a serial killer cheerleader. I looked bloody. And awesome.

  “Oh boy, the secret’s out. I own a dress. Better call my publicist and have her burn down the Internet before anyone sees!” I joke, counting the singles in the drawer.

  “So, then it is true!” Randy yells from the end of the bar, dropping her purse under the counter. I sigh.

  Oops.

  “I mean, define true? I could just be the decoy. No one would ever know.” I shrug my shoulders, sliding the ones back in and pulling out the fives.

  “Oh, bull. You wrote that shit. I read it. Like in one sitting and I don’t read anything but Cosmo and porn. That story was bomb, girl.” She walks up to me and hugs me from the back. “I loved it. It was so you. I could hear your voice the entire story.”

  “Does she mention me at all in the book?”

  We both turn to Fred, who now has beer foam hanging off his beard. We both laugh, as Randy pulls away from me.

  “Oh, she might have. She does meet this handsome man. His scruffy beard used to make her pretty little privates tingle while he suctions his mouth to her lippity lips.” She ends on a pop. I roll my eyes, while she bursts into laughter, all while Fred spits out his beer.

  “Hey, you are not getting a free round for that, so don’t blame the choking on the bar.”

  Fred gives me a look. One that says how dare you accuse me of trying to get free drinks, and then well, can I just get half of my cup filled?

  Out of nowhere Dex is behind me, his chest brushing against my back. “You okay?” he asks softly.

  I turn my head and smile. “Yeah, all good. I’ve been out here five minutes and I’m still alive.”

  He backs up and walks away, yelling at the beer runner to finish filling the coolers.

  Randy and I catch eyes and she gives me the “what was that all about” look as I shrug my shoulders, replying with a silent, who the fuck knows.

  The night picks up really fast. Dex wasn’t lying when he said the bar had a whole new crowd. It was absolutely insane. I had all the normal Tuesday regulars yelling in my ear, “why didn’t you tell us?” “Is it true?” “Are they going to make a movie?” I was slipped a total of seventeen numbers, and that’s just the number before I stopped counting. I don’t know what all of a sudden made me more appealing. It’s not like I got a makeover or won the lottery. Yeah, I have a few more bucks in the bank, but that money is going to something special. Like a bird kingdom for Gerdie. But it’s like people who never saw me before are seeing me now. It’s actually really fucking annoying.

  “Hey, Katie, saw your photo on Facebook. You looked great.”

  I lay four bud lights on the bar and turn to my right to see Paul, a semi-regular, offering me a weird smile.

  “Yep, thanks, what can I get ya, Paul?”

  “Anything. Surprise me. And get two shots. One for you.”

  I know where this is going, he’s going to ask me for my number. But I’ll break it to him after I take his free shot. I pour him a whiskey neat, because even though he wants me to surprise him, I know that’s what he drinks every single damn time. I pour us two chilled shots of tequila, and when I place them on the bar, he makes his move. Grabbing for my hand and holding it, all while he offers me that weird ass smile again. “You really look great, Katie, maybe after work—”

  “Paul, get your fucking hands off her. You’re dating someone. I know it and I’m sure your new lady friend wouldn’t find it cute if you’re asking another girl out.”

  Shame washes over Paul’s face, as I try not to laugh. Dex picks up the two tequila shots, handing me one.

  “Thanks for the shots, though, Paul,” he says and clinks his glass with mine, and we both throw our heads back and swallow.

  Seriously. This has been my night.

  When it’s not Paul, it’s someone else. When it’s not a male, it’s a female. “How did Abby know in the end it would work out?” “How did she learn to create all those profiles?” “Is Abby you?” The amount of times I had to explain that I’ve never myself catfished anyone was insane. I don’t even use Facebook, people!

  Okay, so how did I know so much about it then? You can’t write a whole book about a girl who creates fake profiles to find love and not use social media. Well, yes, the fuck you can. You don’t need to use the devil’s device to get it. People talk about it day and night. Well, actually they don’t talk, they tweet. They post. They comment with smiley faces, sad faces, and hearts. Don’t even get me started on those poop emojis.

  But that’s how we communicate today. And that’s what’s so fucking wrong with us. People come in this bar and they come to meet people and drink, but seventy-five percent of the time they have their noses stuck in their phones. Th
ey tell the person next to them how their crazy friend from high school is getting married, their neighbors are out to dinner at this new Asian place, and their oh so cute coworker’s stepsister’s adopted niece had a baby, got married, farted, died! Who needs to fucking talk to anyone anymore when you have a site that ruins it for everyone!

  I refuse to be that victim to social media. I enjoy an old-fashioned conversation. Hence, why I love the bar. I get to talk to people all night long. Face to face. And the drunker they get, the better the stories I receive. That’s the real ‘social.’

  I know. I can go on.

  Back to the bar.

  It definitely was a smart plan that Dex hired more staff. Once it passed midnight the bar got a little rowdy. Not that it doesn’t normally, but nothing we normally can’t handle. The extra heads at the bar had us one in, one out, and Randy and I could barely keep up with orders. That and every single person who wanted to stop me and have a life chat.

  When it was finally closing time, I wanted to crawl on top of the sticky bar and take a nap. I had a few more shots in me than the approved amount, and from the scowl Dex kept giving me all night, I’m sure I’ll hear about it later. But hey, those are free shots for me, and money for the bar. I consider that a win-win for everyone.

  Once all is squeaky-clean I grab my purse from under the register and wave goodbye to everyone.

  “Hey,” Dex calls out, trying to catch up to me while I leave.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You want me to walk you home?”

  I give him the crazy eye. Walk me home? “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “You sure? It’s been a long night and you look wiped.”

  “Yeah, because it was a mad house. What’s up with you?”

  He’s been acting off the whole night. Dex and I had our fling, which lasted almost a year. But that’s all it ever amounted to. We tried to do the whole feelings bullshit, but it just wasn’t working. We were both broken in some sort of poetic way and decided that if we wanted to keep the great friendship part that we had, maybe we had to wave the white flag on the relationship part. It was mutual and from that moment forward we’ve been friends. Close friends. Possibly with a little slip into the back office here and there. But tonight, he seems off.