by S. Walden
“Honey, I know,” she said, holding my head on her lap while she stroked my hair. “They’re ruining my life, too. You don’t think I’d rather be in Miami right now?”
I chuckled. “I’m sorry, Erica. You know I didn’t mean it. I love your kids. They’re not ruining my life.”
“They did tonight, and I’m sorry for that,” she said.
“No, they didn’t. I did. It’s me. Always me . . .” I had much more I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat: My fault. My fault. My fault he left me.
There was no more conversation that night, just the sound of bitter heartbreak. The shattered pieces manifested themselves as tears. The aching in my chest burst forth in a long, painful groan. The memories of my former lover tangled in the hitching in my throat. It all came out ugly and desperate and wrong. But I was lucky because I had a best friend to share in my grief, to hold me and stroke my hair and tell me sweet lies.
“I can’t believe I’m drinking a margarita out of a can,” Erica said.
I cracked a smile and took another sip of my own margarita. It actually wasn’t that bad, but I was more concerned with alcohol by volume. And this baby’s percentage was nothing to be ashamed about.
“What time is it?” Erica asked.
I glimpsed my cell phone. “Ten o’clock.”
“Too early for those sandwiches?”
I shook my head.
“Why do I eat like a horse on the beach? And did we pack enough chips?”
I chuckled and flipped open the cooler lid.
“We packed plenty. And it’s just something about the beach air. Makes you hungry.” I tossed her a sandwich and a bag of apple slices.
“Bitch, I don’t want these. I want chips,” Erica said.
“You get the chips after I see you eat some apple slices,” I replied.
“Oh, I see. Payback,” she said.
Erica forced me to eat breakfast this morning. I wasn’t hungry in the least, but she said if I didn’t put something in my body, I could forget about drinking. And all I wanted to do was sit my ass in that beach chair all day and guzzle adult beverages. Well, and scope out hotties.
I pushed the sand around with my feet, trying for a crop circle design, breathing in and out, slowly and deeply, letting the full sun beat down on my shoulders. I only liked the beach when the sun shined bright and dangerous in the sky. Not that I was looking for skin cancer. (I slathered myself from head to toe in SPF 100.) No, I was looking for light, for warmth on my face. I wanted it to transport me far away, up and over the ocean, to a brand new place where I could be a brand new person. In other words, I wanted to take a nice, long beach nap.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Erica said with her mouth full.
I looked over at her. “What do you mean?”
“I want today to be fun, but you’re all moody and sad,” she said. “And for good reason.”
“It is fun,” I lied. “I’m having fun just sitting here.”
Erica grunted.
“I promise,” I insisted. “I won’t let last night ruin our trip.”
Erica shrugged. And then she giggled. “Usually when you’re drunk you have a hard time enunciating your words.”
“Isn’t that most people?” I replied.
“I suppose.” She thought for a moment. “But you just told that kid off. It was so sharp. So hysterical.”
“Oh really? Because you seemed pissed as hell,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know what those guys could have done. I knew the safest thing was to remove ourselves from the situation altogether,” Erica explained. “And then laugh about it later in the shower.”
I giggled, then reached inside the cooler for another drink.
“Food,” Erica ordered, and I grabbed the bag of chips she wanted. “You’re impossible,” she whined.
Wasn’t that the truth.
I rounded the corner and slammed into him. And was subsequently distracted from counting my steps. My OCD was in overdrive today. Why? Because my anxiety was somewhere up in space. I was terrified of running into him. And I’m talking in the figurative sense. I actually, literally, ran into him! Well, technically he ran into me.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Bailey!” he said, helping me to my feet. Yes, I forgot to mention that I fell on the floor, the papers I was delivering strewn about the hallway in a disorganized mess.
“It’s okay,” I replied. I was so frazzled that I didn’t even take note of the way my hand felt in his. I’d have to imagine it was perfect. “Seems we have a knack for falling in front of each other.”
He smiled down at me and adjusted his collar. “Yeah, but the difference here is that I bulldozed you. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nodded, and he sighed relief.
“You helped me up and left the papers on the floor,” I pointed out. I worried it came out accusatory instead of playful. So I grinned, and he seemed to like it.
We knelt on the floor together and collected the pages. He even helped me organize them before taking my hand and pulling me to my feet once more. This time I paid attention. He had a warm, solid grip. Protective. It sent a rush of fiery orange all the way up my arm and into my heart, making it beat faster and stronger.
And then came the really awkward part—that weird silent moment of smiling and shuffling feet because we weren’t sure what else to say. I mean, there was certainly something that could be said, but I didn’t take Reece for the type of guy who would embarrass me by bringing it up. “It” as in my highly-sexualized exhibition last Thursday.
“I think I saw you at The Reel Café,” he said after a moment.
Okay. Apparently Reece is the kind of guy who brings shit up to embarrass you.
“Really?” I asked, furrowing my brow. “I don’t know that I was there Thursday night.”
“You were dancing with your friend. You had on a little blue dress,” he said. I guess he felt the need to jog my memory.
“Ohhhh,” I replied, smacking my forehead with the heel of my palm. “That’s right! I was there. I had a lot to drink. Hard to remember where I was or what I did.” I giggled nervously.
He affected disappointment. “Oh, so that whole show wasn’t really about me.”
I couldn’t believe he actually said it! Yes, he went there. Went there.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. I knew the jig was up, but I wasn’t ready to admit I flirted with him so blatantly. And anyway, I didn’t know it was him at the time.
“The dancing,” he said. “When you danced for me.”
He stared directly at my face, just like he did when he visited me at my cubicle for the first time. This guy had balls. Well, I mean, obviously he had balls. I hope he had balls. Bailey, stop thinking about his balls.
“I . . .” What could I say? I didn’t know if I should feel aggravated that he was so clearly embarrassing me or jump his bones because he looked really hot in that tailored striped button-up.
He leaned over to get eye level with me. “I’m just messin’ with you,” he said softly.
I smiled and relaxed a little. “My friend, Erica.”
“What about her?” he asked. He was still bent over, inches from my face.
“She put me up to it. She said there was a hot guy looking at me.” I couldn’t believe my boldness. I also couldn’t believe that my statement came out as a question. On purpose. I wanted to know if he’d been looking at me all night.
He stood up and inhaled deeply. “Well, that’s awfully flattering of your friend. And yes, I was looking at you. You caught me.”
“Well, I shook my ass for you, so I guess we can both be a little embarrassed,” I said lightly.
Reece chuckled.
“That won’t make things weird here at work, right?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he replied. “I do wish you wouldn’t have run out of the bar, though.”
I hung my head. “That was really immature, I know. But I was humiliated.
You don’t understand. I’m talking instantly sober. And everything looks different when you’re instantly sober.”
“Yuck. I hate instant sobriety. My friend got punched in a bar once. Bam! I went from drunk to splitting the atom in three seconds flat.” He winked at me.
I blushed.
“Hope it didn’t ruin your night,” he said. “Your instant sobriety.”
Brian flashed in my brain. “No,” I muttered. “Something else took care of that.”
“Oh?”
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly.
He had the good sense not to press me for details.
“So, are we cool?” he asked.
“Completely.”
“Then I’ll see you later for lunch?”
I gulped. “Lunch?”
“Yeah. I thought we could eat together,” Reece said.
I didn’t know what this meant. I knew my female brain was already reading way too much into it, but I didn’t care. And here’s why: He had the best head of hair on any man I’d ever seen.
“I eat at noon,” I said.
“I know.”
He gently pushed me aside and started down the hallway. I opened my mouth to ask him how he knew I ate at noon, but another question came out instead.
“How did Haute Digital like your campaign?” I asked.
He paused and turned around. “They . . . dig it.” He stood there buzzing with suppressed excitement. Something big was about to happen. I felt it. I felt it from him. The current escaped through his feet, traveled under the carpeted hallway, and zapped me.
***
Reece paid attention. He watched her for an entire week, arriving to work at exactly 7:58 every morning. Eating lunch at noon on the dot. He found excuses to visit her cubicle just to see if her pens would be in the same order in which she lined them up the first time he met her. Without fail, they lay on her desk in their red-blue-black-green-purple order of importance.
Another week passed, and he thought they were actually becoming friends. He didn’t need excuses to visit her anymore. It became habitual to stop by and ask about her weekend, see if she wanted a soda from the vending machine, find out where her favorite restaurants were. After all, he was still new to Wilmington, and there was a lot to discover. And he wanted to discover it with her.
“I’m in love with a coworker,” Reece confessed to his friend, Camden, on trivia night at a local bar.
“Not wise,” Camden replied, and chugged his beer.
“And I’m pretty sure she’s OCD,” Reece went on.
Camden stared at his friend. “Dude. No.”
“I find it uncomfortably sexy,” Reece admitted.
“That you like a coworker or that she’s OCD?”
“The second one. There’s something strangely erotic about it. What the hell is wrong with me?” Reece shoved a cheese fry in his mouth.
“Look Reece, I’m your best friend. And as your best friend, it’s my job to give it to you straight. So here’s the deal: Don’t even think about going there. Do you have any idea what those people are like? I mean, what? Is she your age?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Okay. So she’s maybe thirty, thirty-one. And single.” He paused for effect. “For a reason.” He shot Reece a “Hello? Don’t be a moron” look.
“But I’m single, too.”
“By choice, man.”
Reece grunted. “That’s debatable.”
“People with OCD are not single by choice. They’re single because no one can deal with their bullshit.”
“But I like her bullshit,” Reece argued, then shook his head. “I mean, the way she acts. It’s not bullshit. It’s cute.”
“You’re seeing it from a distance. Imagine dating it. Living with it. Fucking it. Totally different ballgame.”
They listened for the answers to Round 3. Camden slammed his hand on the table.
“I knew it was iambic pentameter! Why do I listen to you?” he grumbled.
“Have you ever dated someone with OCD?” Reece asked, ignoring the question.
“Never. Because I’m not crazy.” Camden grabbed the plate of cheese fries and pulled it across the table. “No more cheese fries for you. If my calculations are correct, you just cost us the lead, you dumb fuck.”
Reece rolled his eyes. “Then how do you know if they’re difficult or not?”
“Go read up on the disorder,” Camden said.
“Disorder,” Reece echoed with an eye roll.
“It is a disorder. It’s a mental disorder. And it’s fucking crazy. I knew a guy in high school with OCD. He had this weird ass compulsion or ritual or whatever you wanna call it where he had to tap all the desks three times before the start of each class. He told me once that he felt like he’d die if he couldn’t do it. Literally die. Not like how we say, ‘Oh God, I’ll die if I can’t have sex tonight.’ He meant for real. That’s how fucking crazy they are.”
“That’s a flat-out lie,” Reece said.
Camden threw up his hands. “I swear to God. He would walk around the room and tap each desk so he wouldn’t ‘die.’ Everyone knew he was nuts, so they just ignored him and let him do it. And if he was late to class, which was seldom because, well, people like that are scheduled, the teacher would pause and let him tap the desks before she resumed her lecture.”
Reece took a long swig of beer before he replied.
“She’s not going around the office tapping people’s desks,” he said quietly.
“Maybe not, but I’m sure there’s a bunch of other weird ass shit she does. Things she keeps hidden.” Camden leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, “I bet she has all kinds of rituals she does at home. Checking locks. Turning lights on and off for no reason.” He grinned maliciously. “Masturbating at 8:37 P.M. every evening.”
“Shut up,” Reece said.
“Counting her steps . . .”
Reece ordered another beer and plate of cheese fries.
“Changing her panties five times a day . . .”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Look, I’m saving you a lot of heartache. Wouldn’t you rather know this stuff now? And anyway, isn’t it against company policy to date your coworker? Why risk your job? Didn’t you tell me it’s the best job you’ve ever had?”
“It’s all right,” Reece said nonchalantly.
Camden smirked. “I recall you telling me it was ‘brilliant.’ And by the way, you aren’t from England.”
Reece half-listened as Camden expounded all the reasons his current job wasn’t worth risking for a “fucking crazy ass girl.”
“Sounds like you’re jealous and you wanna date her,” Reece said.
“Oh, yeah,” Camden replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You figured me out, Reece. I want to date your OCD coworker whom I’ve never met because I just loooove the idea of fucking a girl who counts the number of times she bounces up and down on my dick.”
“Camden!” Reece scanned the bar for offended patrons, but no one heard. “Stop being an asshole, okay?”
“Fine. I’m sorry. I’m still sore over iambic pentameter,” Camden muttered.
“I’ll do better,” Reece said. “Just try to be a nice friend for the rest of the night.” It came out as more of a question than statement.
“Hey, I’m not trying to bust your balls, man,” Camden said. “I just know you’re all about these ‘projects,’ and I can’t quite figure out why you’re attracted to women with issues. I mean, remind me again what happened in your past that compels you to go after nut jobs?”
Reece rolled his eyes. “I’m not looking for a challenge. I’m not looking for a problem to solve. I’m not looking for someone to save. I get the coincidence, okay?”
“Coincidence?” Camden echoed. “Um, Reece. Let’s reminisce for a second.”
“Let’s not.”
“Let’s,” Camden pushed. “You’ve dated a shoplifter. A drug addict. A girl who claimed that her
roommate kept her locked in a dumpster. She was admitted to Mulberry not too long ago, if I recall, right? They diagnosed her with schizophrenia.”
Reece nodded reluctantly. “For the record, I only dated her for two months. And also for the record, she’s doing a lot better.”
“Hmm,” Camden replied. “There’s the one who put salt on all her food then complained incessantly of bloating problems. Oh yeah! And the one who wanted you to tie her up and beat the shit out of her every night.”
“All right already!” Reece snapped. “I get it. I haven’t had the best of luck with normal women.”
“Well, ‘normal’ is relative. I mean, none of us are ‘normal,’” Camden said. “Oh, shut up shut up. Round 4 is starting.”
The men suspended their conversation for the eight minutes it took to answer all the questions for Round 4. Camden turned in their answer sheet while Reece pigged out on the plate of cheese fries the waitress recently delivered. He didn’t mean to. It’s just that the more he thought about his past relationships, the more nervous he became at the prospect of spending the rest of his life alone because he didn’t know how to pick them. He shoved a cheese fry in his mouth. Perhaps Camden was right: he went after fixer-up women. (Gulp of beer.) Why? Why did he go after the ones with great big issues? (A clump of cheese fries stuck together by a mass of coagulated cheddar. He opened wide.) God. What the fuck is wrong with me? he thought. (Another long swig of beer. Two more cheese fries.) Can men get cellulite? he wondered as he licked his finger and dabbed it all around the plate, picking up stray bacon bits. Oh, Jesus, I’m gonna get cellulite, he thought, sucking the bacon from his forefinger.
“Dude,” Camden said. “You’re, like, desperate eating over here. That’s what chicks do.”
“This is my dinner!” Reece barked. “Leave me alone!”
Camden’s eyes went wide. He sank into his chair slowly. “Okay, man. It’s cool. You can eat as fast as you want.”
Reece buried his face in his hands.
“Aren’t your fingers greasy?” Camden noted.
Reece snapped his head up. “Oh, shit. Oh, that’s gross.” He picked up his napkin.
“Don’t do that,” Camden chuckled.
Reece held up the napkin, grease-stained circles dotting the paper square. He looked at his friend.
