by Belle Brooks
“Could you now?”
“Pleeease. My stomach is growling. It’s crying, ‘feed me’.”
“Okay. I’ll turn around and get you some dinner.”
“Thank you, pretty lady,” Chris says in a Southern accent.
“Why, you’re welcome, bestie.” I attempt the same accent back.
“Don’t ever do that again. Appalling. Like, were you going for American-Irish-Scottish? If so, you nailed it.”
“Shut up.”
“Drive safe and I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay.”
The line goes dead as the traffic light turns green. I don’t hesitate in completing an illegal U-turn and head in the direction I travelled from.
Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman” booms through the speakers as I end my second illegal U-turn for the evening and reverse park right into the only vacant spot outside the Chinese shop.
Before hopping out, I take a moment to dance in my seat, belting out the remaining lyrics of a song which has always made me feel empowered. Singing like I’m on stage at Australia’s Got Talent—loud, proud, and in control—makes me feel free. When I was a teenager, my mum always told me the best way to relieve any frustrating or unsettling situation or emotion was to sing. To sing loud and proud until your throat burned and you were exhausted of all feelings. It truly helps me when trying to work through moments of utter shit in my life.
I turn the volume control down before the next song on the CD plays, then open the car door, being careful not to scrape the metal at the bottom of the door against the heightened footpath. I brush my hand over my arse on a very awkward exit to ensure my dress is where it’s supposed to be. For some reason, my clothing likes to tuck itself up, and as a result, my arse plays peek-a-boo with unsuspecting bystanders. Not tonight, arse. Not tonight.
“Do you feel like a woman? Really like a woman? Because I promise you, you look like one tonight. Damn!”
“What the hell, man?” I say, whipping my body in the direction of the deep voice behind me.
“Hi.” Arlie’s smiling while wiggling his eyebrows up and down.
“Oh … it’s … hi.”
“How loud do you play your music? Your car was jumping on its wheels.”
I gently secure my tongue between my teeth to prevent myself from saying anything stupid.
“You’re quite the little groover, too. You do a much better job singing and dancing than you do shopping. Oh, and hiding under tables.”
My face fills with warmth. My heart kicks into a faster rhythm.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I find you endearing, slightly insane, and incredibly funny.”
Arlie finds me funny. Nobody finds me funny because I’m not funny. Hang on, did he also say insane? I think he said insane. What a bitch.
“Are you stalking me?” I blurt this out like verbal diarrhoea.
He deadpans. “Stalking is a severe crime. It’s not something to be joked about.”
My mouth forms a flawless ‘O’. Way to blow that, Mindy.
“I’m joking.” His big white teeth are on display.
Without thought, I smack my hand against his chest, only to leave it to rest against his pale green T-shirt for much too long.
He clears his throat.
I snatch my hand back.
“It’s you who’s stalking me.” He cocks his thick dark eyebrows.
I giggle loudly, much too loudly, and then I realise this is the part where I’m supposed to put my elbow on the table, rest my head into my palm, and flutter my eyelashes. Only there’s no table in front of me.
What am I doing? Abort. Abort, Mindy.
I drop my arms to my sides and become stiff as a board. Did he see that? Of course, he saw it; he’s not blind.
Do not joke about blindness. Do not ask him if he’s blind.
“So you wouldn’t happen to be blind, would you?” Why? Why did I say what I told myself not too?
Arlie throws his head back and laughs.
I’m frozen to the spot, unable to move, horrified. Yep, he’s right. I’m fucking insane.
“I’m not blind, but I assure you I didn’t see anything. I didn’t see you do some bizarre thing with your arm and face.”
“Okay! So … I gotta … you know … go now. It was nice bumping into you again.”
“You too. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Melinda.”
“It seems I will. It appears I’m hell-bent on humiliating myself in front of you.”
I turn on my heel and slowly walk towards a wooden door with a red sign. The word OPEN is written in big white lettering hung inside the small glass panels of the door.
Don’t fall. Walk like a lady. He’s probably still watching you, waiting for the big finale to your train wreck life.
“Have a good night then,” he calls out.
He’s still there. Maybe I should turn around and ask for his number. Ask him if he’s hungry. Something. Anything. Perhaps I’m supposed to get to know Arlie. Maybe the universe wants us to be friends.
Without another thought, I turn sharply. My cheek smashes against a hard, muscular surface. My body fills with warmth. My hands and feet tingle when I hear a heart beating against my ear. Strong arms hold me in an embrace. Either I’ve hit an invisible brick wall, I’ve died and angels are holding me, or I’m being held by a man who smells like a mixture of sweat and ginger biscuits; a man who makes me feel safe, secure, and like I’m coming home for the very first time in a long time.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I tilt my chin and turn my sight upwards only to find familiar eyes looking back at me. “You smell like ginger. Why do you smell like ginger?”
The warmth from his body disappears, as do his eyes. He steps away from me. The bright streetlight takes my vision until I shift my eyes to again find Arlie. I want so badly to skirt my fingertips over his beautiful face. He’s gorgeous to look at, and I’d love to wake up next to him every day, that’s for sure.
“Are you, okay? I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that,” he says again.
“I should have looked before I turned. I didn’t realise you were getting Chinese too.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Do I really smell like ginger?”
I nod.
“I was making gingerbread cookies with my niece earlier.”
“Oh.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I haven’t answered his previous question. If I had, I would’ve responded with ‘sure’, but the truth would have been I’m not okay because he no longer has his arms around me, and his heart’s no longer beating against my ear, and those things made me feel more than okay. They made me feel wonderful.
“Melinda?”
“Sure,” I say abruptly. “I’m fine. I can be a tad clumsy.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, after you.” I gesture for him to take the lead and enter the establishment.
He follows my outstretched hand but stops once he’s opened the door and steps backwards. “After you. I’m a gentleman, you know.”
“Thank you.”
The wait in line is more than awkward because I have a tall, dark, and handsome stallion standing behind me, one whose breath I swear I can feel rushing over the back of my neck. I shudder from the goosebumps riding the length of my spine, and then I find myself shifting from one foot to the other. Relax, I tell myself, which only makes me move faster.
“Do you come here often?” Arlie says over my shoulder. This guy has no boundaries when it comes to personal space. If his head were to drop an inch, his chin would rest on my shoulder.
“Not very. You?” I say, slowly rotating my body as he backs away, giving me some space.
“I do. It’s the best Chinese takeout in town.”
“You actually eat takeout?” I cock my eyebrows. Is he really here for the food? Or is this where he comes to hit on and stand too close to women?
“Why wouldn’t I eat takeo
ut?”
“Have you seen yourself? Like, do you own a mirror? You’re in shape, dude. Like, really in shape.” I use my hands to demonstrate the extent of his physique.
“Do you think people who work out don’t eat Chinese, takeaway, and rubbish food? That’s very single-minded. Are you single-minded, Melinda?”
I take a moment to think about his question. No, I’m not.
Holy shit.
I am.
“No,” I groan, feeling even more uncomfortable than before. I swiftly turn until I’m facing forwards, only to clap eyes on a butterfly tattoo on the neck of the lady standing in front of me. 'No regrets' is inscribed below it. No regrets. I need to face life never thinking of the future regrets I’ll have because of my actions.
I hesitate in turning back to apologise to Arlie for my stereotypical comment, but I eventually do, and when I peek over my shoulder, I spy a smile much too broad for his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” I say.
“All good.” His smile fades rapidly, like a nearing sunset. “I’m just feeling a little—you know, today I’ve felt …” He stops speaking.
“You felt?”
“Never mind. It was nothing.”
Do men really feel, though? Do they have feelings?
There I go again. Why do I think like this? What the hell is wrong with me?
“I’m good.” Arlie closes his eyes briefly.
“Hey. Do you want to like, you know, dine in here with me? Like, at a table over there, and talk about things?” I point in the direction of the attached restaurant. “Instead of doing the takeout thing?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose on your evening.”
“You wouldn’t be,” I rush in saying.
“Your boyfriend isn’t waiting on you.”
Oh shit! Boyfriend. I forgot about that. “Um. No. Not tonight. I’m eating alone.”
“Okay, sure. I’d like to.”
Butterflies flutter in my gut. My heart races as if I've run for the first time in a long time. Arlie wants to have dinner with me. What about Chris? He’s waiting for me and his dinner. Would Chris be okay with me ditching him for a meal with Arlie?
Maybe I should make this eating out thing for another time. Chris needs me, and I should get home.
Chapter Eight
Do not make a fool of yourself. Listen and try not to talk too much. Also, don’t do the elbow on table thing again. It doesn’t work. Why did I ask this man to dine with me? Why am I sitting here in this restaurant?
What have I done?
The table is placed near a large windowpane overlooking the shopfront’s footpath. A crystal vase with a single yellow daisy sits beside oversized salt and pepper shakers on top of a crisp white tablecloth. My hands shake as I lift my phone from the table and open the messenger app.
Shuffling in my seat—trying to alleviate my nerves—only makes my shaking hands tremble worse. Pull it together, will you? This isn’t a date. It’s dinner with a friend. It’s no different than dinner with Chris.
Shit, you need to message Chris.
I roam my vision past the people standing in the pick-up line until I find Arlie. He’s standing side on, and I forget about messaging Chris for the second time. Arlie is hot from every. Single. Angle.
He suddenly snaps around until he’s facing me.
“Do clue bout any toy cause?” Arlie mouths.
I hitch my top lip upwards. “Huh?”
“Do clue bout any toy cause?” he mouths again.
“What?”
“Do you want any soy sauce?” he yells with a smile.
“No, thank you,” I mouth. “Did you get that?” I yell.
“Yes,” he mouths dramatically before turning his back to me.
I’m giggling when I relax and shift my attention back to my phone. Oh shit, I still need to message Chris and tell him what’s happened. Holy hell, how did all this happen? What spurred courage to spark through my veins until it found its way to my mouth?
Me: CHRIS!! I’m at the Chinese place. You’re not going to believe who’s here.
I keep my vision planted on the screen, hoping for an immediate reply.
I don’t wait long.
Chris: OMG! Who is it? Chris Hemsworth? Please say it’s him. I'm grabbing my coat. Hang on, I don't have a coat. I'm clutching my crotch, and I'm on my way.
Me: Bahaha. No! It's not Chris Hemsworth. You can unhand your genitals. It’s Arlie. That guy from the cafe. You know, the one I darted under the table to escape?
Chris: Get the farq out. Well, say hello or something! Fake fall into him if you need to. GET HIS ATTENTION NOW! Don’t hide under any tables. DO NOT RUN!
Me: Lol. I didn’t hide. I did fall into Arlie, but it wasn’t faked for attention, I swear. However, I've somehow managed to ask him to eat with me.
Chris: OMG! OMG! Did you? That’s my girl. Awesome. What did he say?
Me: Yes! He’s collecting our food right now. I’ll bring something back for you to eat, I swear.
Chris: I think I’ve fainted. I’ve never been as proud of you as I am right now. Food? Don’t be silly. Go enjoy yourself. Fletcher and I’ll eat tuna. We like tuna. Plus, you’re already dressed to impress.
Chris: Hey! Off topic, but the book on your recliner. I started reading it after The Bachelor finished. GIRL!!!! THIS SHIT IS STEAMY AS FUCK!! I’m thoroughly entertained, and a tad shocked you own a book like this.
Me: Is it Secrets in the Night? If so, you bought me the book.
Chris: Yes! Well, this makes more sense then. Ha ha.
Me: I love you. I’m sorry I’m not coming straight back.
Chris: You wash your mouth out. You’re in a restaurant with a MEGA-HOT guy. If it were me, I’d be ditching you without a second thought. There is no ‘bros before hoes’ code in our friendship. Go get him, tiger.
Me: OMG! Wish me luck?
Chris: You don’t need it. Baby bird, I’ve taught you well. Trust me, this fluffy pink chicken thinks you’re ready to fly the nest. Relax, fly free, and most of all, have fun.
Me: Chickens don’t fly.
Chris: Why? Why you gotta mess with my spectacular euphemism? This chicken flies, and since you’re my baby bird, so do you.
Me: Lol. Love you.
Chris: Shh! I’m reading. Go away already. These two are about to get it on. I don’t want your face to be the one I'm left to imagine. Chris Hemsworth is the face I need to be visualising. Scat!
I snicker before placing my phone screen down against the tablecloth. I rotate my head towards the collection counter and admire Arlie’s back. I can see every muscle outlined thanks to his tight T-shirt. His boardshorts sag just enough off his butt, but not so much that he looks like he’s packing a major turd in his pants. Oh, the surfer chic look—he does it so well.
Slowly, he turns, and as he does, all I’m thinking is, turn for me, baby. Show me all of you, every single bit. That is, until I see the two plates in his grip and the wicker basket filled with prawn chips tucked under his chin. I leap upwards and dart towards him.
“Here, let me help you.” I take the plates from his hands.
“I would have been fine.”
“I’m sure you would have, Hercules, but you know I have two hands, you have two hands, and more hands make for light work and stuff.”
He grins.
We sit on either side of the squared table. Arlie takes a cream cloth napkin and tucks it into the top of his shirt before we again make eye contact. “I can get a little messy when eating.” He shrugs.
“Me too,” I say, reaching for my napkin, opening it out, and laying it against my lap.
“I’m so hungry," he groans as he licks his lips.
I squeeze my thighs together as fast as Usain Bolt sprints the one hundred metres, at lightning speed, because the way Arlie licked his lips was sensual, too sensual, and it's making me tingle in places I don’t need to be tingling right now. “Me too,” I manage to choke out with a gentle clea
ring of my throat.
"Dig in."
I pick up the set of chopsticks laid against the plate and glare at the wood skewers, trying to remember the last time I ate with this type of utensil. It’s been a while, and honestly, I’ve never been good at using them. I fiddle, trying to place them between my fingers correctly, and I know I’m making a fool of myself with my clumsy manoeuvring, but I keep trying in the hope I’ll sort it out.
I don’t. I tilt my chin back and close my eyes in prayer. Please, can you do your thing and make me look like a Chinese chopstick ninja in front of this hot guy? I’ll be more than thankful if you can, big man. Not a usual dinner prayer, probably not even an appropriate one, but one I had to make.
I slowly part my eyelids and lower my chin, only to find Arlie holding a fork. I clear my throat as he shovels a large forkful of pork into his mouth. “Oh, thank God.” My tone is filled with relief. “I can’t use chopsticks well.”
Arlie chews quickly before swallowing. “I’ve never bothered to try hard enough. I’m no chopstick ninja. I’m Aussie, not Chinese, and if I'm honest, I’d prefer to eat my food with these utensils.” He moves his fingers like a hand puppet. “But I’m in the company of a lady, so I’ll use a fork for you.” He tips his chin knowingly.
I feel my lips stretch across my face until they burn.
“This makes you happy?”
“You just said chopstick ninja.”
He nods.
“I internally willed my chopsticks to help me perform like I was a Chinese chopstick ninja only like a second ago.”
A small laugh passes his lips. “Great minds think alike, hey?”
“I guess so.” Nothing’s going to wipe this smile off my face. Nothing.
“Eat up before your chicken goes cold. I love this place. Their food is delicious, even more so when enjoyed hot.”
“It is.” I snatch a prawn chip from the cane basket. “Now, these little pink suckers are my favourite. Who doesn’t love a good prawn cracker?”
