by Kim Bailey
As we approach the bar and the woman I’ll be babysitting, I silently curse fate for spoiling my buzz.
Until I see her.
Motionless, head in hand, she stares absently at an empty glass. Her somber profile’s a stark contradiction to the liveliness around her. She’s a beautiful beacon of distress, and as we get closer, I notice mine aren’t the only eyes hooked by her. Almost every man in viewing distance has her set in his sights.
“Zadie!” Chante yells, tugging on the woman’s sleeve. “Zadie, pay attention!”
Sitting abruptly, she turns to look at us, her chestnut hair flying wildly. My gut twists when her deep brown eyes finally land our way. Sucker punched by her beauty.
No, she’s more than beautiful. She’s breathtaking.
A mess of curled hair frames her petite, heart-shaped face. Mascara is smudged lightly across her porcelain skin. It paints blurred lines between the spattering of freckles, running across her cheeks. The look she wears—a mixture of confusion and sadness—is so raw, so honest, it practically brings me to my knees.
My cousin’s right. This woman should not be left alone here. A woman who looks like this—wounded, vulnerable—shouldn’t be left alone anywhere. Ever.
Her open expression is quickly hidden when she registers what’s going on around her.
“Caleb, this is Zadie,” Chante says, pulling us in close so we can hear her above the music. “Zadie, meet Caleb. He’s a good guy, you can trust him. He’s going to make sure you get home safe tonight. Now, I gotta run. I’ll check in when I can—if I can.” Turning to walk away, she calls back over her shoulder, “Be good!”
And like that she’s gone, leaving the two of us a little awe struck and speechless in her wake.
Turning my gaze back to Zadie, I ask, “Is she always that bossy?”
Laughter—sweet, melodic, exuberant, and pure. The sound of Zadie’s lilting laugh is a full-body experience. It starts in my ears, but travels through me, settling somewhere around the base of my spine. Or maybe it just traveled straight to my dick. I can’t be sure. I’m having a hard time concentrating on anything other than that gorgeous sound. Everything else—even the vibrating electro-mix that assaults us from all sides—fades to background noise. Her mouth curves so sweetly, and her dark rimmed eyes squint and sparkle with intoxicated delight—nothing else could hold my interest now.
“She’s an emergency room doctor,” she says. “If she wasn’t bossy, people would die. Trust me, if you ever end up in the hospital, you want someone like her in charge.”
Maybe her words should bother me. They should remind me of my battle with illness and all my time spent in hospital.
But they don’t.
All I notice is the way her sad eyes rove over me with interest, and how incredibly sober she sounds.
“So, Chante didn’t tell me much, except that you’re here alone and I’m supposed to get you home.”
“She loves looking out for me. It’s alright—Cal, was it? I’m fine,” she insists.
“It’s Caleb, actually. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me Cal.”
“I like Cal. It’s very masculine, very sexy sounding. Suits you perfectly. You should go with it.”
Well, maybe she’s a little shit-faced after all.
I’ve been called cute, nice, and funny. My sister-in-law Jamie once called me charming. But masculine and sexy? Those words are reserved for guys like my brother—the silent brooders who simply smile at a woman and then hop into bed. Not a guy like me. I barely know how to flirt.
“I promised Chante I’d take care of you. Can’t break that promise, or I’ll be out a place to stay,” I tell her.
“Oh, you’re the one she told me about. The one who’s visiting from Ontario?”
My stomach drops at the thought of what my cousin might’ve told her. Does she know about my fight to come out here? About my near-death experience? Will I ever get a chance to be anything, other than the boy who beat cancer?
“Yeah, that’s me. So, can I get you a taxi home?”
“What? So soon? Come on, Cal... let’s stay a while. We’re responsible adults. Let’s have drinks together. When you’re half as drunk as me you can have me in a cab. Okay?”
Was that an innuendo or just a drunken slip? The way she said my name—even if it’s not really my name—and the tiny smirk playing on her lips makes me believe it was intentional. At least, I can hope it was.
“A couple of drinks sounds nice. But after that I’m taking you straight home.”
Smiling brightly at me, she winks before turning to the bartender. “Jean-Paul! J’en veux deux autres,” she calls, motioning for two more drinks.
The bartender calls back with a sweet French endearment. The fondness in his tone makes me wary. It’s too affectionate, too personal. It makes me edgy to think about what kind of trouble this woman could be in without me here.
“Where’re you from?”
“What makes you think I’m not from here?” She smiles again—playful and alluring.
“It’s your accent. It’s a good attempt, but you’re not Francophone.”
“And how would you know that, Mr. Ontario?”
“My mom’s Quebecois, I grew up with both languages.”
“Well, shit. Here I thought I was doing good. No one else has called me out for my fake French accent. J.P. certainly hasn’t complained.” She motions back toward the bartender, who’s still watching Zadie, even while he mixes our drinks.
“Sorry, it’s not that bad. Besides, I’m sure Jean-Paul’s used to us Anglophones butchering the language. Frenchies like him won’t correct us, they’ll just roll their eyes and call us names behind our backs.”
“What do you think he’s calling us?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure whatever he calls me is insulting. But you? I think he’d probably call you something like pitoune, and he’d probably say it to your face.”
“Pitoune? What does that mean?”
“It’s an endearment—like calling you babe.”
I’m treated to more of her silvery laughter as Jean-Paul hastily brings the ordered drinks. Giving Zadie a sly smile, his hand lingers next to her glass. She’s either ignoring his interest or is oblivious to it. Her eyes don’t leave mine as she politely thanks him.
“Here, let me,” I offer when she starts digging in her purse. I hand over a twenty before she can argue.
Jean-Paul doesn’t look as happy with his tip as he should, and his mumbled French curse confirms exactly what he thinks of me. But he leaves us alone with our drinks and the sea of people surrounding us.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” I prompt.
“Which question?” She sounds innocent, but looks devilish as hell.
“Where you’re from.”
“Can I be perfectly honest with you, Cal? I hate answering that question. Every time I tell someone where I’m from it inevitably leads to questions about why I came here. That leads to questions about why I stayed. And then more uncomfortable questions about how I manage to keep smiling every day.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m complicated. And I’m just tired of talking about it. I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me all the time. I don’t feel sorry for me—most of the time. Tonight might be a little different.”
“This will probably sound like a really lame line, but I understand exactly what you mean. People and their pity can feel like a weight pulling you down. It’s like they’re so busy feeling sorry for you, they forget you’re more than just some ugly event you’ve lived through.”
“Yes! That’s it, exactly.”
“When you do feel sorry for yourself, do you ever wonder if the emotion really belongs to you?”
Her smile doesn’t dim, but she hesitates before slowly shaking her head.
“Sometimes I feel like the sadness doesn’t belong to me anymore,” I explain, “I’ve had to share it with everyone else for so long... or, maybe i
t was never mine to begin with, it just transferred from someone else.”
“Now there’s a deep thought. Unfortunately, it might be a little too philosophical for me right now. But you’ll have to tell me your story someday, Cal. I have a feeling it’s a good one.”
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
“Get another drink in me and you might just get lucky.”
The alcohol and the innuendos continue to flow. Zadie quickly finishes her drink while we chat about Chante. We’re both astounded by my cousin’s ability to maintain order at work, but zero in her apartment. When her drink is gone, Zadie orders half a dozen shots, downing the first while we talk about the city. She slams back her second while we laugh at each other’s terrible use of French slang.
The conversation remains light and easy. We talk like old friends catching up, instead of strangers who’ve been forced on each other. Except, unlike old friends, there’s an unmistakable current of sexual energy flowing fast and powerful between us. Every time she opens her mouth, I’m drawn to her words, the melody of her voice, and the striking way her features emphasize everything she says.
“I was feeling sorry for myself tonight.” Her speech is noticeably slurred after four drinks—plus one in hand.
“Is that why you’re getting drunk, alone in a bar? Kind of cliché, don’t you think?”
“Cliché? Really, Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome? Who’s cliché? Besides, I’m not alone. I’m with you.”
The heat of her words slides up my spine. “You really are drunk.”
“Yes, I am. It feels good, too. I almost don’t give a shit about anything. Self-pity eradicated, one drink at a time!” she declares, raising her glass in cheer.
“Do you want to talk about it—whatever it is you’re trying to forget?”
“Why? You don’t really want to hear my sob story, do you?”
“Yes, if you want to tell it, I do.”
“Really? You want to know how I got screwed over by a man? Want to hear how totally cliché my whole life has been? It’s like a really bad lifetime movie.” She frowns. “A poor, heartbroken girl falls for a semi-famous rich guy. He’s wonderful at first. He promises to take her away from her problems, to give her a good life, to love her. He promises her everything. Except, it’s all too good to be true... Is that really the kind of story you want to hear?” She’s ranting. Her words slurring together as her focus wavers between me and the drink in her hand. Every time she looks up, her long lashes fan out around her big doe eyes.
I’m captivated.
“He told me he was in love with me,” she confides. “He told me he couldn’t live without me and I believed him. I wanted to believe him."
Pausing, she watches her finger trace the moisture on her glass. “I moved here for him, and six months later he left me. I hardly knew anyone, I could barely speak the language, and the job I’d found was crap. But I didn’t break. I kept going, got my shit together and made new plans for myself.”
She sighs, looking up at me again with an expression that would melt the coldest of hearts. “Then he came back, and like the desperate, pathetic loser that I am, I let him in. I let him back into my life... back into my bed.” Her face contorts in disgust. “Can you guess what happened next, Cal?”
“He left again?”
“BINGO!” she yells. “I woke up to a note that said he had to go. A note! He took everything he’d ever bought me and a couple of things he hadn’t. Just like that.” She snaps her fingers clumsily. “He’s an asshole and a fucking thief—and I didn’t even see it coming. How fucking sad is that?” Her words are stark, her tone wounded.
“Doesn’t sound too sad to me,” I confess.
“But it is,” she insists. “I should have been the one to leave, not him. Better yet, I shouldn’t have let him come back—I should have been stronger. I’ve made way too many mistakes.”
She’s sharing a deeply personal chink in her armor—a weakness that somehow makes her stronger. Somehow, it makes me feel like we’re connected. Our stories couldn’t be further apart, yet we’re both guarded, hiding our hurts from the world.
“Anyway, look at you,” she continues. “You seem too confident and smart to make those kinds of mistakes. You don’t think it’s sad because you can’t identify with it.”
“Zadie, confidence is just a mask people wear to hide the truth. And I’m not that smart—trust me, I’ve made mistakes. I can relate.” Blocking her protest, I cover her delicate hand with my own. She jolts at the contact, but her eyes don’t stray from mine. “I don’t think your story’s sad because what I see is a chance for you to start over. He’s the one losing out, not you.”
“Oh, no, you’re one of those glass half-full people. The sun’s always sparkling? Rainbows, squirrels, and unicorns and...fuuuuck. I’m drunk.” She shakes her head, like the movement might help make sense of things. Our hands lose contact in the process.
“Yes, you most certainly are. I would never put squirrels and unicorns in the same category,” I tease. “Those beasts are just plain magical—with their bushy tails and cute little bucked teeth.”
“Okay, one more drink, Cal,” she proclaims, my bad joke escaping her. “Then I need to go.”
“Why don’t you just finish the drink in your hand? Then I’ll take you home.”
She looks down at the glass she’s holding. It’s the same one she was intently studying, only moments ago. The wonder on her face is priceless. Her smile’s so bright, you’d think a tumbler of amber liquid had solved all her problems.
As she takes a gulp, I sneak in, “You’re better off without him.”
“How would you know that?” she challenges, after swallowing half the glass. “You only heard part of the story.”
“Isn’t the reason obvious?”
She stares dazedly at me. She’s either trying to sort the answer, or trying to focus on the multiple versions of me she’s likely seeing right now.
“Not once in that story did you mention anything about being in love with him,” I explain. “Past or present.”
“Okay, sunshine man, you nailed it. But that’s only because I don’t believe in love. It’s just made up bullshit that keeps us all distracted. Believing in love is like living in the matrix. Except, no one has to be tricked into swallowing the pill, everyone happily jumps right in.”
“I’m pretty sure you have to take the pill to get out of the matrix, not into it. But love? Love is real, Zadie. Love is so damn real.”
“You’ve been in love before?”
“No, but I’ve seen it.” I’ve dreamed of it. “When you see the kind of love I have, you know. It’s undeniable.”
“Guess that’s the problem then. All I’ve ever been shown is heartbreak and lies.” She draws a deep breath as though to speak again, but pauses—the corners of her mouth, twitching downward.
Finally, she releases her breath, her eyes jolting up to mine.
“Take my parents for example,” she continues, nonchalant. “They hated each other. Now, my mom has a new boyfriend every third day. And that kinda proves my point.” Her words slur together again as she squints up at me. “Love can’t possibly be real. Not if it’s so easy to fall in and out of. Not when a man can tell you he loves you, fuck you, and then leave you the next day. Not when love is a lie.”
“Alright, you might want to reconsider finishing that drink,” I encourage. “I’m not sure you need it.”
“But this drink is my best friend,” she pleads before quickly downing the rest in a protective gesture.
Her exaggerated pout into the empty glass is both comical and completely adorable. The way her full bottom lip sticks out to the side, not the front, and the way her eyebrows arch dramatically, one higher than the other—she’s perfectly undone in the sloppiest sort of way.
She’s wonderful.
“I think it’s time to go.”
“Just one...” She squints into the cup. “Last...” Tips it up over
her open mouth. She captures the final drop of liquid on her tongue.
And then falls off the barstool.
My hand finds her waist as I catch her roughly, her elbow digging into my side. Preventing her tumble to the floor is slightly painful, but ends with her in my arms—so I’m not complaining.
“All right, Dropsy. Now, can we go?”
“Mmm-Hmm,” she murmurs, looking up at me through heavy eyelids.
She looks ready to pass out. But that doesn’t stop her from snaking her arms around my neck and weaving her hands through my hair.
It doesn’t stop her from kissing me.
Her lips are warm and sticky with liquor. Her tongue’s the flavor of caramel and spice. She feels vibrant, tastes dynamic, and her sigh sounds like a promise being made.
For a moment, I forget why kissing her is a bad idea. I forget why it’s wrong.
How could it be wrong when it’s an awakening? The heaviness I’ve been carrying is lifted with her touch. The fragrant aroma of her lush and lazy mouth is an answer to all my questions. Every one of my naive fantasies comes true with the wet glide of her tongue.
Kissing her makes everything feel right.
Until I come to my senses and remember she’s drunk. I’m supposed to be the good guy, doing the right thing. Not a horny miscreant taking advantage.
Tearing my mouth from hers, I tell her, “Time to get that cab.”
Hauling her into the taxi, I realize it was a mistake to let her have that final drink. She’s too drunk to tell me where she lives. My only option is to bring her home with me.
It’s laughable.
I’m bringing a girl home for the first time. She’s out of her mind drunk, it’s not really my home, and I have zero intention of trying anything with her. Most guys probably wouldn’t find the situation too funny.
Thankfully, it’s not one of those other guys taking her home.
From first sight of her at the bar, I’ve felt responsible for her. And not just because Chante demanded it. I might be a little afraid of my cousin’s promised wrath, but ultimately, the protectiveness is instinct. Any doubts or second thoughts over those instincts were erased when Zadie told me her story. When I heard the fear in her words but the solid determination in her voice, I knew could never abandon her alone in a bar. Or anywhere else for that matter.
