Arms Wide Open: a Novella
Page 2
The one. He keeps saying that. I’ll be irate if the universe has the one for a whack job like Kevin the Eyeball Guy and none for me. I used to believe in all that soul mate garbage, but then real life crushed that youthful optimism out of me. I guess I’m not that old, but all the life I’ve lived in my 26 years has aged me. I’m a pessimist. I expect bad things to happen and I revel in saying ‘I told you so’ when something goes wrong. I keep hoping for a reason to be hopeful, but so far life keeps dealing me crap hands. Being jaded means I’m rarely disappointed.
I used to believe in happily ever after. For three blissful years I was convinced I’d have my own fairy tale ending. Perfect boyfriend, life on track, honor roll in college, great friends, monumental social life...and then I lost everything. It’s all my fault, really. Why did I let myself believe life would ever be kind to me?
I look up at Kevin, who’s still chatting animatedly. The occasional nod and closed-lip smile from me has him convinced I’m listening to every last bloomin’ detail of the great eyeball saga. Part of me is jealous that he can live in such innocence. He’s so carefree, like having to take eye drops is really the most pressing concern in his happy little brain. Life hasn’t scared him off yet with how bleak and depressing it can really be.
Wait. I think he just said something that requires a response. “Sorry, can you say that again?” I cup a hand around my ear and lean over the table. “It’s so loud with everyone talking. What was that?”
He leans forward too, reaching across the table. He reaches for my hand and I pull back and swat an imaginary fly just in time to prevent him from taking them in his own. After the epic handshake, I’m not sure I’m emotionally able to deal with his hand-holding.
“Sorry, a fly is buzzing in my ear!” I’m a terrible liar, but he nods sympathetically.
“Isn’t that the worst? I was just saying it would be great if we could go somewhere quieter to spend a little more time getting to know each other better.”
I’ve heard enough. I reach forward and smash my own index finger a little too hard against his lips. Paybacks are beautiful. “Don’t say it, Kevin. We have to follow the rules.”
He nods. “You’re right, Lauren. What was I thinking?” Somewhere near the glass front door, a little bell rings to let me know the first five minutes are up. Hallelujah! If there’s a heaven, and if that heaven has a choir, that choir is singing its angelic arse off thanking the maker that my time with Kevin is done.
“It was so great to meet you, Lauren! I’m marking you down for future contact. We need to get together again soon.” With a dramatic flourish, he marks the little check box near my number that says he wants to call me in the future. He points his little golf pencil at me, and with a wink he grins, “Don’t forget to mark ‘yes’ on 20014! I just know we’re going to be great friends, and if something blossoms from there...you never know!” He winks at me before pivoting and jogging back to a corner, into the shadows of the room.
As he walks away, I tip my head to the side to check out his socks. Rainbow stripe. Even better! I grasp my own golf pencil and turn away so he can’t see me marking my ‘no’ in the biggest, darkest X the cheap little pencil can muster. There’s no way I’d consider round two with the eyeball guy, but a part of me feels guilty. Saying no to him feels an awful lot like kicking a kitten.
Eject! Eject!
I think I’m okay for a minute, and I take a deep breath. I’m drawing a deep lungful of air when it hits me. Hard. I should have known it was coming. I walk away from everyone, to the rear of the shop. I lean against the wall and shove my back against the rough texture of the bricks. I pull my denim jacket tight around me and shiver, trying hard to control the racing of my heart. I close my eyes and take more deep breaths, the only thing that will prevent me from hyperventilating. I want to go punch Harlow in the teeth for making me come, making me try something new. Sweat erupts on my forehead. It runs down my temples and races down my back in icy rivulets. I keep my eyes cinched shut and focus on relaxing my hunched shoulders and unclenching my cramped, curled toes.
I’ll be okay in a minute. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I’ll be okay in a minute...
They’re getting ready to start round two, but I can’t do it. I just can’t. I run to the bathroom, thinking I should probably go ahead and puke so I have a good excuse to bail out. It won’t come, so I splash my face with cold water over and over. The next four guys will have to deal with getting stood up—I’m done. I rummage in my oversize orange purse for...something. I don’t know what. I’m looking for something to get my mind off my own mind. I now have a master’s in psychology and I can’t even figure my own brain out. How sad. If pathetic were a video game, I’d currently hold the world’s high score.
I toss my bag to the ground in frustration and give it a kick. It slides under the sink. I crank the vintage faucet handle to full blast and lean over as sobs make me shudder. I keep splashing water on my face so the people who wander in to fix their lip gloss and spray down stray hairs don’t see what’s going on.
I feel a gentle hand rubbing my back. Even with closed eyes, I know Harlow came to check on me. I turn off the faucet and look up to see her concerned smile staring at me through the mirror above the sink I’ve commandeered. I catch a glimpse of myself, too, and crinkle my nose in disgust. My industrial strength mascara isn’t waterproof, which means I now have black streaks running down my face. No one can rock raccoon chic like me.
Harlow grins despite herself and reaches into her bag. “You’ll do just about anything to get out of this, won’t you?”
I smile ruefully. “Including but not limited to having a panic attack.”
She hands over a travel pack of makeup remover wipes. When I take it from her, she rubs my back again in a comforting way, like my sister used to. “Sorry, sweetie. I thought you were ready to get out there and all you needed was just a little push.”
I scrub the last of my mascara off my lashes before tackling the black streaks on my cheeks. I bend over the sink with my neck craned up to look at myself in the mirror. “You were right. I’m ready, and I did need a push. That doesn’t mean the first time out is easy. It could have been worse. Considering my first ‘date,’ it’s lucky I didn’t puke everywhere, too.”
Harlow laughs, the infectious kind that makes everyone want to laugh with her. “Speaking of first dates, mine went really well. The guy isn’t really my type physically, but we...I think we connected on a deeper level.”
“Not your type?” I hand back her travel wipes and retrieve my bag from its hiding place under the sink. “You mean he’s not an underwear model?”
She blushes a little, like she’s embarrassed. “He’s an engineer.”
“Whoa! I didn’t see that one coming!” Harlow works in PR for publishing, and she makes her living by looking fabulous and going to swanky parties to talk potential clients into signing over rights their first born and everything they possess. In exchange she makes them rich and famous. She owns the room at these events, the kind of parties where I’m the temporary wait staff, trying not to get groped by Harlow’s drunk rejects. Being fabulous is kind of her job, and the guys she dates are almost always prettier than she is. Engineers don’t scream high-glam lifestyle.
I leave my bag at the sink and poke my head out, trying to spot the guy. I have him pegged right away, because he’s the only guy in the room, besides the eyeball guy, who doesn’t have a metro-urban-edgy look to him. He wears ironed chinos and a plaid button-down, and his shoes don’t have an extended square toe box. His strawberry blond hair is receding just a bit, but his light blue eyes pop in his rosy face. He looks really nice. He is good looking for sure, but he isn’t hot. Dude looks...normal. He has white picket fence and SUV in the ‘burbs written all over him.
I almost don’t know what to say when I close the door and turn back around. “I have to give you props. You came here to give new guys a chance, and you did. He looks like a really decent guy.”
“You’re totally right.”
Harlow reaches into her bag and gets some lipstick out, letting that shade of red perfect for her complexion glide over her silky lips. She shoves the lid to the tube back on and drops it into her bag. “You know what the first thing he said to me was, when he sat down?” She pushes her purse strap back over her shoulder and folds her arms. She turns to face me as I rummage through my bag for my emergency cosmetics stash, trying to repair the damage I’ve done to my makeup job.
“What?” I ask as I reach for my tinted lip gloss, which is trying its best to avoid me by hiding at the bottom of the bag.
“He told me I have a beautiful smile. He looked me right in the eye and said he likes my smile.”
“Really? Not even a quick peek at the cleavage? Shocking.” Her décolletage is legendary, and all natural.
“I know, right?” She sighs, and she’s looking very twitterpated. It’s a dumb word but the only one that can possibly describe the dreamy gaze that’s crossed her face. “I didn’t even know that’s what I’m looking for until he did that. Then he listened. He asked questions about what I do, what I like, what I want out of life. What I want in a relationship. He’s looking for the same thing.”
“I hate to be jaded here,” I say as I reach into her bag. She always has mascara in there. “But is there any chance he’s just playing the nice guy to get into your panties? It’s happened before.”
She pulls a face. “I know. But I think this guy is worth a shot. I have nothing to lose, right?” I nod, and she’s silent and thoughtful for a few moments as I finish with her mascara and toss it back to her. “He’s the kind of guy I’d have no problem taking home to meet the family. And did you see his hair? We’d be breeding the next generation of gingers. I would make the cutest babies with him.”
Harlow James is talking family and babies. I think I should check hell’s weather forecast.
I smile at her, and pull her into a hug as the little bell sounds outside to let me know it’s time for round two. “Thanks for rescuing me and letting me raid your makeup stash. I think you should blow this off and go somewhere with engineer boy and get to know him better before your biological clock becomes a time bomb and explodes on you.”
She bites her lip again, something she’s done a lot tonight. She never acts this nervous, but it kind of humanizes her. She seems less perfect, in a good way. “You think?”
I nod. “Yes. Go somewhere far away from this meat market and spend some time with a nice guy. After all the losers you’ve collected over the years, you deserve a guy who will worship you. Go have fun with...?”
“Pete.”
“Go have fun with Pete.” I take a deep breath.
“Why don’t you come with us? You should get out of here, too. I can’t believe I talked you into this.”
“And ruin your first date with Mr. Right?” I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m a big girl and I hate leaving things half done. I’ll finish off the night and then go pick up a pint of Ben and Jerry’s on the way home to drown my sorrows with some ice cream therapy while I lament the tragic lack of decent guys in this town, since apparently you just snapped up the last good one.”
“Text me if you need rescuing.”
“Hey, if I can survive the eyeball guy, I can take anything.”
She bursts out laughing. “There’s a story here. I can’t wait to hear about this one later!”
“I think Kevin goes on quite a few top ten lists of socially awkward and inappropriate behavior. I wish I’d known him six months ago. He would’ve made a great master’s thesis.”
“I’m serious, Lauren. Call me. I’ll come back in sobbing that your mom just got hit by a bus and drag you out.”
“I know you will. You’re a good friend. Go, have fun! Go be the greatest thing that ever happened to Pete.”
She’s gone in a flash, all radiance and excitement as she pulls open the ladies’ room door and hurries out. I follow her, watching as his face lights up at her words. He puts an arm protectively around her waist to guide her through the crowd and to the door. The people thin out as everyone finds their tables and sits down. I grasp my card in a shaking hand as I read the numbers and find my table for round two.
Game face on. Time to conquer my own anxiety, or at least kick it in the shins and then hide so it takes some time for it to find me again.
Rico Suavé
I don’t even need to sit town at my table to know I won’t like this next guy. He rests against the wooden chair, glaring disdainfully around. His back is toward me, but I can see long, thick, curly dark hair, slicked back with more gel than your average girl uses in a week. One leg is extended, one arm draped over the chair beside him as he looks around. His jeans and silky shirt probably cost more than my monthly rent.
When he turns to scan the room, I see the top buttons are left undone to show off a thin gold chain and reveal a hint of ridiculously thick, curly black chest hair. With one hand on the table his fingers drum the top impatiently. I spot a pinky ring on that hand—it’s almost all I need to run out the door after Harlow.
By the time he spots me, I’m the only one left standing so he knows I’m his date for the next five minutes. He stands up, immediately turning on the charm. I’m frozen in the middle of the sea of tables and people as he approaches with a perfect, white-stripped smile. He takes my hand in his and covers it with the other before leading me to our table. We sit by the front window and I can see my reflection looking timidly back at me as we sit. He makes me nervous. I definitely have a type, which doesn’t include guys who look like paid hitmen.
“You want a drink?” he asks me. He already has a couple of empty tumblers on our table and I’m guessing he’ll be completely plastered by round five.
I see this type at the gym all the time. Well, when I bother to go. They wear tight, shiny exercise clothes and walk around like they’re serious about working out, but their regimens are little more than sucking in and pumping the heavy weights when girls walk past.
“Just water, thanks.”
He looked confused. “You Mormon or something?”
I decide I can’t possibly take this guy seriously, so I decide to spend this round messing with his head. “No. I’m Amish.” I try hard to swallow a smile. This will be fun. My heart thumps oddly as if it finally decides to slow down at the tail end of my panic attack. I’ve always wanted to yank someone around for fun. Maybe this will be something to cross off the bucket list.
He raises a hand and snaps his fingers at the server, who comes over with a scowl on her face. I don’t blame her. Who snaps for service anymore?
“I need another, and water for the lady here.” He looks at me as she leaves. “So Amish, huh? I thought you guys never left the farm, and you had to wear sunbonnets and aprons and the like.” He has a hint of a downstate New York accent. Brooklyn or the Bronx, maybe?
“Maybe.” I’ve only been to Amish country once, so I hope he doesn’t take this line of questioning too much further. Aside from buggies, quilts, and suggestive town names like Virginville or Intercourse , I don’t know much about them.
A look of understanding flits across his rugged face as he rubs his scratchy chin. The five o’clock shadow would be crazy sexy on another face. He just oozes smarmy charm. “Oh, yeah, Amish in the City. I get it. That’s the deal with your hair and diamond stud in your nose.”
“It’s cubic zirconium, actually,” I say, expecting him to flinch. He doesn’t disappoint. I have him pegged for a name brander. I bet all I have to do is tell him I shop at the Goodwill and he’ll sudd
enly vanish into the men’s room for the rest of our time together. I’m tempted, but I want to mess with him a little longer. “We Amish take a vow of poverty.” I don’t think they actually do, but I’m having a little too much fun mocking him to his face.
“Huh. Who knew?” He looks away, and those fingers start drumming the table again.
I can’t help but smile wide. He has zero interest in me now, even without the Goodwill reference. He snatches the drink our server brings us and takes a couple of gulps before I can even reach for the water glass she places before me. She offers me a look of sympathy, and I shoot her a knowing look as he sets the glass down hard and looks around.
“So, you got a name, Amish girl?”
I want to say something about how Amish don’t name their children, just number them, but I probably wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if I did. Instead I just say, “My name is Lauren,” as I extend my hand for him to shake.
He’s taking another quick swig, so he slams his cup down on the table to take my hand. This time instead of a warm hand grasp and deep, meaningful gaze, I get a quick, limp-fish handshake before he pulls back. As he does, I see a couple of rings in addition to the pinky ring. One, on his right index finger, has a diamond studded dollar sign.
“I’m Johnny.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Johnny.”
“So you Amish people, what do you do?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Make quilts and bread. Raise chickens. Drive our buggies around.” I think hard. “Farm stuff.”
He nods, but his mind is already a mile away. He’s leaning back in his chair in the same stance where I first saw him, leg extended, looking out the window for something better to walk by. I guess I have to take the lead for the next few minutes. “Johnny, tell me where you’re from. It sounds like you’re from the big city.”