by J. L. Salter
Though I was determined to end things that night, I still didn’t expend as much effort being frosty or trying to psychoanalyze Brett as I had before, so we both actually enjoyed the meal. Our conversation — though not revealing much about either of us — was cordial enough and the wine probably helped me relax a bit.
When he asked what I had lined up to purchase at the electronics store on Saturday morning, I admitted it was a new laptop I needed for school, home and writing, but did not reveal that I didn’t have the first dollar saved toward the purchase of one at regular price. My only hope had been to acquire a device at about one-third of full retail.
Surprisingly, Brett inquired about my writing. He’d guessed at such before and I was certain we’d never discussed it. In fact, it was so rare for anyone to ask, I couldn’t even respond for a full ninety-eight seconds. “Well, it’s only part-time… you know, when I can squeeze it in, after all the school stuff, if I’m still awake…”
“You shouldn’t apologize for a gift, Chloe.”
“I wasn’t.” Well, actually I was, but that was because the reactions I usually received ranged from total disinterest to near-hostile skepticism.
“I have a lot of interest in literature…”
That admission threw me.
“…and my extended family even has a few writers here and there.”
“Any name I might recognize?”
He shook his head. “Most aren’t published. Some gave up completely and others apparently lack confidence in what they’ve created.”
I could understand both. “You’ve read some of their work?”
“A little.” Then after a pause, “Maybe one day you’ll trust me with something of yours.”
I wanted to spend the next five hours discussing my stories, including the one I was currently trying to get back to, plus my hopes and dreams as an unpublished writer, et cetera… but I had a nagging feeling it was a trap. I mean, when had a nice-looking guy ever acted interested in something I had written? So I sidestepped. “I can’t clean it up until I get a replacement laptop.” Figured that would end the conversation and it did. “How’d you find my address anyway?”
Brett’s lips formed a sly smile. “Old fashioned way — phone book.”
“I didn’t realize they listed cell phone numbers.”
“Okay, you caught me. I asked somebody else I know at your school.”
I frowned. “So why the fib?”
“Just wanted to seem mysterious to you.”
He certainly was that.
“Besides, it wasn’t a fib because I really did check the phone book.”
I studied the man next to me — handsome, muscular, and charming… though in a decidedly peculiar way. “Are all your dates like this?”
“As compared with what?”
He’d once again dodged my question so I decided to drop it. Didn’t matter — tonight was our last event. I kept repeating that in my head with each bite of lasagna.
No dessert again, but this time it was because we were both way too full from the delicious meal.
I predicted Mr. Wager was about to come up with another bet, so I decided it was time to get the upper hand and finally shut things down. “Well, thank you for the meal and I’m glad you introduced me to this place… it was nice.”
“Sounds like you’re ready to go.”
I nodded.
“But I feel like we need more time.” His eyes seemed to plead. “You haven’t allowed yourself to get to know me yet.”
A lot came tumbling out, partly because I’d been holding back for so long, I guess. “I’ve exposed myself to your charm and attention for some six hours or so, over three different, um, dates. And, besides, I’m pretty sure I know you well enough.” I only paused for a breath and then let him have it. “You were the popular jock in high school, and you were probably in student government at your college. You’ve usually had girls fighting over you and it puzzles you that I didn’t swoon.”
He looked hurt and I immediately regretted my words and tone. “I’m sorry. I still feel off balance and confused, but it’s not right to be harsh and…”
“Judgmental?”
I nodded, quite chastened. “I apologize.”
He didn’t appear to believe my regret. Who could blame him, the way I’d been acting? “Actually, I’m the one who’s sorry. It was wrong to trick you into seeing me.”
“So why’d you do it?” My friend Joan would want to know.
After a silence, he replied, “I thought you were different somehow.”
“Different, how?”
“Not sure… doesn’t matter.” He scanned the table for his keys and found them. “My mistake. You’ve fulfilled your obligation, so let’s just leave.” He also grabbed the check.
When he stood, I remained seated. “Just like that?”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? To brush me away like you would a persistent stray dog?”
He was wounded more than I’d ever intended. With all his brash behavior, I’d thought he had thickened skin, but this guy was really hurting. It made me feel like a cheap bully, but I had no answer for him.
He just shook his head and started to walk toward the register. “Thought you were different, Chloe.”
“Wait.” I reached for his hand. “I am different. At least I think I am.”
Brett looked down at my hand clutching his and shook his head slowly. “I saw something recently about a person out in deep water struggling not to drown… who finally, somehow, makes it part way back to shore. He’s exhausted and probably still a goner. But instead of helping, the people in nearby boats just whack at the doomed swimmer with their oars and chastise him for being out that far.” He took a deep breath and pulled away his hand. “Nobody was willing to help the swimmer into any of their boats.”
I was stunned. I felt only a few inches tall for saying what I’d said… but I was also floored that my few harsh words could have even made a dent on someone who appeared so confident and strong. I didn’t follow his entire example with the swimmer and boats, but I knew I didn’t want to be one of those hateful people. He was out of reach of my extended hand, so I stood quickly and then touched his forearm. “This isn’t me — I don’t have a paddle. And I didn’t mean to be so ugly. When I’m scared, I sometimes cope by being snarky.”
“You were scared?”
Many nearby diners gawked, but I kept going. “Yes, and considerably off-balance. I never really had a chance to catch my breath because you pressed so hard.”
“Just one of several mistakes I made…”
I didn’t actually pull Brett back down to the table, but I guess I nudged him — he slowly took his seat again, all the while studying me closely. I couldn’t help wishing we’d been alone somewhere, instead of among diners in a crowded restaurant.
“Look, Brett, I don’t know if it’s even possible now, but I’d like to start over… only this time with no gimmicks. And I’ll try to do a better job coping through my concerns without resorting to snarkiness.”
He nodded. “I used to be able to handle jabs like that a little better than I have since I left the service.”
A lot of Verdeville folks had returned from the military as very different people. “Were you deployed overseas?”
“Two tours in Afghanistan, mostly working from Bagram Airfield. We were part of Operation Enduring Freedom, but it didn’t…” He looked away slightly, as though he were addressing someone adjacent to me. “First time was mostly as a PFC, so my main responsibility was keeping alert enough to stay alive — watch my back and watch my buddy’s. But for a lot of my second tour I was an acting squad leader…”
I wondered what happened to his designated squad leader, but didn’t ask.
“…and having the responsibility for those other guys really took a toll on me.” He redirected his eyes — still blue, but a much darker, somber shade — directly at me. “When any of them got hurt, or worse, it felt like I had let them dow
n.”
“But they got the same training. It couldn’t have been your responsibility… or fault.”
He’d obviously heard that before. “I know, I know. But that doesn’t take away the feeling.” He gulped noiselessly. “At least I came home in one piece — plenty of guys didn’t. It’s a lot different than in the war movies…”
I placed my hand on top of his, hoping he wouldn’t move it away… and he didn’t. We were both silent for a few moments as the diners around us finally lost interest in our quieter drama and focused on their own conversations or meals. “Why did you enlist?”
From the way he shook his head sadly, I got the impression he’d asked himself the same question. “My granddad served in World War Two, my dad was in uniform during the late part of Vietnam. I was proud of their military service and I wanted them to be proud of me.”
I just nodded. Being female, I had never felt any obligation to serve even though many in my family had — and I was, indeed, very proud of them.
The waitress came back by, filled our iced tea glasses without asking, and also took away the plates.
Brett continued. “I hadn’t decided what to do with my bachelors’ degree…”
“What had you studied?”
“Changed programs enough times to end up with double majors — history and English — with minors in psych, speech, and P.E.”
“Wow, the English kind of surprises me.” Also explained his appreciation for literature. “The rest sounds like good prep for…”
“Teaching?” He smiled thinly, the first crack in his face over the past ten minutes, so I was glad to see it. “I seemed to be crab walking into teaching and really didn’t think I wanted that.”
“Having seen the stresses in your mom’s career?”
He nodded. “So my college years were not, shall we say, used to their fullest advantage.”
I had already shot my load about his college days, so I stayed quiet.
Brett, evidently able to read my mind at will, noticed. “Well, as it turns out, you’d guessed correctly about some of my younger days. However, any females who hovered because of anything they thought I represented… well, they were the types of girls I didn’t really want to spend much time with.” He swallowed hard. “Plenty of guys did, of course, and lots of those girls tended to get recycled, if you know what I mean.”
I knew.
“And I didn’t want to be part of that process.” Brett took a slow sip from his newly refilled beverage. “So I pulled back a bit, I suppose you could say. Just kept things superficial for the most part.”
“Sounds like you never had a serious relationship.” I couldn’t believe I blurted that out.
It clearly startled him too and he was slow to reply. “Well, let’s just save that topic ‘til you know me a little better.”
“I’m sorry.” Oops, I kept putting my feet into my mouth. And it killed conversation for a few long moments. I believed both of us really wanted to start over and I certainly wished I could erase the last ten minutes or so. I also figured I had hit another big nerve, which could explain Brett’s use of wagers and other gimmickry to get my attention, rather than the old fashioned manner of just being himself. He’d evidently somehow reached a conclusion that “himself” wasn’t good enough — which I understood only too well, having spent much of my life feeling that same way.
I finally thought of a way to hopefully lighten the mood. “I’ll bet I can guess the military unit you were in.”
I’d caught him off guard and his lips curled slyly, his first relaxed grin in a good while. “How specifically?”
“Well, not down to the company or squadron number… but just by sizing you up and the very little bit you’ve already revealed, I can discern the type of unit you were in, probably to the division.”
“Without peeking at my old uniforms?”
“No uniform.”
That made him stop and think. “What happens if you win?”
“If I win this one, we never have any more wagers.”
“What if I win?”
“Don’t bet on it.”
He was smiling rather warmly as he deliberated — made me think he was imagining me without clothing again. “If I win, you cook me supper tomorrow at your place.”
“Ha!” It was louder than I’d intended. “You’d lose anyway, because I can’t cook.” Then I blushed slightly. Momma warned me never to admit her failure to teach me adequate kitchen skills.
“I’m willing to take my chances.” He studied me intently. “You’re not a mind reader, are you?”
“No, why’d you ask?”
“Wondered if you knew what I was thinking right now.”
I felt heat in my face. Couldn’t tell exactly, but I’d guessed his thoughts were probably about me and something intimate. “Nope, I’ve got no idea what you’re thinking.”
“Then there’s no way you’ll guess my unit.”
“Cavalry Division of the U.S. Army… don’t remember the number.”
“First Cav… the only one.” He smiled. “How’d you know?”
“Like I said… just sized you up.” I smiled back.
He looked blank for a minute.
“Your tattoo.” I pointed. “There on your, uh, biceps.” That well-developed muscle flinched as I mentioned it. “I figured that horse head on the shield could mean only two things: chess club nerd or Army cavalry unit… like the one Mel Gibson was in for that Vietnam movie.”
“I never had the patience for chess… too slow for anything to develop.” Looking quite disappointed, Brett sat back in his chair and let out a slow whoosh of air. “You beat me so that means no more wagers.”
I nodded. It felt nice to finally have the upper hand, though without use of snark.
“Does that also mean…?”
I realized I had not calculated the ramifications of winning that sure bet. Our first gambles had been about trying to get him out of my hair. Right now, I kinda half-way wanted him in my hair. “No more wagers,” I tried to look demure, “but we can still share a meal.” It took me a few seconds to think of the right venue to learn about the real man behind the person I’d been out with three times. “And since I won our final wager, our meal will be tomorrow evening… at your place.”
“My place?” He looked borderline frantic, like he’d need a full week and a team of housecleaners to straighten up the joint. Then his panic appeared to subside a bit, so I figured he’d just planned to toss everything into a spare room. “Are you planning to bring your red queen?”
“You can bet on it.”
Brett looked like he was trying not to smile as we got up from the table and walked outside. I took another look at the Italian restaurant’s exterior and hoped I could visit it again someday — maybe with him.
We didn’t talk much on the way home. He was probably thinking about the bizarre see-saw of emotions during and after our dinner — I know I was. I was also gratified we had salvaged it… would’ve been horrible to end things with my hostile, hurtful words.
When he dropped me off, he walked me to my door and kissed my hand like a perfect gentleman. Though I’d briefly considered inviting him inside, I knew I couldn’t — too soon. And even though I had steeled myself not to — and more or less promised Joan I wouldn’t — I rose up on my toes and kissed his stubbled cheek, then hurried inside and shut the door.
Through the window I watched Brett’s long legs stride toward his truck — he shook his head the whole way.
Chapter Five
Thursday, about 6 p.m.
“You voluntarily kissed the killer who’s unhurriedly setting you up for the final bloody chainsaw massacre?” Since Joan went through that sentence only twice, I guessed I was slowly winning her over. However, I did not discuss with her any of Brett’s revelations about military deployments or his potential interest in my writing.
Puzzled why my friend had moved so swiftly from vampires to chainsaws, I didn’t ask. It didn’t
really matter — I was going to Brett Hardy’s house for supper regardless of Joan’s vivid imagination and vigorous foot-stamping protests.
“And next you’re willingly walking into his secret lair, where he hides his saw blades, nasty alcohol jars, and hundreds of chopped up body parts — among other gruesome stuff too disgusting to mention.” Then she pointed to the cabinet beneath her television. “But I have the DVD if you want to see it.”
“No thanks, I’m about to eat.” It struck me that between Joan and myself, I was actually the crazier one. Why else would I keep sounding her out about my love life? Knowing in advance that she’d screech and stamp and find a dark comparison to some grisly death merchant… why should I be surprised?
“So you’re really going through with this, Chloe?” Joan didn’t wait for a reply. “You do know that once you kiss your future killer, it makes him especially obsessed with your murder… so it will be unbelievably gruesome and horrible.”
