Thirty Days: Part Two (A SwipeDate Novella)

by BT Urruela

  She smiles against my hand and nods. “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s just get some drinks before reality hits, huh?” she asks, motioning her head, along with my hand, toward the barkeep who’s been waiting for us.

  I lower my hand and settle it on the bar top. “Yeah, I guess we can do that.”

  “Two Fireballs, please,” she tells the bartender as my focus shifts back behind me, curiosity absolutely bludgeoning my mind. I feel her soft hand meet my face and she pulls my gaze back to hers. “Shots and explanation first,” she says and I nod in agreement.

  “Okay, but just know this is killing me right now. I’m waiting for a parade of midget strippers to come out and do a dance routine or something.”

  She giggles and shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. I think that’s Thursday nights. But a…yeah, um, like I said, my friend comes here all the time with her friends. And she talks about it in the breakroom at work every chance she gets. However, I’m way too shy to just up and ask her to go with me; we’re really not that close.” As she goes on, I can see her face turning different shades of pink the more flustered she becomes. The shots are delivered and after we cheers and down the shots in quick fashion, she wipes a forearm across her lips. “After the discussion on our first date, I figured I’d surprise you with something crazy. I’m now realizing I made a very big mistake,” she says, her focus shifting past me and down the bar. I turn to see what has caught her eye and I spot an older couple making out, but it isn’t your normal kind of makeout; it’s one of those drunken, animalistic ones where tongues are entirely too involved. Those around them continue on as if nothing’s going on and my focus shifts back to Sami.

  I shrug. “Well, they’re gonna have a good night.”

  “A lot of people here are going to have a good night,” she responds with a nervous laugh as she sets the small of her back against the bar and looks out onto the crowd. “A whole lot of them.”

  It’s then my gaze shifts with hers as I mirror her stance. There are many people standing around us, yammering on and drinking the night away. Nothing out of the ordinary, but when I focus past them, to the table and booths, to the dark corners of this place, that’s when I see it—all of it. It looks like a middle school party in a basement with the kid’s parents right upstairs. Every dark nook and cranny is taken up by couples doing dirty things. Some involve multiple couples—some clothed, others stripped of several items—all of them writhing and groping and moaning.

  I turn back to Sami slowly, my mouth wide, and words barely processing in my head.

  “No. Fucking. Way,” I manage, and she hides her eyes with her hand. “Is this one of those, like, sex clubs?”

  “A swinger’s club,” she murmurs, her hand still over her eyes. “You’re mortified, aren’t you?”

  “No, not at all. I’m just…I’m stunned. I thought about a million different things, but I didn’t ever guess it would be this. I probably should have, with all the red flags, but what can I say…Columbo, I am not. But this…” I motion to the booths and tables. “This is a writer’s paradise right here. And you say you’re into this stuff?”

  She drops her hand immediately from her face, a stern look in her eye. “Now, I never said that! I was just curious. This kind of stuff isn’t normal to a country girl like me. It doesn’t seem real.”

  “I don’t think this is normal, period,” I respond, and it garners me a few nasty looks from several old guys beside us. I mouth an ‘I’m sorry’ toward them before I continue. “So, you’re curious about what goes on in here or curious about getting into this world?” I nudge her with my elbow and wiggle my brows.

  “Oh, don’t you even. I’m a classy woman. I’m just…in awe of stuff like this.”

  “I kid, of course. This is kind of a kickass date idea. I’m not gonna lie.”

  “Yeah, right. You probably can’t wait to tell your friends all about it.”

  “Of course! But it won’t be shared in a negative light. Not one bit.”

  “Nooooo,” she pleads, grabbing my hands with hers and giving me her best puppy dog pout. “You can’t tell anyone, promise? I’d die.”

  “It’s not like you know them or anything.”

  “I guess I never will either, huh?” She cracks a smile and shrugs. “Shoot. I surely wouldn’t give a guy a third date who brought me here for our second either, I guess.” She laughs and slaps a hand softly against her forehead. “What was I thinking?”

  “No, no, no. That’s the thing. If a guy does it, it would be weird as fuck. But when this quiet little country girl does it, out of curiosity and completely out of character…that, my dear, is pretty fucking epic.”

  “I don’t know about all that,” she responds, before realizing her hands are still holding mine and she quickly pulls them away, returning them to her sides. I immediately miss her touch.

  “Well, I certainly do. Most epic date ever. Hands down.” I flip back around so that my stomach is against the bar, and tilt my head back toward her. “Now, let’s get more drinks and then go watch old people get it on.”

  Two hours we spent in Secrets, drinking our way through a pint or so of Fireball and watching a collection of the funniest, grossest, and sexiest shit I’ve ever seen. Older couples, older guys with younger women, older women with younger guys, and groups of all ages engaging in everything but penetration. And when it got to that point, many of them made their way, half-clothed, to the back of the bar and disappeared behind black curtains.

  Sami and I stagger out to the street, leaving the mad Russian and Hulk in our wake of laughter before the door closes behind us. Foot traffic along the sidewalk has died down a bit and she motions down the street toward the bulk of the commotion.

  “You want to go be tourists? I’d still love a slice or something.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, not even trying to hide the broad smile spreading across my face. “That sounds perfect.”

  We stroll along the busy road, lit by the neon lights of Times Square above, large slices of pizza in our hands.

  “Are you going to tell your teacher friend you went?” I ask, before taking a bite and relishing the taste of pepperoni and cheese against drunken taste buds.

  She shakes her head firmly, and takes a bite of her own. “Not a chance,” she mutters, mid-bite and, while the idea of talking while chewing drives me crazy with everyone I’ve ever met, it doesn’t seem to bother me with her.

  “Aw, why not? That’ll be great watercooler conversation.”

  “It already is,” she says, wide-eyed. “I’ll let her be known for that around the teacher network. I’m fine just being a blip on their radar.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “It’s just very high schoolish.” She nods. “Everyone is in everyone else’s business. I’m new, so I haven’t experienced a whole lot of it. But I’ve been witness to it plenty of times. Many times, from Jessie herself. That’s the teacher who goes to the club.”

  “Yeah, I figured.” I laugh. “So, do her and her friends…uh, do they bang and shit there?”

  She shakes her head, catching a laugh with her balled up free hand. “No, I think they just drink and watch. That’s what she claims at least.”

  “You say she’s not a very good friend of yours?” I ask, taking another bite.

  “No, she’s too catty for me. And she talks crap on everyone.”

  “Do you have anyone you work with you’d call a friend? Or here in the city?”

  Her eyes fall to the pavement, which I’ve noticed happens when she gets nervous. It’s quite endearing and each time, it makes me want to slip two fingers below her chin and lift her eyes to mine.

  “Not really,” she murmurs, taking a big bite and a pepperoni nosedives into her cleavage. I laugh as she fights to work it out with her free hand, smearing red sauce across her skin.

  Should I be this turned on by that? I blame the Italian in me.

  “Smooth move, lady. Saving some for later, I take it? I like your style,”
I jest as she flings the pepperoni to the sidewalk. Instead, it lands right on a man’s face. Not just any man…but a homeless man, seated against a newspaper stand in ragged clothing, a change cup in front of him. He wipes the pepperoni away from his face with a groan as a look of horror crosses Sami’s face.

  “Oh, my God!” Sami exclaims, putting a hand to her mouth and taking several steps toward him. “I’m so so sorry.” She passes off her plated pizza to me and kneels down, digging into her purse as she does. The man looks at her, confusion coloring his face, as she pulls two folded twenties from her purse and tucks them into the cup. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, setting a hand to his shoulder before standing and continuing to walk with me, but with her eyes still on him. She gives one last nod and smile, and then looks back forward, grabbing for her pizza.

  “Well, you’re just full of smooth moves tonight, huh?” I ask, passing off her half-eaten slice. The brisk wind begins to numb my ears and fingertips, so I scan the road for cab lights.

  “I can’t believe I did that. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. I pull shit like that all the time. Most people I encounter think I’m an asshole because I tend to do involuntary asshole-ish things. And anyway, that was really nice what you did for him.”

  “An involuntary asshole, huh? I’ve heard of your type.”

  “We’re like Sour Patch Kids though. Once you get past the sour exterior, we’re all soft and sweet and shit.”

  “I don’t think ‘soft’ is a term I’d label you with. I don’t know, maybe I just have to get past that sour exterior first.”

  Waving down a passing cab, I turn to her with a smile. “I guess you’ll just have to find out, huh?”

  “I guess so,” she retorts, passing a warm smile of her own as the cab stops just before us. I open the door for her; she slides in and I slip in after her.

  “You gotta go to the station, right?” I ask, the cabbie’s eyes staring me down through the rearview.

  “Yeah, I probably could’ve just walked.”

  “It’s okay. I needed the cab anyway. We could have walked to the station and then I would have grabbed a cab home from there. My body was moving on its own free will against the cold, though. I don’t fare well in this weather.”

  “’Ey, where you going, man?” the cabbie asks, pulling my eyes to his.

  “Oh shit, sorry. I guess the nearest subway station,” I respond.

  “Grand Central,” Sami follows up and the cabbie pulls away from the curb. “I’d like to see you again soon,” she says to me, her eyes dropping as they do, and she picks at her paint-chipped thumbnail.

  “I’d really like that, too,” I respond, and her eyes lift to mine again, her lips lifting in a slight smile.

  “I’ve got plans tomorrow already, but what about Sunday?” she asks, and I think for a moment as the cab pulls to a stop just before the station.

  “Shit, I visit my grandma at her assisted living facility on Sundays, but I could probably manage something that night.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet of you. What do you guys do?” she asks, as the cabbie clears his throat loudly.

  “Usually, I just read to her or take her to the park. But we’re doing a jazz club, of all things, this weekend. My best friend’s idea, so we’ll see how that goes.”

  “That sounds so fun!” she exclaims, before the cab driver exhales loudly.

  “Any day now, kiddos,” he says, annoyance thick in his tone.

  “Alright, guy,” I shoot back, my eyes dead on his through the rearview. “Just give us a second. The meter is still running.” I look back toward Sami, who now has her door half open.

  “Um, so yeah, Sunday. That could maybe work,” I stammer, and my uncertainty pulls her eyes away from me. She forces a smile and nods toward me as she collects her purse.

  “You have my number. Just let me know,” she says, leaning in and kissing me on the cheek before exiting the cab and closing the door behind her.

  As the cab pulls away and I watch her disappear through the terminal doors, I’m wishing I had ended this amazing night on a better note. Wishing she was still next to me, and that I had stolen a kiss from those perfect lips.

  It’s not long after I’ve gotten home and lit up my nightly joint, in my personal garden, when I’m hit with a familiar feeling—familiar but faint, like a long-lost friend—the urge to write. The events of my night with Sami and my session with Dr. Thresher overwhelm my brain, and Sami’s scent, still clinging to my peacoat, toys with my senses. The image of her wrapped up in her coat, and her knit cap pulled low and shadowing her addicting eyes. It’s different with her, like I’ve known her forever, and tonight was just one of many we’ve shared.

  I dab the joint out in the ashtray and work my way inside quickly. Grabbing my laptop from the kitchen counter, I plop down on my recliner and kick my feet up on the footrest. I free myself from the furnace-like peacoat before pulling up Word for the first time in God knows how long. The cursor blinks momentarily as I stare at the blank screen, but unlike every time before it over the last couple years, the words don’t squeak out in clunky, forced prose, but instead flow through me freely, moving from brain to fingertips effortlessly.

  Before I realize it, I’m five pages in, then ten…and then twenty. I don’t stop until my eyes won’t stay open anymore, my neck abandoning its duty of holding up my head. I close the laptop up with a hundred something pages written, burgeoning pride and excitement, and a wide smile on my face as I drift off to sleep.

  Saturday was a crapshoot. I woke up quite hungover, though completely thrilled by the word count I was able to accomplish, and even more so after liking most of it while re-reading the next morning, but I certainly didn’t want to people. I would have been perfectly content with staying in bed all day and treating my hangover with greasy food, coffee, and weed, but unfortunately, an afternoon date with Francesca, 24, from Queens, at an Irish pub down the street put a kink in the schedule. It was an uneventful date, filled with the usual first date banter, but my mind was wrapped up in Sami and the effect she has been having on me. She runs through my thoughts almost constantly and it comes without warning.

  The fact that I was inspired to write is a triumph in and of itself, but really getting to know her, to see her with her guard down, it was a completely different experience than I was expecting. Though, there was something in her eyes during our first date that told me there was more to this girl than she puts out there…a lot more. She texted me last night, after my date, and after some back and forth, in my high state, I confirmed her coming with Bobby and me to see my grandma today. It’s not that I don’t want her to come. In fact, her wanting to come impresses the hell out of me. It’s just hard to invite people into that world…into my real world.

  Regardless, she will be meeting Bobby, my grandmother, and me at Frankie’s for an afternoon of jazz and whatever else can come from an Alzheimer’s patient being in a place like that. I don’t want to think the worst, but it’s hard not to.

  I ready myself, taking much longer than usual getting my wild hair a bit more manageable and picking out just the right outfit. I normally wouldn’t give two shits, but this is very different. Everything I put on looks like shit, makes me look frumpy, and fills me with an intense desire to hit the gym regularly again and start filling out my clothes properly. I eventually settle on my go to—jeans, vans, a tee, and zip-up hoodie.

  I don’t touch any weed…not a puff. Whereas, I would normally get baked as hell before meeting up with Grandma, because it’s just so damn hard seeing her like she is…so vastly different than the shining light she once was. And it allows me to calm the anxiety and nerves I always feel seeing her laying in that bed, her body withering away.

  With one more swipe of my fingers through my hair and a quick brush of my beard for the thousandth time, I switch the light off and head downstairs. Grabbing my keys from the counter, I toss on my peacoat and head out into the cold, locking the door behind m
e. Hailing a cab, I make my way to Brookdale where Bobby should be waiting.

  After loading Grandma and her wheelchair up into Bobby’s SUV and being met with a nice little surprise of Cassandra in the front seat, I climb onto the bench seat beside my grandma and place my hand on hers impulsively. Bobby plops down into the driver’s seat, and we’re off to Frankie’s.

  “How have you been, Gavin?” Cassandra asks, craning her head toward me with a nervous smile on her face. She’s a ginger, but a naturally beautiful one without a lick of makeup on. I haven’t seen much of her, and her beauty startles me for a moment.

  “Oh, fine. Writing here and there.” I smack Bobby on the arm. “And committing dating suicide with this challenge.”

  Grandma pulls her hand away from mine and balls it into her other, her eyes flitting out the window to the passing buildings, people, and cars, a giddy smile on her face.

  “Writing…yeah, right,” Bobby says, his eyes on mine through the rearview as he rolls them.

  “No lie, I wrote about ten k last night. Twenty something the night before.” His eyes dart back to the rearview and he looks at me inquisitively.

  “No shit—” He puts a hand to his mouth. “I mean, no way…you’re shitting me, right?” He chuckles as he realizes what he’s just done.

  “You’re an idiot, Bobby. And she doesn’t care,” I say, motioning toward my grandma. “Other than my mother and father, she taught me every curse word I know,” I add, in a hushed tone, and I look to make sure Grandma didn’t hear me. Luckily, she’s still preoccupied watching all the commotion out the window.

  “You really wrote that much?” he asks, his eyes scanning the road for an open parking spot.

  “That, I did,” I reply as he sweeps his way into a spot, jerking to a stop.

  “What are you working on now?” Cassandra asks, unbuckling her seatbelt and shouldering her purse, her eyes on mine.

  “I wasn’t really sure when it started. I’m not so certain I have a grasp on it even now, but it’s about this guy who’s wrongfully convicted of murder. The murder of a new love interest’s mother actually.” I hesitate for a moment, thinking about the thirty thousand words I’ve put into the manuscript already and how pleased I am with most of it. And, most of all, how shocked I am I was able to wrangle it out of me in the first place.