by D. S. Dehel
“Is that the one with the bug thing that appears when people are scared?”
“That’s the one.”
“I love old films like that.” The music grew loud, punctuated by whistles and cheers -- the kind of noise made by a rowdy group of young men on a Saturday night -- then quieted again. Someone must have gone through the sliding glass door because she recognized the sound one made. “I’d much rather be watching that movie.”
“I don’t know. It sounds like a serious party.”
“I had to attend. It’s Eddie Rausch’s stag party. The entire team was invited.”
Her brain helpfully reminded her that stag party meant a bachelor party. “Thirty men, give or take, getting drunk and generally running amok. What could go wrong?”
“Too much. So, the reason I called --” The music grew loud, and someone shouted something garbled. “Hang on, India. Look mate, if you’re interrupting me to tell me about that manky stripper --” Again, she could hear a voice, but not what was said. Matt sighed. “All right. Give me a minute. Sorry about that. The reason I called is, I was wondering if you’d like to go out tomorrow night? I know it’s Sunday, and we both work on Monday, but we could go early.”
“I’d love to. When? Where?”
“I’m thinking bowling around five.”
“Bowling?”
“Don’t you like bowling?”
“No, bowling is fine. I just didn’t expect it. I haven’t been in years.”
“I’m terrible, myself. This place has a great restaurant. I know that sounds impossible, but it does.”
“Sounds like a great date. Five is perfect.” She really didn’t care as long as he was there.
Music blared again. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Talking in the background. “That’s not what your sister said.” Fortunately, India could tell that statement was not meant for her. He groaned. “I’ve got to go.”
“I understand.”
He lowered his voice, and she could hear his sexy growl. “I’d much rather get a lap dance from you.”
Jealousy flared, taking her breath away. She shoved it aside and matched his tone. “Come on over. I’ll give you one.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Maybe tomorrow, then. You go before they drag you in.”
* * *
The beep of a crossing signal brought her back to the sunny Sunday afternoon. She hurried across the street. She had just enough time to stop by the store for eggs and milk, just in case she needed to whip up a quick breakfast tomorrow.
Chapter Six
When the buzzer to her apartment rang at exactly five o’clock, her palms started to sweat. She wiped them on her jeans, then looked over her sparsely decorated apartment. Too late now to do anything about it. She peeked at the video screen that showed the entryway, and Matt made her heart race. He was handsome, of course, but casually so, and it wasn’t an affectation of being casual. One hand was tucked in his jeans pockets. The other held some sort of plant.
“Hey, handsome, come on in. I’m the first apartment on your left.” He smiled and looked around for the camera, but seeing none, shrugged, then opened the door when he heard the buzz of the lock opening.
She met him at the door. “Welcome to my incredibly humble one step above a hovel.”
“Good evening, beautiful.” He stopped to kiss her cheek as he passed by, then he paused just inside the door. He held out the pot. “This is for you. Happy housewarming.”
Oh my god, a plant. “Thank you. This pot is really pretty, and I’ll try my best to keep the plant alive.”
“Just put it in a sunny window and water it from time to time, and it should be just fine. Spider plants are hard to kill.”
“You don’t understand. I’m so bad that I once killed a fake plant.”
“How on earth did you do that?”
“I set it on fire.” She studied the long green and white fronds that dangled over the blue and white ceramic pot. “I needed a cookbook from the shelf that also held the plant, so I took it off the shelf and set it on the stove too close to the eye. Some of its leaves caught fire.”
“That is the strangest thing I have ever heard.” He moved as if to grab the plant. “Maybe I should take it back.”
She reluctantly held out the pot. “That might be for the best.”
“I’m kidding, India. It’s just a plant, and I bought it for you. How about this? I’ll come and check on it from time to time.”
“I would really like that. Do you have time for the grand tour? I promise it won’t take long.”
“Sure. We’re on our own schedule anyway.”
She made a sweeping gesture. “Well, this is the living room. My sofa should be here tomorrow.” It looked weird and side-heavy at the moment, with the open space between the two front windows. Against the far wall stood the table she used for both her sewing machine and drafting. At the moment, it was piled with magazines for research and sketches. There was a sizable coffee table, the armchair, a side table with an ornate and completely out of place lamp, and the new flat-screen television she had bought.
“Homey.”
“Not really. Not yet. This way.” She took his hand and guided him across the floor to the first doorway on the right, a journey of all of twelve feet. “The kitchen.” Turning on the light revealed decades old appliances and beat-up cabinets. The space was narrow with the sink and cabinets on one side and the refrigerator and stove on the other side. There was a small closet that functioned as a pantry and where she hid the mop and broom. She carefully placed the plant in the single window. Somehow it cheered the room, or maybe it was just a reminder of Matt.
“This reminds me of my flat in Germany. I made many a meal in that tick box of a kitchen.” He surveyed the tiny space.
“I made a microwaved one last night, but my niece is coming over for dinner tomorrow, so I’ll get a chance to make a real meal.” She led him back into the living room. “But feel free to cook for me whenever you like.”
“Your niece?”
“Sadie Mae, my sister Mara’s girl.” India pointed to the stack of magazines and assorted papers. “Sadie asked me to make her prom dress, so I’ve been sketching out some ideas. She’s coming over to work with me and will probably detest everything I’ve drawn.”
He picked up one of the sketches. It showed a red dress with a full chiffon skirt. “You’re a designer?”
“Not exactly. I studied it for a while in school, but it seemed too impractical, so I switched to accounting.”
“Accounting? That’s not what I expected.” But he said nothing else, and the silence drew out while he studied the sketch. “This is good, really good. I mean, I’d wear it.”
Somehow that struck her as high praise, but she played along with the joke. “Well, if you like, I’ll make it for you. Do you have a formal coming up?”
“No, but if I do, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
“I’ll be happy to assist in any way I can.” She reached around the doorjamb and flipped on the light switch. “Bedroom.” She’d left the door ajar because the living room felt claustrophobic when it was shut.
This time, Matt led the way. The bedroom barely held the bed and the dresser, but unlike the living room, this one was fully decorated. The lamp that stood on the plain nightstand coordinated with the rest of the furniture, and the antique bed gleamed with fresh polish. She’d kept the paisley comforter and the too many pillows, which when combined with the overstuffed mattress, created a rather comfortable mountain to sleep on. Above it all hung the picture she’d won.
He stopped short, and studied the scene for a moment, then nodded as if he completely agreed with her choice. At least that was the way she was going to interpret it until she had evidence to the contrary.
“This is the bathroom. It’s a massive letdown after yours.” The light revealed a long, narrow bathroom, with tub shower, not even a proper shower. Matt would be miserable and largely dry if he eve
r used hers.
“You poor woman.” She could hear the tease in his voice. “You’ll just have to use mine.”
“Oh, no.” Her tease rivaled his. “I don’t know if I could handle that. I mean, all that luxury. How ever will I survive?”
“Then I’ll just have to help you, won’t I?”
That would be amazing. “On that note, we better go, or I’ll drag you to your house.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He held out his hand. “Maybe after bowling?”
“Maybe.”
* * *
Their evening started off slowly, as first dates often do. They chatted and held hands as they walked to Pins and Pies, which turned out to be a surprisingly classy restaurant that specialized in quirky, wood-fire baked pizzas and also happened to have a ten lane bowling alley on the bottom floor. While they ate, they sometimes had to raise their voices to be heard over the thunder of falling pins, but she still learned a lot about him. Matt had studied physical therapy while at university, or “physio” as he called it. He was an only child, born to his parents late in life, and as a result, they were possessive of their baby boy. He also didn’t like carrots.
“You don’t eat carrots?” She watched as he picked them out of his salad with his fork and piled them on the edge of his plate. “Are you allergic?”
“No, I don’t like orange sticks in my food.” He made a face as the stack grew bigger.
“I’ll eat them.” She reached out with her fork, but stopped just shy of his plate.
“They’re all yours.” He pushed his plate toward her. “I bet you eat everything.”
“Heavens no. I can’t stand oysters or fried clams. Ugh. Raw oysters are like sucking down snot and fried clams are like chewing on little erasers.”
“How do you know what erasers taste like?”
“I was a kid once and did stupid stuff.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” He rested his chin on his hand. “Tell me.”
So while she ate the carrots and he stole her cucumbers, they swapped stories of their youthful misadventures, like the time she wrote an entire story in scribbled green crayon on the living room wall, or when he and a cousin decided to drive their Gran’s car into town. She howled with laughter as he imitated his nine-year-old self marching into the sweet shop, buying candies with their pooled pounds, then marching back out and driving home.
“Your stories are so much better.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but the waitress appeared and pointed to their empty glasses. “Another beer?”
Matt shook his head. “I’m still not over last night. You go ahead, though, India.”
“One’s enough for me.” She waited until the waitress toddled off. “So last night was pretty wild?”
“Eh.” He gave a half shrug. “I don’t know if I would call it wild. I just drank more than I should’ve in an effort to wipe out the memories of some things I saw. It was either that or put my eyes out.”
“That bad?” Laughter seeped through her words. “How did the lap dance go?” Again, the brief flare of jealousy that she knew she shouldn’t feel.
“Ugh. I was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.”
“Hmm. Methinks you protest too much.” His back was to the door, and over his shoulder, a familiar figure entered the restaurant. “I wonder if there are pictures? Maybe video? I suppose I could ask Salé.”
“Salé?” He followed her line of sight. “Bollocks.” He shook his head and sank lower in his chair.
“I was just teasing you. I would never ask him about that.” Though I would look at pictures if he offered to show them to me.
“It’s not that.” Matt shrugged. “It’s --”
“He’s heading this way, and some of your mates are with him.” She waved her hand to hush him.
Matt sighed and straightened up, then spoke more loudly than necessary. “Anyway, that’s when I came to the Spirit.”
What? Oh. “Well, I, for one, am glad you did.” She glanced over Matt’s shoulder. “Hey Salé, fancy meeting you here. Hi, Axel and other guy I haven’t met yet.” She stood and held out her hand.
Matt turned. “What a small world.” He gestured from the lanky blond guy to India. “India, this is Luc. Luc, this is India, my date for the evening.” The second part of the sentence made it clear that he wished they would go.
“Nice to finally meet you, India.” Luc’s French accent gave her name a sweet trill. “Matt has talked non-stop about you.”
He’s talked about me? We have only known each other two days. Her heart did a happy dance.
Matt bit the inside of his cheek.
Salé clapped Matt on the back. “We didn’t mean to crash your date, but you talked about bowling, and we decided that sounded like a good idea. C’mon, guys. Let’s leave them alone.” He held up his hand. “See you later.” The trio headed for the stairs to the bowling alley.
She waited until they were gone. “Then I take it that Salé is not your wingman?”
“Wingman?” His forehead was creased, but she wasn’t sure if it was confusion or consternation that caused it.
“You know, a guy who --”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. My mind was elsewhere. No, Salé is not my wingman, as you put it. He’s just… a really good friend.”
“Okay.” What else do I say to that?
“I think he’s checking on me.” Matt rubbed his chin.
“Because?”
He shifted his remaining salad from one side of his plate to another. India waited. He’d speak when he felt like it or change the subject, then he took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ve known Salé for years. We briefly played on the same German team, and when he moved on to Italy, we still talked. And when I was in Germany, I dated this girl, Bridget, for some time. Just over a year, to be precise.”
This felt confessional -- and significant -- so she sat silently and didn’t dare move. She didn’t want him to have a reason to stop talking.
“When I came to the States” -- he set down his fork --”things got really complicated. No, that’s not fair, they were complicated before. It just got worse. Bridget… she wanted commitment, wanted a house, wanted a family.” He finally looked up at India.
My turn to talk. Lord, what a minefield. Start with the obvious. “And you didn’t want any of those things.”
“No, I wasn’t ready for that then.”
Are you saying you are now? That made her feel weird. “But you’d been together over a year.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s just that it’s normal for a woman to think that way after a year… unless you told her all along that everything was temporary.”
“Temporary sounds so… callous.” He leaned towards her, forearms on the table. “I didn’t date anyone else. We even shared a flat. I can see why she might have thought long-term. I guess I just didn’t think about anything other than the here and now.”
“Men usually don’t.”
He frowned, so she put her hand on his arm. “What I’m trying to tell you is that you behaved normally. It wasn’t your fault. And she behaved normally. It wasn’t her fault. You two just fell apart.”
He sat back, crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “You’re so rational. Where were you when I could have used this advice?”
Married to an asshole. She shrugged. “I’ve just been there and done that. It’s also easier for me to see what happened because I wasn’t in the middle of it, but tell me, what does this have to do with Salé checking up on you?”
“I… things were rough for me when Bridget and I split up. I blamed myself, hated her. It was a bad time, and I did some stupid things. I did some stupid women.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Salé just wants to make sure I don’t go wild again.”
Salé thinks I’m one of those stupid women?
She hadn’t voiced her thoughts, but Matt must have read her expression. “Oh, I don’t think he’s worried about you. He’s worried about me screwing thin
gs up.”
Hmm. Maybe. Either way, he’s protecting you, and I need to remember that. “It’s early days, yet. Maybe I am crazy.” She waggled her eyebrows at him.
“I doubt it.” He gestured at their now empty plates. “Want to go bowl?”
* * *
Never before in her life had she seen someone so bad at bowling. Granted, she was no professional, but Matt was terrible beyond words. Five frames in, he’d just topped thirty points, but he didn’t appear to care that she was beating him by a wide margin because he cheered when she bowled a strike and guffawed at his own gutter ball.
And it just so happened that the only available lane this Sunday evening was next to Salé, Axel, and Luc, whom she thought of as The Boys. Surprisingly they were just as bad as Matt, though Axel did occasionally have an amazing frame.
She watched as Matt’s ball rolled agonizingly slowly down the lane. It would have been faster if he’d granny rolled the red and orange ball.
“Look at him.” Salé plopped down in the seat next to her.
“I know.” The ball finally passed the halfway point. “Is he really this bad? Or is he throwing the game on purpose?”
“No, he’s that bad.” Salé gestured to his lane, where Luc had somehow managed to create a ridiculously impossible to hit split. “But we’re football players, we use our feet, not our hands. What do you expect?”
Neither spoke as Matt’s ball tapped the head pin. It and seven of its compatriots toppled over.
“Well done!” India clapped.
Matt gave a clumsy bow and then went to wait at the ball return. He leaned against it and gave her a saucy wink.
“Love you, too, Mateo.” Salé stood and blew Matt a kiss. Matt grinned and flipped him off. “Thank you, but no. Perhaps you would like to ask India?” Matt flushed and Salé cackled as he returned to his seat. “Ah, I love taunting him.”
“I can tell.” Matt’s ball had reappeared, and she watched him heave it toward the lane, where it landed with a teeth-rattling thunk and meandered down the lane. He turned to India and shrugged, a big grin on his face.
Salé pretended to study the scoreboard. “It’s been a while since I have seen Matt smile like that. I think I have you to thank for changing things.”
