Chapter 1
“My name is Madison, and I’m celibate.”
The man sitting next to me, who thought it would be a good idea to sidle up to me at the bar and hit on me with a truly offensive pick-up line just as I was about to savor the first bite of my emotional support poutine, chokes on his spit at my blunt announcement.
His glassy eyes are wide, and he’s staring at me like I’ve just grown a second head.
I want to roll my eyes, but I know better than to provoke someone who’s obviously been drinking, so instead I blink innocently up at him as if I don’t have an ounce of artifice in my bones.
Which, in this respect, is true. Not that my love life is any of his business, but I’ve found that stating up front my decision to never have a physically intimate relationship works like a magic trick on the male population.
Abracadabra, they disappear. Both this variety who seems like he’s trolling for a one-night stand as well as those seeking a long-term commitment that leads to vows at the altar.
The scrape of metal against wood sounds directly behind me, the air disturbed at my back. Someone has taken up residence at the bar stool on my other side, and I can only hope it’s someone who’s as interested in minding their own business as I am in minding mine.
I should’ve turned around and walked out the door as soon as I saw the overcrowded state of the restaurant.
There weren’t any tables available, only seats at the bar.
But I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, even though I don’t drink.
The Hideaway is a family restaurant, after all.
Its reputation is for killer burgers and the best poutine south of the Canadian border.
The bar is only here for extra seating on busy nights, same as you’d see at an Olive Garden or Applebee’s.
It’s not usually where someone comes to drink.
The newcomer behind me bumps into my shoulder, mumbling an apology under their breath.
They smell of Irish Spring soap and an earthiness that reminds me of the soil I buy for my potted houseplants.
Meanwhile, the guy in front of me smells of cheap alcohol and bad decisions.
Until my spell works in making him vanish, I’m not taking my eyes off him for my own safety.
Finally, his sluggish brain restarts. His shock morphs to anger, his already splotchy cheeks brightening in color.
“You’re a nun?” He uses a word he definitely shouldn’t if he believes I’m a bride of Christ. “Aren’t you supposed to wear some sort of uniform or something? A giant cross necklace, at least?”
Is this guy for real? Would it be too dramatic to bang my head on the lacquered bar top?
All I wanted was to wash away my worries with an ice-cold Shirley Temple and to stuff my concerns under a pile of French fries, cheese curds, and gravy.
Instead, I’m forced to deal with the unwanted attentions of the inebriated.
With a polite smile on my face. Wondering if I am in any way to blame since I am sitting at a bar alone, and maybe I unknowingly sent off some kind of signal?
A throat clears behind me. “Excuse me, Sister Mary Clarence? Might I have a word when you’re done with this gentleman?”
Sister Mary Clarence? Images of a ’90s Whoopi Goldberg in a nun’s habit singing “Hail, Holy Queen” flashes through my mind. Surprised laughter threatens to tumble out of my mouth. I seal my lips shut to keep it inside.
“Was there anything else?” I ask as evenly as possible, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself from blurting out the truth and disabusing this man of his assumptions. It feels somehow disrespectful to the Catholic faith to allow him to believe I’m a nun when I’m not.
He curses again as he shakes his head and stumbles back to the other side of the bar.
The whole restaurant erupts in cheers. After I exhale a breath of relief, my gaze pivots to the televisions mounted on walls and support posts.
Every screen is playing the same football game.
I can’t hear the commentators since the volume is turned down, but the broadcast shows an instant replay.
A one-handed catch in the end zone, putting the local team in the lead against their league rivals in a playoff game.
Probably the reason the restaurant is so packed.
I glance back at the other end of the bar.
The man who hit on me is with another guy, the latter helping his friend up and steering him toward the exit.
I look back up at the TV, not wanting to snag the attention of either of them again.
The closer they get to the exit, the more I feel the tension leaking out of my body.
The station replays the catch in slow motion from another angle.
“Great catch, wouldn’t you say, Sister?” There’s a hint of teasing to the masculine voice at my back.
I’d almost forgotten about him. My lips tilt upward as I swivel the bar stool around to face him.
I blink, surprised. Devin Rhoades. I’m not sure if I should’ve known it was him or not, sight unseen.
Devin and my twin brother, Nathan, were roommates for the one semester Devin attended college.
They’ve been best friends ever since, which means our paths have crossed on more than one occasion.
Most of the things I know about Devin, though, I’ve learned from Nathan instead of the man himself.
Anytime we’ve hung out, it’s been in a group setting, and Nathan and Devin tend to use those occasions to keep their bromance alive, ignoring everyone else around them.
“Their offense is almost as good as your defense.” Devin’s wide smile can only be described as a toothy grin, the dimples in his cheeks giving him an air of boyishness that contrasts with the fine lines of maturity crinkling on either side of his eyes.
His posture is carefree and relaxed, hand wrapped loosely around a green bottle of Heineken with the numbers 0. 0 on it.
I shrug as I lean an elbow on the countertop, trying to match his nonchalance even though the last few minutes have left me severely off-kilter. “I had backup.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” He tilts his nonalcoholic beer bottle at me before bringing it to his lips and taking a swig.
“I came over here with the intention of being your backup. I was prepared to pretend to be your boyfriend to scare the guy away, but before I could swing my arm over your shoulder and call you babe, you dropped that celibacy bomb.” He chuckles.
“Man, I’ve never seen someone lose the plot so quickly before.
He looked like a guppy.” Devin’s megawatt smile has settled down into a smirk.
“Do you use that line on guys a lot when you’re not interested? ”
I shrug again, my brain offering up each documented instance.
The first time had been a bit of an accident.
I’d been on a double date with a friend of mine.
I honestly can’t even remember what we were talking about, but there had to have been some sort of context for me to blurt out how I thought I’d probably be celibate the rest of my life.
The other three people at the table had stared at me in shocked horror, probably as much for my oversharing as for the idea of never having that type of intimacy and connection with another person.
Anyway, unsurprisingly, the guy I was on a date with ghosted me after that.
The second time was after I’d officially sworn off all romantic relationships.
Unfortunately, there was a man at church who’d developed a bit of a crush on me.
No matter how many ways I tried to let him down gently, he wouldn’t take the hint that I wasn’t interested in him the same way he was in me.
My claim to a lifelong commitment to celibacy finally convinced him, if how fast he ran away was any indication.
I scare off creeps who try to slide into my DMs on social media the same way too. It’s highly effective.
“Seems to do the trick.”
“I’ll say.”
We stare at each other for a moment, considering the other in a way I don’t think we have in the past. Usually we exchange a pleasant greeting, maybe a few moments of idle chitchat, then Nathan’s pulling Devin aside and the two are in their own little world, talking about who knows what.
I’ve never really paid him all that much attention, to tell you the truth.
Now, however, I find myself noticing things I haven’t before.
Like how even if the well-worn ball cap resting at Devin’s elbow wasn’t there, the way his toffee-colored hair is tousled speaks of how he must’ve run his fingers through it after taking the hat off.
I wonder if the darker highlights wisping their way through the lighter is natural or caused by dirt streaked by his manhandling, the burnt caramel color appearing more earthy and masculine due to his work in agriculture, perhaps.
Devin’s rich eyes, the color of which I’m just realizing resembles the whiskey bottles behind the bar, regard me as they sparkle with humor. “You know, Madison, Nathan is going to love this story when I tell him.”
I snort. “My brother’s going to find it more hilarious that you dropped a Sister Act reference than that I rendered some dude speechless with two simple words. Unless the pair of you bonded over singing-nun marathons in college?”
Surprisingly, Devin shimmies his broad shoulders and starts humming the tune of “I Will Follow Him.”
The action is so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. Instead of throwing my head back, though, I stifle my laughter by tucking my chin into my shoulder.
And that’s when I see it. My beautiful poutine. Fries soggy. Gravy congealed.
A little whimper of bereavement escapes my lips.
Devin marks the direction of my grief-stricken gaze. In one deft move, he slides the plate across the slick bar and into a waiting bussing bin, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering me a fresh serving on the fly.