Chapter 11 KELSEY AND IT’S ALL POISON HERE
Chapter 11
K ELSEY AND I T ’ S A LL P OISON H ERE
When I descend the stairs to the lodge’s lobby, different men lounge below.
The camo men are gone. Their replacements are dressed a little nicer, as if they’re all about to go on Thursday-night dates.
Gaston is still there, though, and he sits on the biggest chair, a high-back with leather cushions lined with metal nailheads. Like a throne.
He whistles long and low as I reach the bottom, elbowing a new man, this one in khakis, possibly from Target, $29.99, and a white button-down with no distinguishing features.
“That’s the one I was telling you about,” he says. “G-spot is buying her dinner.”
Khaki Pants examines everything from my strappy sandals (Gianvito Rossi, $900 retail but $75 at a reseller), past the peach cotton dress ($45, Alabama Kohl’s, circa 2019) to my curly updo. His intensity sends a tendril of unease through me. It’s like he’s sizing me up for himself.
Even so, I gamely keep walking. “Have you seen Grant around?”
“He’s in the bar,” Gaston says. “If he doesn’t work out, we’re right here.” He and Khaki Pants share a laugh.
Gross. When I push through the swinging doors, Grant sits at the long oak bar on the back wall.
“Kelsey!” He stands and holds out a hand.
It’s the wrong angle to shake, more like when Aladdin reaches for Jasmine as he leads her onto his magic carpet. I accept the gesture, allowing him to close his fingers around mine as we walk to an empty table near the foosball.
There are two other couples sitting nearby, and I’m relieved to see women. So, they do exist around here.
Grant pulls my chair out, and I can’t remember the last time I saw anybody do that, much less do it for me.
“Thank you,” I tell him as he scoots me in.
He sits beside me and lifts a laminated card standing between the napkin dispenser and a bottle of ketchup that looks like it might have been continuously refilled for the better part of a decade.
He holds the sole menu between us. “I’ve tried everything other than the fried mushrooms.”
“What’s the best choice?”
“Plain burger. The wings will set you on fire.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
He grins at me. “Wouldn’t want to take that pretty mouth out of commission.”
Oh, boy. I ignore the comment and look at the burger options. Bacon. Double bacon. Double bacon with chili.
Plain burger it is.
“You want a beer?” Grant asks.
A beer. I haven’t had one of those in years. They probably don’t have Perrier-Jou?t Belle époque Brut.
Not that I’d ask for that if they did. That’s a Hollywood order for someone like Zachery. “Sure.”
“I’m a Bud man, but I get it if you want something lighter.”
Lighter than Budweiser? Now he’s annoyed me. “I can handle my beer.”
He grins. “Whatever you say, little lady.”
I channel my inner peace not to get up and leave right then.
It’s practice. I’m getting the bad pancakes out of the way, heating the grill just right for the perfect one.
A woman in all black other than a green apron pushes through a door in the back wall. She’s got a beehive like it’s 1966 even though she can’t be over forty.
She looks me over. “Huh, G-spot, you weren’t lying. You do have a date.”
“I told you,” Grant says.
I have no idea what this exchange might mean about Grant’s romantic history, but I say, “I’m Kelsey.”
“Becca,” the woman says, pulling a pen out of her hair. “What’s your poison, and trust me, it’s all poison here.”
“I’ll have a Bud,” Grant says.
I glance at the taps on the wall behind the bar. “Guinness Stout.”
“Stout,” Becca says. “You got yourself a real corker, Grant.” She writes the beers on her pad. “You want food or are you just drinking?”
“It’s a proper date,” Grant says. “I’m getting a double-bacon chili burger. No onions.” He grins at me like he’s thought of everything.
“And for the lady?”
“A plain burger,” I tell her.
“You mean nothing at all, like a kid? Patty and bread?”
“Veggies are fine.”
“Like lettuce, tomato, onion?”
“Sure.”
“No onion,” Grant says.
“Extra onion,” I counter.
Becca looks between us. “All righty. Fries with that?”
“A double,” Grant says.
“I’ll steal some of his,” I say.
“Good on ya.” Becca takes off.
I think Grant is going to bring up the onion order, but he looks around the room, drumming his fingers on the table.
I haven’t had a date that felt like this since coming to California, but it’s familiar. This is exactly what high school in Alabama was like. Awkward. Unsure. The flashback is intense.
“So, Grant, do you work?”
He turns the tray of sugar packets around in circles. “Yeah. I repair lawn mowers.”
Interesting. “Is it a family business, or did you start that on your own?”
“My dad works at a garage, but I wanted to branch out.”
“Nice. How many mowers do you repair in a week?”
“Depends on the season. Summer’s started, so it’s kinda intense. Lots of people pulled out their mowers, and they wouldn’t start, or needed their blades sharpened.”
“Is it only you, or do you have some help?”
“I have a boy this time of year, usually someone from the ag class at the high school. I keep him on through summer.”
“I guess business gets slow in the winter.”
“Naw. I send out flyers, reminding people not to wait. It stays pretty steady.”
Huh. A real entrepreneur. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah. I’m saving up for a house. Should be able to get one when I’m ready. When I have a wife to help pick it out.” His face goes red, and I remember how easily he’s embarrassed. It’s one of his charms.
“That sounds lovely.”
Becca comes back with the beer.
Grant frowns. “Mine looks like piss water compared to yours.”
The stout is heavy and black.
I lift mine and tap his glass. “To piss water.”
He doesn’t laugh at that but takes a sip anyway. I’m starting to understand how he thinks. He needs to be the man. He wants me to be the delicate flower.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
I take the lead on conversation from then on out, asking him about movies and TV shows, getting the expected answers involving blockbusters and action flicks.
Grant probably won’t ever be catching Limited Fate . He hasn’t asked me what I do. Or anything about me, actually.
Becca brings the burgers, and I marvel at the height and breadth of Grant’s double-bacon chili burger.
Mine is thick with onions, and I opt to slide the bulk of them out from the bun.
This makes Grant grin. “I thought so.”
Yeah, I’ll probably be using that back stair escape.
He demolishes his burger and double fries like nothing I’ve ever seen. I frequently pause in amazement as he shovels enough food in a single bite to choke a bear.
Mine is serviceable, and I nibble my way through about a third of it. I don’t steal any fries. The way Grant is going at it, I might end up minus a finger.
Conversation stalls while he eats. Once Becca has taken the baskets away, the date seems to have run its course. Grant looks around, eyes trained on a basketball game on a TV in the corner.
If he’d parry even half the questions that I offered to him back at me, he’d have another hour.
“You want a second beer?” he asks, even though I’ve made it only halfway through my pint.
“I’m okay for now.” I chide myself on the for now , as that suggests I want this date to keep going. I’m already dreaming of my Care Bear pajamas, a black-and-white movie on the lodge’s antiquated cable network, and maybe a rundown of the high points with Zachery.
But Grant rallies. “Let’s play pool.” He tilts his head at the table at the far end of the bar.
My quiet night dissolves into a faraway dream.
I contemplate saying no. Getting this over with.
But right then, Gaston and his khaki-pants friend come in to refill their steins. They bang on the bar and laugh until Becca wanders in from the kitchen.
“You big brutes, shut your damn mouths,” she says, snatching up their mugs and turning to the taps.
This makes them laugh louder. Gaston spots us at our table and nudges his friend. “Looks like G-spot hasn’t blown it yet.”
Looking at the two of them, I figure I might have the catch of Pitchfork. “Sure,” I tell Grant. “Let’s play a game.”
His face lights up, which tells me he’s probably a decent player. That’s fine. I’ve done it enough to avoid total embarrassment no matter his skill level.
Grant racks the balls and selects a cue for me. “Ladies first.”
I break the triangle apart, and a striped ball lands. “I guess I’m stripes,” I tell him.
My second shot fails to sink anything, so he takes over.
While he examines the table, I side-glance at the bar. Gaston and his co-conspirator are watching. Their attention makes me think of vipers holding out for the right opportunity to strike.
Everyone seems to like poking fun at Grant. I wonder why that is, but nothing about our date has been intimate enough for me to ask a question that personal.
Grant knocks in a blue solid, then an orange. He’s got good game. When he finally misses, Gaston calls out, “G-spot can’t handle his balls.” But the insult falls flat.
I watch the other people in the room to see how they react. They seem to be pretending we don’t exist. Becca has made herself scarce.
This is the behavior of people who are either sick of Gaston, or a little wary of him.
But I’ve had it with his commentary.
“Get over here and beat him for me, then,” I tell Gaston.
Khaki Pants elbows Gaston. “Go do it.”
But Gaston frowns. “Nah. It’s his date.”
Grant leans on his cue stick. “It’s all right, Kelsey.”
“No, I want to see him play. See if he can use his stick at all or if it’s as ineffective as I think it will be.”
That does it. The couples turn to look. Probably, like my ill-ordered espresso at Good Brew, I’ve outed myself as “not from around here.” It doesn’t matter. I’ve met plenty of Gastons in Hollywood, and I know exactly how to tweak their egos.
Gaston sets his beer stein on the counter. “I guess I’ve been called out.” He leaves the bar to select a cue stick from the rack.
“I guess I’m the third wheel,” Gaston says, cutting his eyes at me. “Sure didn’t expect the lady to ask me to join. Maybe she likes it better with two at a time.”
Everyone in the room goes still, like Gaston has drawn a pistol in a dusty one-horse town.
I should walk away. I really should. Gaston is bad news.
But bullies are the worst. And I’m all the way back in my Alabama days, watching boys like Gaston try to make themselves feel big by picking on the kinder, gentler kids.
Screw that.
“I’m stripes, in case your memory is as weak as your game,” I say.
“Now this is fun,” Khaki Pants says.
“Shut up,” Gaston snarls.
And I start to wonder. Maybe he’s not very good at pool.
Gaston takes his time rubbing a cube of chalk over the end of the stick. He waits, then Grant reminds him, “It’s your turn.”
Gaston frowns in concentration. He leans over the table at all the wrong angles. His grip is poor. He doesn’t have control of the stick.
He spends a ridiculous amount of time lining up an attempt that is doomed. And then, when he finally takes the shot, he doesn’t even get a clean crack at the cue ball, skidding it sideways.
I bite my lip.
“Take another,” Grant says. “You probably need more chalk.”
Interesting. Grant is trying to bolster this jerk.
Gaston rubs the stick against the chalk again before lining up another try. This time, he cleanly strikes the cue.
But it doesn’t hit another thing other than the side rail, a real feat given that only three balls have come off the table.
The game is mercifully short, with Grant cleaning up the entire rest of the solids as well as the eight ball without giving Gaston another turn.
Gaston shrugs as he tosses his stick on the table. “Everyone knows Grant is a pool shark.”
I poke Gaston’s chest. “Then next time, don’t be a jerk. Show some damn respect.”
“You have no idea what you’ve stepped into,” Gaston says. “Waltzing in here with your California attitude.”
“I’m from Alabama!” I argue, once again annoyed that someone has pegged me so easily.
“You might have started out there,” Gaston says, “but you’re Cali through and through.”
“Did Watson tell you where I was from?” I ask, but Gaston has already headed to the bar. He collects his stein and motions for his friend to come with him.
Dang it.
I turn to Grant. “Do you think I’m more LA than Alabama?”
He shrugs. “I’ve never been good at figuring those things out.” He fiddles with the stick. “You want to play another game?”
I do not. I need to think. But first, I want to learn from this mistake.
“What made so many guys come over to me when I chased after the beaver’s eye?”
Grant slowly reracks the balls. “You seemed like you needed help.”
“From six people?”
He painstakingly pulls one ball at a time from the pockets.
“Grant!”
“Might have been those pink panties you flashed everybody.”
My hands fly to my skirt, even though everything is perfectly in place at the moment. I glance around to see if anyone else is listening, but Becca has disappeared again, and the two couples have left.
“What do my panties have to do with anything?” I hiss.
“Seems like you wanted someone looking.”
“What!”
“You obviously made yourself trip and fall. You wanted us to look. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Seemed like an easy roll in the hay to everyone in the room.”
Oh, geez. Oh, geez. This meet-cute idea has backfired spectacularly.
I head back to our table and snatch up my clutch. “Thank you so much for dinner, Grant. It’s been a real experience.”
He doesn’t come after me. “Okay, Kelsey.”
I race past the bathrooms and up the back stairs. I don’t pause until I’m in my room and flung across my bed with my laptop. I need to write an email and pour these feelings out.
This failure is more crushing than the coffee shop.
For a woman who likes to think of herself as smart and well grounded, I sure have been acting like the ditzy blonde who’s the butt of the joke.