2. Carlisle
2
Carlisle
W hen the bus pulls up to my stop, I loop my bag over my shoulder and scoot down the aisle of the crowded bus. To my surprise, my mystery caller and I continue talking as I make the short walk home.
And even more surprising, I enjoy our conversation. Spilling my guts to a total stranger feels therapeutic.
And since I can't afford therapy, I'll take what I can get.
When I arrive at my condo, I unlock the door and drop my bag onto the bench in the tiny entryway. Kicking off my sandals, I plop onto the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table.
“Thanks to you, I need to find a new bus route now since everyone thinks I’m some sort of sex worker.”
“Come on," he chides teasingly. "Admit that this has been your favorite bus ride.”
“As much as it pains me to say, it was the best ride I’ve ever had. But I’m feeling a little naked here since you know my whole life story and I don’t even know your name.”
Oh no.
I realize my mistakes a moment too late.
“Best ride you’ve ever had? Feeling naked ? Have we come full circle?” Humor infuses his voice. “Are you sure you’re not working for that sex hotline?”
“Shut your pie hole!” I tip my head back and laugh. “Seriously, at least tell me your name or else I’ll just have to call you random insulting nicknames, like twat waffle or dickwad.”
“So now we’re talking about twats and dicks, huh? I like where this is heading.”
“Your name?” I demand, tamping down my desire to giggle again, hoping that the HR seminar was wrong and that he can’t actually hear my smile.
After a slight pause, he replies, “I’m Brent.”
“Okay, Brent. Time to get to know you now.” It only seems fair that I find out more about him since I’ve been an open book during our conversation. “Do you live in LA too?”
“Yeah, I’m based in LA, but I travel quite a bit.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I switch jobs fairly often, but I’m currently a bartender.”
“A traveling bartender. Interesting. What’s your favorite drink?” I ask.
“To make or to drink?”
“Both.”
“Right. To drink, I love an old-fashioned with a twist of orange peel. To make, I like wine.”
“Wine?” I scoff. “You don’t make wine. You pour wine from a bottle. Where’s the art in that?”
“Exactly. Need I remind you that I switch jobs a lot?”
“Ah, so reading between the lines here, I’m going to assume that you’re not a particularly good bartender,” I surmise, smiling.
“You would be correct in that assumption. ”
I hear the telltale key in the door alerting me that my roommate Harper has arrived home from work. Waving hello to her, I continue my conversation with Brent. “I must admit, after hearing about your spotty employment history, I feel better about my lackluster career path.”
“We all have to start somewhere,” Brent replies earnestly. “Don’t beat yourself up. LA is a competitive place, especially at first, Carlisle.”
A pleasant warmth fills me each time Brent says my name. I like it. It gives the impression, albeit false, that we share an unexpected familiarity and intimacy.
When I abruptly left Mississippi, I left everything and almost everyone I knew behind. Since moving, I haven’t devoted much time to anything other than working and figuring out the logistics behind being an independent adult. While I love Harper like a sister, she can't be my only friend. Talking to Brent has taken me by surprise, but it's been fun and unexpectedly fulfilling.
That thought gives me an idea. “Hey, are you working tonight, Brent? My roommate and I are going out. Maybe we could swing by wherever it is that you work. I promise, we’ll only order wine," I tease, excited at the prospect of continuing our conversation in person.
But as the silence stretches, the awkwardness sets in, and I regret my impulsive suggestion. It's obvious that I've enjoyed our conversation more than he has.
God, I'm pathetic.
Finally, Brent ends my humiliation. “No, I’m not working this weekend. Look, Carlisle, I need to go. Sorry about the wrong number and for wasting your time.”
I don’t even have an opportunity to say goodbye before Brent hangs up .
As I sit on the couch with my phone in hand, I’m swamped with disappointment at how our talk ended.
And that Brent thought it was a waste of time.
Ouch.
Harper sinks down next to me on the couch, daintily tucking her feet under her long legs, and hands me a glass of wine. “Sounded like you were flirting when I walked in, but based on your current facial expression, I’m not so sure,” she says quizzically, scrunching up her nose.
“I wasn’t flirting,” I automatically deny.
“You totally were, and it’s fine that you were. Who were you talking to?” She lifts her eyebrows, awaiting my response.
As my life-long best friend, Harper is the keeper of my secrets. She knows every one of my most embarrassing moments, like the time in eighth grade when I stuffed my bra with Kleenex and my date tried to feel me up or when I had to read aloud in my high school biology class and accidentally said the word orgasm instead of organism. I might as well let her in on this embarrassing moment too.
As I regale Harper with my story, she looks more and more horrified. Gulping my wine, I plod onward until I reach the conclusion of my conversation with Brent.
“Carlisle Elizabeth! You phone flirted with a total stranger!” Harper’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“Hey! You said it was okay to flirt.”
“That was before I knew who you were flirting with." She hesitates and then continues, "Hell, you don’t even know who you were flirting with! This guy could be a serial killer or a sexual predator! You just took his word for it that he wasn’t trying to call the sex hotline. Really? Are you that gullible? ”
“He explained it was a joke that his friend played on him. No big deal.” I dismiss Harper’s worries with a sweeping motion of my hand. “Besides, talking on the phone to a stranger isn’t that different from messaging a random guy on Tinder.”
“Totally different. The guys on Tinder have bios. They have photos.”
“And they lie and use AI to create the photos!” I argue.
“You can Google them! Now this guy knows your full name and where you work. He could turn into a stalker, following you around and leaving dead animals on our front porch.” Harper jumps up from the couch and clicks the deadbolt on our front door before activating our security system. “He could come here in the middle of the night and steal you from your bed!”
I roll my eyes at her theatrics. “No more Crime Junkie podcasts for you, Harper.”
As much as I downplay the situation, I see her point. While I was talking to Brent, I got caught up in the moment and told him way more about myself than I should have.
“Hear me out, Harper. Since we’re renting this condo, my name isn’t on any property records, so he can’t find our address. Staples King doesn’t have employee photographs or contact info listed on the website. My name isn’t linked to my social media accounts. Brent’s not going to come after me, and even if he did, he wouldn't find me. You can relax.” I pick up her glass of wine and bring it to her lips. “Drink your juice, Shelby!”
“You cannot just quote Steel Magnolias and think all will be forgiven.” But she grabs the proffered wine and takes a swig before admitting, “However, wine does help.”
“I am sorry though. It was stupid of me.”
She pats my knee. “It's okay,” she relents. “He sounded nice, right? ”
“Yeah, he did.” Right until he hung up on me.
Now probably isn’t the time to remind Harper about how nice and charming everyone thought Ted Bundy was too.
The bass at the club is bumping, and the music is so loud that I can’t hear myself think. Which is perfect, given my melancholy mood.
The darkened dance floor, lit only with neon strobe lights, is packed with scantily clad, gyrating bodies. Since we arrived, we've been dancing, and now I'm hot and sweaty. I lift my hair off my neck and pantomime to Harper that I’m going to the bar to order another drink. I don’t feel bad about leaving her for a few minutes since we met up with some of her co-workers at the club.
After weaving my way across the crowded room, I wait my turn in line at the bar. Soon, I spy a cute guy watching me. Liquid courage coursing through my veins, I smile at him. He returns my smile and ambles over.
He’s not really my type, but maybe this guy can distract me from thinking about Brent. Because no matter how many drinks I consume, I haven't been able to stop dwelling on our weird conversation earlier. It ended so suddenly, leaving me curious and a little hurt.
“Hey,” the guy says when he reaches me. He has to lean forward and yell to make himself heard over the music, and his breath tickles my ear.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, briefly touching his muscular chest with my hand. Hoping to feel a zing of desire at our touch, I wait—and feel nothing. No attraction, no spark of any kind .
If he was a firecracker, he’d be a dud.
“Your friend, the one in the red dress. She single?” he says, pointing to Harper.
The relief I feel is instantaneous. He's not interested me . Crossing my arms, I evaluate Harper’s prospective suitor. He’s handsome in that Ralph Lauren catalog way. Classic and preppy. Perfect for Harper.
I tilt my head with narrowed eyes. “She might be. It depends. What’s your name?”
“Philip.”
“And what is it that you do, Philip?”
“I’m in grad school, working on my MBA at UCLA.”
“How old are you?”
Fast forwarding my interrogation, he responds, “I’m 27. Graduated from Stanford and then worked a few years in banking before starting grad school. I live by myself, and I like to play tennis and go surfing in my free time. No criminal history, except a few late fees from the public library.”
“You delinquent!” I kid, elbowing him in the ribs. “In that case, yes, she’s single and her name is Harper.”
Three hours and approximately the same number of cocktails later, I stagger and sway at the front door of our condo as I try to unlock our front door.
When did the keyhole get so small?
Why are there so many keys on my keychain?
Is this even the right key? Damn, I don’t think it is. I switch to the next key.
“What is taking so long?” Harper whisper-yells and then hiccups loudly as she attempts to wrestle the keys from me.
“No offense, but if I… if I cannot do this, then you definitely can’t,” I giggle, as I squirm out of her reach, slapping her hand away. I squint and close one eye. Hallelujah, my double vision has been cured. The key slides into the lock and I swing open our front door.
“Finally!” Harper squeals as she pushes past me, pulling Philip along behind her.
Yep, Harper and Philip hit it off and she invited him back to our place for the evening.
It strikes me as ironic that she got so upset with me because I flirted with a stranger on the phone, yet she brings a stranger into our home and that’s deemed acceptable behavior.
Double standards.
I leave Harper and Philip kissing on the couch as I make my way slowly to the bathroom, dropping my shoes, bracelet, and clutch along the way, like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Harper’s a neat freak. She’ll pick it up for me tomorrow. Once in the sanctity of the bathroom, I step out of my dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor and pull on an oversized, ratty t-shirt over my head. It’s threadbare in spots, but time has rendered the cotton satiny soft. Some girls sleep in silk, but I sleep in an older than dirt t-shirt.
Champagne taste on a beer budget, sleepwear edition.
As I finish brushing my teeth, there’s a knock at the bathroom door. When I stick my head out, Philip is holding up my work cell phone to me, which I must have left on the coffee table after I spoke to Brent earlier.
“It's for you,” Philip whispers loudly, although I don’t know why he’s whispering. The three of us are the only ones in the condo and we’re all awake. He must be drunker than I thought.
“Why did you answer my work phone?” I mutter, swiping the phone from his hand. Since it’s so late, it’s got to be a horny guy who’s had a few too many drinks and misdialed the sex hotline. I’m tempted to hang up, but I’ve consumed enough alcohol to want to have a little fun.
Amping up my southern drawl, I purr breathily into the phone, “Hello, hot stuff. I’m Carlie and I’m here to be your beck and call girl.”
Philip swallows audibly. "What kind of work do you do?"
I giggle as Philip stares, mouth agape, awaiting my answer. Ignoring his question, I cover the phone with my hand and motion to Philip to scoot back to Harper in the living room, leaving me alone.
“Carlie, is it now? And here you had me convinced that you were just a sweet southern belle slinging staples and paper clips.”
I shriek when I recognize the voice on the other end of the line and clamp my hand over my mouth.
The joke’s on me.