Chapter 18
Stevie
On my way to my next blind date I’m a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions.
First of all, Adam has been in my head all day.
Second, it was stormy and rained nonstop today, which meant I couldn’t get into the woods.
I’m antsy after being inside. I was able to work on some stuff for my Squatch Watchers account and order more T-shirts, but I’m restless.
My legs need to move. I’ve got the Jimmy legs, as Cosmo Kramer would say.
I need to get outside. I need sunshine. I need to find evidence of a sasquatch before my friends can arrange any more of these cockamamie dates.
Third, Adam. The way that man talks about his sister? It's lethal. As is the way he listens. I want to melt remembering how he looked at me while I talked.
I sigh, sliding my feet into the cutest sandals I own.
I painted my toenails bubblegum pink for this charade.
I curled my hair. I put on a cute denim skirt that I hardly ever wear and borrowed a pretty flowing blouse from Diana.
I’m proving to my friends that I am trying, despite what Marlow said last night.
Of course, she teased me about being too picky, which she always does.
That wasn’t new. But she said something she’s never said before, and the words are like slivers in my fingertips.
It’s time to get on with your life. Your brothers have moved on, so should you.
That burned.
I’ve known Marlow too long for her to say something like that.
Because either she’s right, and I need to get on with my life—an insulting idea, given I have my dream job, dream lifestyle, and I’m surrounded by friends.
Or she’s wrong, and she’s just being mean for the sake of being mean.
She did seem kind of edgy and tired over the phone.
Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. That’s another benefit of being longtime friends.
I slam my front door behind me, stomp to my car, and make my way to the diner.
A half an hour later, I’m sitting across a booth from a handsome man and wondering why Adam hasn’t shown up. He promised to crash my date, but so far there has been nary a Shirtless Adam sighting. Maybe he got busy? Maybe he decided it wasn’t worth his time?
I curled my hair for this. He’d better show his face.
Meanwhile, Derek, the man Marlow met at the bank and supposedly vetted, slides out of the booth. He’s a good-looking guy, I can’t deny that.
“Are you leaving?” I ask. We haven’t even gotten our food yet.
“I gotta go potty,” he announces, hooking a thumb toward the men’s room. “I was waiting a while before you got here.”
“Uh . . . okay?” I was three minutes late. Three.
He has to . . . go potty? I am dumbfounded.
Then it gets weirder. Derek bends down, and I get a look at his feet. I flinch backward. Are those . . . ?
They are.
My date is wearing Crocs with socks. On their own, I’d think they aren’t a big deal, and he’s just a man who likes shock-absorbing footwear. Maybe I wouldn’t marry the guy, but we could have fun.
But his shoes are covered in charms. Every hole in his Crocs is plugged with all manner of offensive flotsam: the Hooters logo, a Confederate flag, a purple My Little Pony. Is that the woman’s silhouette from the mudflaps? Oy.
As if that weren’t enough, Derek removes his shoes, pivoting the straps until they wrap around his ankles. “Gotta put these bad boys into sports mode,” he murmurs with a chuckle.
Okay, he’s joking. This is a prank. I take a gamble, releasing the laugh I’ve been holding back. “That’s good.” I catch my breath. “Who put you up to this? Was it Marlow?”
His face whips to mine. “What?”
“The shoes. Well, the charms on the shoes,” I clarify. “And the sports mode.”
He looks confused. “My daughter picked the charms. We have matching Crocs.”
He has a daughter? That explains the whole “I gotta go potty” thing, I guess. But then my stomach drops. His daughter choosing his Crocs charms would be cute—maybe—except I’ve seen the doodads on his feet.
“She picked the Confederate flag?” I ask with a wince. “How old is she?”
“Six.” He shrugs. “Did you notice the headlights?” He crouches down again, there are some snapping sounds, and a small beam of light shines under the table from each foot. He straightens. “Anyway, I gotta go. brB.”
And that, my friends, is the final straw.
It wasn’t the controversial Crocs charms, the surprise daughter, or the headlights on his shoes.
It was the text abbreviation, spoken aloud.
That meaningless “brB” is all I need to know.
I can’t have a conversation with this guy, to say nothing of living a whole life with him.
“Derek,” I call in a rush.
He spins back around. “What?”
“I don’t think this is going to work out.”
He stomps back to our booth, the dim headlights on his shoes bouncing as they illuminate his path. He drops onto the bench across from me, red faced. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”
“I know.” I fiddle with my silverware. “I just don’t think—”
“I have a daughter. I'm a dad. She comes first. That’s nonnegotiable.” He looks me over, his eyes hard.
“It's not that you have a daughter—”
“Right.” His reddened face is pure contempt.
You know what? He deserves to know. “Honestly, it's the crap all over your shoes. The Hooters thing and the flag and the headlights. You have headlights on your shoes, Derek.” Man, that felt good.
“I wear them on first dates so women understand that my kid always comes first.”
“Good,” I say. And I mean it.
His eyes tighten. “Your friend wasn’t kidding.”
“What?”
“You’re impossible to please.” I don’t appreciate his superior tone.
“Excuse me?” I straighten in my seat. “Who said that?”
“Marlow.” His top lip curls, and he settles back into his seat like he’s not giving up so easily—and like he forgot that he needs to “go potty.”
Marlow’s words from our conversation last night have felt like slivers in my fingertips all day, but now they feel more like needles.
Or knives. They’re sharp, sticking right into the parts of myself that I never want to examine.
My eyes feel hot. I don’t want a guy with silver mudflap women on his Crocs to see me cry, and I guess I’m glad Adam wasn’t here to witness this, either.
I need to get away from here. I try to slide out of the booth smoothly, but the back of my legs stick to the pleather seat, making my exit loud and clumsy. “Good to meet you, Derek.” I wave, turning for the kitchen without a second glance.
I shove through the swinging kitchen door. “Marlow.”
“She left when she saw the headlights.” It looks like Marlow’s teenage brother, Brady, is helping Lola in the kitchen tonight. He snickers. “Those are straight chud.”
I take a deep breath through my nose. Marlow saw the headlights? No wonder she bolted. She should be ashamed of herself, especially if she said what Derek claims she said. I’m hoping there’s a good explanation for that.
My heart needs it. It hurts too much, otherwise.
There is no world where there’s an adequate explanation for the Crocs headlights, though. I run a hand down my face, catching my breath and getting my head back on straight.
“Can you box up my food to go, Brady? I’m the bacon cheeseburger at table twelve.”
He shrugs. “You got it.”
I have way too much time to think while Brady puts my dinner into a Styrofoam box and bags it up.
You’re impossible to please.
Get on with your life. Your brothers did.
That one stings worst of all.
By the time Brady hands my food to me, I snatch the plastic bag and shove through the turquoise doors into the dining room. I toss a twenty-dollar bill at Lola on my way out, dragging the back of my hand under my nose and avoiding eye contact with Derek’s shoe headlights.
When I push through the glass doors, I’m face to chest with a tall, dark figure.
I gasp, dropping my doggy bag on the sidewalk when I throw my hand over my heart. For a fraction of a second I think it’s Adam. My heart bangs a few times until I realize it's not him. I’d know this guy anywhere, though.
“Stevie?” Ike frowns, scooping up my bag and passing it to me. “Everything okay?”
I swallow away the last of my hurt feelings. “All good.” I’m just watery-eyed, running away from an atrocious date, and facing imperfections that I prefer to leave buried. All good.
I can tell he doesn’t buy it, but he’s also not going to pry. Ike and I have been friends for a long time, and he knows when to let things be.
“Hey, so . . .” He runs his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m glad I ran into you. I didn’t want to get involved in this, but—”
“I truly can’t handle any more bad news right now, Ike.” I tip my face to the dark gray clouds, closing my eyes. Maybe Ike doesn’t know when to let things be.
“It’s only bad news if you look at it that way.”
When I open my eyes, Ike is grinning.
“What?” I demand.
“Your little bet came up at the town meeting the other night.” He wiggles his fingers at the words little bet.
No. Way. “Are you serious?”
He nods. “It started with Muffie. She asked us to throw town resources behind ‘the official position of Cape Georgeana.’ Her words.” He rolls his eyes.
“There is no official position. I mean, besides that everyone on the select board bet against you,” he says offhandedly.
“And by resources, she had a list of bachelors for us to coerce into dating you.”
“Ugh!” I shove his big, dopey, muscly shoulder.
“Nobody thought to call me and get me down there?
You'd better keep the town out of this, Wentworth.” Especially Muffie with her list of available men.
I shudder at the thought of who could be on her radar.
This is a small town. Speedo Kevin, a man who earned his nickname, is most likely in the top five.
“Oh, I'm trying. I’m just letting you know. The meeting got heated.” He waits for my reaction.
There’s something else Ike hasn’t said. I feel the impending doom of it.
I see it in the obnoxious sparkle in his eyes.
He says he wants to stay out of this, but Ike is having the time of his life.
A guy doesn’t keep a job as the town manager for the weirdest town in New England without being somewhat diverted by its soap opera drama.
I also know he’ll do almost anything to bring in tourists, including marrying my best friend and living in a lighthouse with her or egging people on when they turn a simple bet into a circus.
He scratches his beard. “People are invested in this, Stevie. Literally. There’s a lot of money on the line, and a lot of people who want to see you with a boyfriend.
The select board was asked to have you, Marlow, and Diana agree to more specific terms of the bet.
” At least he has the decency to pretend to cringe at the request.
A sharp laugh finally escapes. “Fine. Okay. We can nail down the terms. When are we having this town meeting to discuss the finer details of my nonexistent love life?”
“We scheduled an ad hoc town meeting for Wednesday night.”
He's serious?
Stubbornness flash-boils inside me like water in hot cooking oil. “I have a prior engagement,” I say with a disinterested sniff.
“You do?” Ike is surprised.
“No, but you didn’t know that.” My phony disinterest is replaced by whining, but I can’t seem to stop it. Today has been a roller coaster. “What if I had plans and you scheduled this meeting without me?”
He laughs, throwing his arm around me in a half hug. “Does six o’clock work?”
“No,” I grumble.
He squeezes my shoulders again, then lets me go. “We’ll see you there.”
He's about to walk away when something with a diesel engine rumbles into the empty spot next to my car. Ike and I follow the sound. It’s a white truck with thick black bars in front of the grill, the whole thing covered with chunky, dark mud.
Adam.
He climbs out, slamming his door, and dragging his fingers through his messy hair as he joins us on the sidewalk. His clothes and boots are caked with mud as well, and he’s breathing like he ran here. He looks like he clambered straight out of a wetland. “Hey, Stevie. Ike.”
What on earth has he been up to?
“Hey, man.” Ike juts his chin toward Adam’s truck. “Everything good?”
“Hazards of the job. It’s been one of those”—he puffs out a laugh, turning to me—“weeks.” He chokes on the word. Then his jaw tightens, and his gaze moves to my feet.
I want to ask him if this is why he wasn’t here to crash my date, but the pressure I feel from the impending town meeting shuts my mouth.
As far as Ike is aware, I hardly know Adam.
I need to keep it that way, but I can feel Ike’s eyes on me.
So, I’m trying not to stare at Adam’s face, his square jaw, his whole chest .
. . area, his arms, his fists on his hips, or even the muddy jeans that fit him really, really well.
After who knows how long, Ike chuckles. “Well, be safe out there.” He pulls the door to the diner, leaving us on the sidewalk. “Stay out of trouble, Stevie,” he calls over his shoulder.