4. Marnie #2
I glare at him, not taking the bait. Instead, I brush the hair off my shoulder and cross my arms again, awaiting his response.
“Okay,” he relents, “you’ve named some great classics. How about a non-classic example of a realistic plot? Double points if the killer also wears a mask.”
My mind races through every horror movie I can name, but I’m coming up short from being put on the spot. “The Black Phone,” I blurt suddenly, naming the most recent movie I can think of that might apply. “It’s a man in a mask abducting and killing children.”
A beat passes before he answers, his smirk growing wider.
“That’s an implied slasher. We don’t see those deaths on screen.
But say for argument’s sake we include that one in the list, most of those movies have a supernatural element to them—the phone sending messages of other victims from beyond the grave, or the way Michael Myers defies death or is constantly resurrected.
You can suspend your belief a bit about how unrealistic they are. ”
“Yes, but at the core, it’s just a man behind a mask,” I say, suddenly incredibly impassioned by this mindless debate.
“The classic ‘final girl’ trope we see in so many of these movies gives you someone to root for, but really, it’s a reminder of the violence and fear women have of essentially being hunted for sport.
Paranormal horror movies don’t tend to target a specific person, but rather a particular area or location when the person disturbs, inhabits, or views something they shouldn’t.
Slasher movies feed into the terrifying reality that these crimes can be committed by anyone, anywhere, anytime.
And that, inherently, is what makes them so much scarier than paranormal movies. ”
I take a deep breath and steel my shoulders, satisfied with my words.
He’s silent for a moment, and then he straightens and raises a hand to his chin, rubbing back and forth several times before resting it against his mouth like he’s considering what I just said.
“Hmm,” he finally says, nodding to himself before looking back at the set of tip jars, pulling his dollar from the Paranormal jar and dropping it into the Slasher jar.
“What are you doing?” I ask, staring at him dumbfounded.
He turns back to me and flashes me a smile. “You’ve won me over with your arguments. I’ve succumbed to the power of the dark side,” he says in a nonserious tone, holding out his hand. “I’m Caleb.”
My eyes lock on his extended hand, hesitant to accept it. I’m too distracted by the veins running along the backside of his hand, admiring how they intertwine and converge with one another. If my body shuddered at a simple graze of his fingers, how would it react to his entire hand?
I relax my face and offer my best firm handshake, trying hard not to reveal that I’ve been thinking about his hands. “Gathered that.”
He chuckles. “And you are?”
Before I can tell him my name, Art returns and places a large cardboard coffee box dispenser and an even larger paper bag on the counter where Caleb was previously leaning.
“Are two dozen cups enough?” Art asks, pulling an unopened sleeve of coffee cups and lids from below the register.
“Yes, that’s plenty,” Caleb replies, stuffing them into the paper bag and folding the top over again. “Thank you, Art.”
“Anytime,” he grins. “Also, will you let me know when you have some free time to take a look at my hydrangeas? The ones you planted last summer aren’t showing any signs of blooming and the leaves are turning brown. I think they need more shade than we originally thought.”
“Sure thing. I’ll check my calendar and then I’ll email you to set something up in the next week.”
Art nods, then heads to the back counter to address one of the machines that’s beeping.
Caleb turns his attention back to me.
My eyebrows draw together in confusion. “So, you’re a gardener?” That isn’t what I was picturing based on his current attire.
“Not exactly.”
“But you plant flowers? Or is ‘hydrangea’ a code name for something illicit?”
“Here you go, hon,” Art interjects again before Caleb can answer, placing my latte on the counter between us. I don’t move to grab it, Caleb’s lingering gaze holding me in place.
I break eye contact first to retrieve my cup, but he beats me to it and snatches it off the counter, twisting it around in his hand. “Arnie?” He looks amused.
I hold back a grin. That must’ve been why Art gave me a weird look when I told him my name. He clearly misunderstood, but Caleb doesn’t need to know that. Why not have a little fun with this? I’m still on a high from him admitting defeat.
“It’s a family name.”
“Really?”
“No, but my parents really wanted a boy,” I say with false sincerity.
His mouth curves up into a smile, like he almost believes me. “Seriously?”
“Mm-hmm.” I hold my wrist out and examine my non-existent watch. “Oh dear, look at the time. Duty calls. I must be going now.”
His eyes follow mine, zeroing in on my bare wrist before flicking back up to my face. He gives another soft smile, but instead of commenting on my lack of watch, he extends the cup to me.
I reach out to take it from him, my fingers brushing against his as I wrap my hand around the base of the cup. The sensation sends a flutter to my stomach.
Caleb clears his throat, forcing my eyes away from where our hands just touched to look at him.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, reluctantly pulling his hand away, and I swear there’s a small swell of hope in his voice. “I hear Art has journals full of rousing Halloween-themed debate topics.”
I lift the cup to my mouth and take a sip. “Doubtful. I don’t know if your ego can handle admitting defeat again.”
“If you only knew the things my ego could handle.” He reaches past me and pulls the bag of pastries and container of coffee off the counter. “I’ll see you around, Arnie. It’s a small island.”
And with that, he’s out the door, pastries and coffee in hand.
Without his presence, I’m now left to return to reality. My first day, meeting my new boss, making a good impression. All it took was a ten-minute interaction with a handsome stranger for those nerves to dissipate.
A blush works its way to my cheeks as I turn to leave, trying, and ultimately failing, to think of anything except those hands on mine and the attractive man they belonged to.