Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Cat
My heart is pounding harder than the drums in Jumanji when I leave Heartrender. I’m so incensed that I cross the street without looking and cause a pileup of honking and swerving, which I extricate myself from with plenty of smiles and head bobs. Luckily, my next right is Pearl Street, which is a pedestrian walkway, and I manage to avoid any additional near-death experiences.
I regain control of my faculties half a mile later and find that my feet have subconsciously led me to the Bitter Bar. I think about texting Sally but decide against it. No one needs to see this wrathful, stomping, red-in-the-face side of me, least of all the first person to ask me out on a second date since I got kicked off my parents’ health insurance.
Bellying up to the bar, I order a bowl of pistachios and a cocktail as pale pink as a painted cherub’s butt cheeks. If Andi were here, she’d probably make fun of my drink. She probably only drinks Everclear and other writers’ tears.
And protein shakes. Back in the office, she’d stood so close to me I could track the smooth plane of her neck, the slope of her traps. I bet she’s proud of those traps. I bet the only thing she ever hugs is herself.
I down half my cocktail in one go.
Lou’s right. I do hate her a little. What’s worse, I can’t seem to control myself around her. Something about her I modded Dark Souls II to be harder demeanor just sets me off, makes my mouth vomit forth all the unprofessional, unfiltered, and unsanitized content I’ve spent my entire life keeping a lid on. Unless I can learn to keep my cool around her, I can kiss my chance of getting hired on as a full-timer goodbye.
I guess that’s why they say never meet your heroes.
The alcohol and crunchy protein help me calm down enough to take note of the steady stream of people parading out from the back of the bar. They’re dressed in smart clothes—dark-wash jeans and tucked-in button-downs and going-out dresses with low backs—and more than a few of them have sweaty foreheads and glazed-over expressions. Yet when I look beyond them, I see nothing besides a swinging commercial freezer door. What could a bar as swanky as this be hiding back there? I beckon the bartender over to find out. “Where’s everybody coming from?”
The bartender studies me, his Ron Swanson mustache drooping as if in disappointment. “Insert Coin? It’s our speakeasy. You should check it out.”
He moves on to someone better dressed than me before I can ask for more details. Tossing back the last of my cocktail, I turn toward the supposed speakeasy. Did Sally know about Insert Coin when she chose the Bitter Bar for our first date? I text her to ask before palming the remaining pistachios and squeezing my way toward the back.
The two massive bouncers flanking the “freezer” usher me in with thin-lipped nods. With a jitteriness running through my limbs, I wrap my hand around the polished handle. I click it down and pull the heavy door back only to see …
An arcade.
It’s like a dream out of my nineties childhood. Flashing neon lights. Scuffed-up hardwood floors. Skee-Balls clattering and lasers pew-pewing and thick coins jangling inside plastic cups. The smell of buttery popcorn and spilled soda. My fingers rub against each other as if they can already feel the oily grip of joysticks that have seen one too many sweaty, frustrated, joyous palms.
“Holy Palutena,” I mutter as my face cracks into a smile. Leaping forward, I feed a Jackson into the change machine and watch as a cup fills up with the satisfying clink of game tokens.
I spend the next hour bouncing between machines. I put up a new high score on Galaga , die several times playing Contra , and get challenged to a racing game by a frat boy named Levi. I utterly destroy him, of course, and as he’s walking away from me, I shout, “Asian women can’t drive, my ass,” at his back. This earns me a few hard looks, which I brush off. I’m in my element here, which means I get to be myself for once. If I offend some Patagonia Pete or Sperry Spencer along the way, so be it.
I’m in the process of sinking my life savings into the claw machine when someone taps my shoulder. “Cat?”
My hand jerks, and the tines of the grabber miss Pikachu’s foot by an inch. I swivel, ready to blow my top off, when I catch sight of my accoster.
“Sally? W-what are you doing here?”
“You weren’t answering your phone, and I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d take my chances.” Cocking her head, Sally smiles at me. I blush, thankful for the arcade’s dim lighting. She’s still wearing the same gray suit from earlier today, which has the effect of elevating her above our sticky surroundings. Meanwhile, I’m sporting a hoodie and joggers-that-have-never-been-jogged-in. I can only hope I’m serving lounging athlete rather than shut-in.
“I knew about the speakeasy, by the way,” she adds. “Never hurts to have a backup activity on a first date.”
“Do you like games?” I ask hopefully, even though I suspect the answer is no.
“To be honest?” Sally scans the beeping and blorping around us. “Not really. Tabletop games can be fun, but I dated someone once who was really into video games, and it ended up driving a wedge in between us.”
Of course Sally’s not into video games. Unlike me, she’s nice. Normal. Like the white lesbian sidekick on a CW superhero show. Chastising myself for even asking, I inch away from the claw machine and the lost Pikachu inside.
“What about you?” Sally prompts. “Do you like games?”
If she’s asking, that must mean Sadie didn’t tell her I own every console under the sun and a monster PC. What to say, how to respond? Pretend Sally’s not real , I urge myself. Pretend you’re both characters and this is the perfect love story you’re writing.
Hiding my cup of tokens behind my back, I pull up the corners of my mouth and tell my most bald-faced lie yet. “I could take ’em or leave ’em.”
What? Too far, Cat, too far! Now I can never tell Sally what I do for a living—or really, anything about myself.
“Really?” Sally frowns. “Huh. But you asked me to play that game the other day.”
Oh no. She’s right. I did ask her if she wanted to play It Takes Two . But if she knew the answer to her own question, why did she ask? Is this a lawyerly Trust, but verify thing? Listening to the part of my brain that’s screaming PIVOT! PIVOT! PIVOT! , I change the subject. “Late night at the office?”
“Sort of,” Sally answers. “I’d tell you all about it, but it’s a little loud in here. Thoughts on getting a drink with me out front?”
Wait—did that work? Did I actually survive that dialogue challenge? I want to whoop, flex my arms to either side of me Super Saiyan–style. Instead, I contain myself, muster up a smile, and chirp, “Absolutely. I’d love to.”
“So I know you said you’re meh on games, but have you heard of D&D?” Sally whispers once we’ve gotten our drinks, a vodka soda for her and a glass of sangria for me. “You know, Dungeons & Dragons ?”
I nod, then immediately worry that I’ve blown my cover. Improvising, I say, “I know a little bit about it from TV and stuff.”
“Have you ever played?”
Taking a sip of my drink, I cover up a snort. You need friends to play D&D. Friends who like you enough to commit to hanging out with you once a week for three to four hours at a time. That’s not something I had growing up. “No. But I’d love to learn.”
“You should”—she looks around before finishing her thought—“join my campaign.” Tilting her glass in my direction, she downs half of its contents before leaving a perfect crescent of lipstick on the rim. “That’s what I was prepping for at the office.”
“Are you the DM? The dungeon … master?” I stammer. I’m not used to being out-nerded, especially by someone wearing an M.M.LaFleur suit, and I’m also struck by how kinky the term dungeon master sounds in the context of a third(ish) date.
“No way, I’m not that nerdy.” Sally laughs. “My ex is, but don’t worry, we’ve been separated for a couple years now.” Dropping her voice, she leans in close. “I play as a female tiefling barbarian named Zorissa with a soft spot for cake and pink dresses.”
This statement is simultaneously so awesome and so unexpected that I fall off my stool. Ramming my right elbow into the bar— hello, funny bone, you’re not hilarious at all —I slosh red wine all over myself and Sally. My glass shatters on the floor, leaving Ron Swanson the bartender to rush over with a handful of paper towels.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “Your suit, it’s—”
“Ugh,” Sally says, grimacing and dabbing her front with a napkin. “Damn. I need to soak this before it sets. Guess we should call it a night.”
“Wait, no.” With a teenage Twitch streamer’s reflexes, I visualize my options—let her go or gallantly offer her a ride—and choose the latter. “Let me drive you home, at least. My car’s around the block.”
“I’ll get the inside of your car all dirty.”
I blink. The inside of my car is already all dirty , I want to say. I drive a yellow Volkswagen Beetle from the early 2000s with a rusted-out fender. What does Sally drive that she cares about how clean the inside of her car is?
“It’s okay,” I say, doubling down on acting gallant. The pistachios I ate are tap dancing inside my stomach. “Seriously, let me make it up to you. Let me give you a ride.”
Undecided, Sally clicks her tongue. I hold my breath. What if she turns me down and goes home by herself, only to realize dating me is a mistake because I’m clumsy and have never played D&D? That sounds ridiculous, even to my own insecure ears, but I’ve been ghosted enough times to know anything can sink a new relationship. My batting average is so abysmal that just yesterday, my parents advised me to inform Sally that I was in a sorority in college. (My mom: “It’ll help you seem more like your sister.” My dad: “Whom Sally already likes!”)
Of course, then I went and mentioned that tidbit to Andi. Cue face-palm.
I’m about to pass out from all the tension in the air when Sally sighs. “Yeah, okay. That’d be great. Thank you.”
Phew. I exhale all the pent-up carbon dioxide in my body and grin. As Sally threads a path out of the bar, I do a little fist pump out of sight behind her.
Is this what leveling up feels like?