11. CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER TEN
GRETCHEN
I guess that explains it, I think.
That explains the way he was making out with her on the dance floor in front of me.
Here I thought we had some – I don’t know, chemistry or something!
But I was obviously wrong because not only did he show up here on the worst night ever for me, where I’m out here humiliating myself pretending to be some kind of dancer, but he brought along some groupie chick who obviously is totally familiar with every sexy as fuck dance move the guy can throw down.
The guys are all down on the dance floor so I storm away from Brady and his long-lost lover in the only direction that’s wide open – the stage area.
I walk as quickly as I can given my choice of footwear, holding the few remaining shots I have on the tray out in front of me.
The shot tray, coupled with the darkness, seems to create a blind spot for me because the next thing I know I’m flat on my ass in a puddle of water in the middle of the stage.
Dumbfounded, I sit there for what feels like an eternity despite realistically being only a moment or two.
I feel the tears sting my eyes and Arrow yell, “Seriously?” My ass and my left elbow hurt, and pink Jell-O in tiny plastic cups is strewn about amidst the wet dead presidents on the stage floor.
But, before I can even collect myself to stand up, I’m being lifted up and swiftly carried off like a groom carries his bride over the threshold of their new home.
I know it’s Brady without even looking at him.
First of all, I can feel it in his grip – he’s firm but not rough.
Secondly, I can smell it. It’s the same smell from last night when he danced with me – a particular combination of Irish Spring soap, Old Spice deodorant, and coconut oil.
A tear slides down my cheek, and he leans his face down to mine and whispers, “I got you.” The smooth sound of his voice puts me over the edge.
More tears fall, and all I can think is that I can’t stand to lose a second job on account of not being able to walk in high heels.
Brady carries me into the back office and sits me down on the desk.
I move my hand to wipe my eyes but he stops me.
“Wait,” he says. “Let me do it. You’ll smudge.
” He grabs a paper towel from the roll on the desk and dabs under my eyes gently, saving me from destroying my face but also from inadvertently pulling off my fake eyelashes.
It’s very sweet, and if it weren’t for the fact that the love of his life or whatever was just steps away, I might have found myself insanely attracted to him in this moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did you break anything?”
“I think I’m fine,” I say.
“What hurts?”
“Other than my pride?”
“Yes. Physically.”
Arrow bursts in the room. “Summer! What the actual fuck?” She shoots Brady a fierce look. “You,” she says. “Why are you in here?”
“She fell,” he says. “I wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“Okay, there, knight in shining nutsack armor,” she says, the words dripping with sarcasm. “Get out there and air-fuck my customers, please. You don’t need to be back here.”
“Jesus,” Brady says.
“It’s okay, Brady. I’m all right.”
“Listen, Arrow,” he begins. “With all due respect, I was trying to help one of your employees. You know, if she got really injured, something tells me you don’t exactly carry a workers’ comp policy. You could have one hell of a lawsuit on your hands.”
She smirks at him. “Are you threatening me? In my house? Wearing a fucking thong?” She throws her head back in a laugh that sounds demonic. “That’s priceless. Seriously, dude. Get out there and do your damn job.”
“Brady,” I say, but my eyes say significantly more. “Go. I’m fine, I promise.”
He sighs, turns and leaves.
I inhale, preparing for Arrow to unleash her fury on me.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she just says, “Get yourself together and come back out as soon as you can, okay?”
I nod.
“You can walk, right?”
“Yeah. I think I just bruised my ass, to be honest.”
“You can take off the shoes, if you want. Pole barefoot for the rest of the night.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I’m surprised at the shift in her tone with me as compared to Brady, almost as if she has some personal ax to grind with him. “He’s not supposed to be out there hooking up with them,” she comments. “He should know better.”
“Oh, that,” I say, remembering.
“I could get him fired if you want me to.”
“No, no,” I say. “It’s fine. I, just. He’s my neighbor. He used to be my boss. We have kind of a – um – complicated thing going on.”
“Are you two…” she trails off.
“No, nothing like that,” I clarify.
“Okay. Just checking. Because you know we look out for each other here. Chicks over dicks.”
I laugh. “I never heard that one before.”
Arrow nods. “I’ve told you before, Summer. Pole is a sisterhood. We always take care of one other. I could annihilate him for you, if you ever needed me to.”
“Got it.”
I don’t know why – I mean, Arrow’s one scary woman – but somehow, it makes me feel a little better. Maybe it’s just the idea of feeling like I’m a part of something, or like someone would stand up for me if came down to it.
If we’re being honest, for as much as my gut tells me not to like or trust any of it, there’s something about this place that makes me feel like I belong.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I feel like the moment might never come again.
There’s a crack in the armor. Arrow feels remarkably mortal , if temporarily.
A person capable of genuine feelings. My mind swirls with curiosity over her story, over what made her become the way she is, and the only evidence I have is stuck to the refrigerator.
Boldly, I turn to Arrow and ask, “Is that your daughter? In that picture?”
She looks at me with an expression on her face that I can’t quite read. It’s… wistful, maybe? But masked by her always-tough exterior. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s my niece.”
“Oh. Well, she’s beautiful,” I say. I’ve overstepped, I know it.
“Thank you,” Arrow replies. She exhales, and there’s so much more behind those two words, but she’s done sharing. Her chest heaves. “C’mon. Get yourself together. We’ve got a job to do.”
I nod. Arrow gets back to the party, and after a few deep breaths, I take off my shoes and inspect my ankles.
I’m okay, thank goodness. I rub my butt cheek – I’m sure there will be a bruise tomorrow – and consider what awaits me on the other side of the office door.
The guys should be leaving soon, so whatever’s going on between Brady and that girl won’t continue (at least not in my sight), but I’ll be stuck with her for the rest of the night.
Food will be here soon, so that will bring the party down naturally.
I’m trying to relax but my heart won’t stop pounding. I peek out the door, looking around for Brady.
He’s dancing with the bride-to-be and – yup, there she is – the one who was “so in love” with Brady.
To his credit, Brady is totally facing the bride.
The other girl has her mouth up against his ear and is grinding on his bare ass like a rabbit in heat.
He’s not pushing her away, but he’s not paying her any attention, either.
Still, I feel like I want to stab my pole heel through her eye.
I’ve never really been the jealous type, but I’ve been on the other side of it, once, and it was very unbecoming.
Just after graduating college, I came back home to Eastport to live with my parents.
I got my job working at the Mine in the Diamond Excelsior and was getting ready to start online graduate school in the fall.
During my free time, I volunteered for the town in whatever ways I could.
This act of citizenship was ingrained in me from childhood; when your dad’s the chief of police, you just grow accustomed to showing up at town events, manning a table, helping with a float for Windmill Weekend or running a craft activity for kiddos at the annual Brussels Sprout Festival.
It was during one such event, the Orleans Police Block Party, that I met Keith.
Orleans is a town closer to the mainland by a few miles. It’s way more populated and has things we lack, like a big grocery store and a TJ Maxx. They also have the block party at the end of August every year put on by the police department, and we are obliged to help out in solidarity.
I was manning the hot dog station; that is to say, I was handing out hot dogs to hungry dads and their children and accepting their food tickets, cleaning up the ketchup and mustard station, and restocking the napkins.
The grill guy, an Orleans officer named Anthony, was coming off his wiener-cooking shift to go man the dunk tank, and to relieve him was none other than my dad’s newest hire, Keith Fullerton.
I knew of Keith – the Cape is small, so everyone knows everyone to some degree – he grew up in Chatham and went to Monomoy High School (I went to Nauset, the other high school out this way), played football, and after graduation, enrolled at 4Cs for an associate’s degree in Criminal Justice.
He was a lifer here, just like me, but we ran in very different circles, and he was two years my senior.
“Reporting for duty,” he announced. He pulled on an apron that said, “Proud to Serve” with a picture of an array of barbecue utensils.
He stood about 5’10", was thick-necked and muscular, and had several tattoos on his forearms. But he was a master on the grill, insofar as one can master cooking a Ball Park hot dog to perfection.
Keith took the job seriously, and only stopped to make small talk with me when the lines died down.
He offered me a hot dog, and I accepted it.
Then, he asked, “So, are you a ketchup girl or a mustard girl?”
“Relish, actually. And sauerkraut,” I replied.
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows and gave me an approving nod.
Yes, folks, that was it. That was his version of flirting.