Chapter 2
Natalie
The waning June sun nips at the horizon in pink and orange through the slightly cracked windshield of my 1978 VW Bug.
I’m Facetiming with my younger sister, in our usual pre-crappy-date ritual.
“Your Thursday night free meal awaits. Aren’t you gonna be late?” Sasha looks back at me from the Facetime window. She’s got a filter on, so she’s got little fox ears and whiskers. My younger sister by one year points at her wrist. “How many Thursdays in a row is this?”
“Ten. I think. What’s the date again?”
I do my best to sound like I don’t know exactly what day it is, poking at my hair in the rear-view and lamenting that my signature red lipstick isn’t Gwen Stefani perfect.
As my stomach growls on cue. I try to calculate an answer to her question.
“Well, first streak was last December through third Thursday in March, then I took a two-week break after that one guy showed for our date with his mother.” I shake my head, popping my lips together twice before finishing. “Then, I picked back up first Thursday in April, and now it’s…what’s the date again?”
I twist up my face in thought, but Sasha doesn’t miss a beat.
“It’s June 9th! My wedding is in two days! You little monster. How do you not remember what day it is?” She lets out an exasperated exhale. “Anyway, so that’s…” She scribbles something on a piece of paper out of sight, then shakes her head on a smile. “Tenevenings of total masochism.” She glares at me. “If that’s what you’re after, girl. Betcha’d look fab in leather.”
I roll my eyes. “I gotta go. I scraped the bottom of the barrel with this guy. I was dateless until yesterday, so I threw out about thirty hooks on the eager-est looking MatchMe profiles. I snagged him and picked the restaurant. Go me, right?”
Why I pick guys I know are not my type—if I knew my type, that is—I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just a bitch, but I think that’s too easy. This is more complex, and I don’t have time for therapy. So, instead, I have Thursday dinners with men I have no interest in seeing twice.
“Okay. Be safe, big sis. You look beautiful, by the way. I don’t understand this game you’re playing with this whole thing, but I love you anyway. Can’t wait to see you. Wish you could head here sooner. The hotel is beautiful. The mountains…gah.”
“I know, sorry, couldn’t ask for more time off. I lose another job, Dad will have a heart attack and ruin your wedding.” I wiggle my torso as the uncomfortably tight crimson velvet dress does a number on flattening my boobs.
Sasha nods on a smile, but there’s a deep twist inside my stomach, stealing the warmth of the moment. I’m already on my last leg at this job.
“He’s arriving tonight, by the way,” Sasha says. “Then the only thing missing will be you.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell Dad I love him.”
“He knows, but I know he never tires of hearing it.”
Oh, Dad. He’s my rock.
When I was ten, he discovered Mom naked in bed with the next-door neighbor and his wife, but he was still willing to actually try to work things out.
My mother’s response was to empty the bank accounts, hire the best divorce attorney she could, and proceed to get full custody of us, leaving him virtually destitute with the barest of visitation, before dragging us three states away.
He followed.
She’s a lovely lady. Also, not invited to Sasha’s wedding.
Thank God. No one needs that sort of discomfort.
That’s a different kind of discomfort than this skin-tight dress is delivering. It’s a size smaller than the smallest size I usually wear, but my butt looks cute and I’m a sucker for the clearance rack.
“Better get going. Boredom and free food await.”
She sighs, resting her chin on her fist. “Dad’s too hard on you.”
“Says the straight-A since birth, perfect daughter, who is marrying a doctor and having a destination wedding at a five-star hotel.”
Her eyes soften and I regret my jab immediately.
“Sorry, uncalled-for and retracted. I should go, I wanna down an attitude adjuster before he gets here.”
She blows me a kiss on the screen. “Message me if you need an SOS.”
“M-kay. Love you, sis.”
I end our call, scoop up all the random shit that fell out of my bag onto the passenger’s side floor, then swing open the squeaky door on my Bug.
The front of Amalfi’s glows with candlelight through the sidewalk-to-roof front windows.
I’ve had my eye on this place for months, with its four-and-a-half-star Yelp rating and recent feature in the Metro Times. It’s an Italian-Greek fusion, apparently the owner-chef’s heritage. A woman, no less, and I’m more than ready to infuse myself with whatever wonders await me inside.
My wallet prevents regular indulgence of my foodie soul, but my Thursday night dates have helped the cause.
The early summer air is still as I approach the door, my smoothed and tucked dark bun at the nape of my neck, appreciating the unusual low humidity for this time of year in South Carolina.
As I nod and pass the tight-lipped hostess, pointing toward the bar, I envision being greeted as a famous restaurant critic and food blogger. YouTube, Insta…maybe even my own show. That was the dream after college. But instead of taking the risk, I went the safe route with Dad’s encouragement, and the corporate world is just as soul crushing as I imagined.
Dreams don’t pay the bills, young lady. Dreams don’t pay the bills.
I work my way down the wall toward the bar area, wobbling slightly on my knock-off Jimmy Choos, as instrumental pop music drifts down from the ceiling speakers.
The tinkling of wine glasses and the kind of low conversation and laughter reserved for restaurants with tasting menus and sommeliers wraps around me as impossibly wonderful savory scents dance on the air.
As I lift my behind onto a slick blonde wooden barstool, a man who reminds me of my Uncle Sylvester with a ruddy complexion and a droopy left eye wipes down the counter before heading my way with a smile.
“What can I get you?”
“A Tom Collins,” I say, my spine stick straight since the girdle of the dress doesn’t allow for even the slightest slouch.
Deep carving on the antique bar contrasts with the otherwise contemporary white and cream simple décor and modern furnishings. Most of the tables in the bar and the restaurant are full, which is a good sign as far as food quality goes.
The lines of booze bottles against the mirror are subtly lit from below. A Billy Joel knock off plays the piano in the corner with an oversized brandy snifter filled with dollar bills sitting on top.
“Tom Collins?” The bartender fiddles with the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, his black bow tie twitching under his Adam’s Apple as he speaks. “Been a while since I had anyone order one of those. Very retro.”
I smile and shrug, plopping my purse on the bar stool next to me. “I’m a retro sort of gal, I guess.”
I cross my legs and tug at the hem of my dress in an attempt to cover my knees. It’s a habit ingrained in me over the years to hide the scars that run down the front and back of my thigh from the four surgeries I endured before the age of five to fix my left leg, which was shorter than my right.
All I remember was my dad being next to me, offering popsicles, and the pain. The seemingly endless, blinding pain. When I’m tired or overexerted, I still limp.
The Uncle Sylvester lookalike winks, works a few bottles behind the bar, then slides a glass filled to the brim with light amber liquid on a paper napkin my way. “Wanna open a tab?”
He meets my eyes with the question, my fingers looping around the cool vessel, but before I answer, there’s a flash of light from my right.
Jim-in-ee Cricket.
It’s like a giant heavenly spotlight focuses on him. I vaguely notice another guy coming from a dark back hallway, and a woman in a chef’s jacket smiling and giving him a hug, but they’re like extras in the movie that stars him.
And what a him he is.
Eyes as blue as a Caribbean tide pool draw my focus to a face that’s a heady cocktail of right angles and broody tension. A basketful of invisible bunnies scamper all around my soft belly before joining together to drum like Thumper below my belly button.
At first, this dark haired Zeus looked angry, but as soon as we locked eyes, he sort of tripped, then the slightest curve graced the corners of his magnificent lips.
My eyes nibble down his chest, admiring the hint of dark hair peeking out from his open shirt collar which matches the black fabric of his suit. With a shaky breath, I continue my downward eye fuck, noting his suit pants have that perfect break at the front of his ankles. The cuffs resting on impossibly shiny black shoes.
God. Why are perfectly-tailored suits so damn sexy?
The ice rattles in the shaking glass I’m still holding, the cool liquid spilling over the rim and down my fingers.
This. Man. Is. Gorgeous.
Gorgeous in that sort of caveman, asymmetrical, who-am-I-here-to-kill sort of way.
“Miss? Want me to open a tab?” I hear and bounce back to reality.
“Um… N—No.” I set down the glass and fumble inside my purse, feeling for the quilted pink Vera Bradley wallet my sister gave me for Christmas, but come up empty. I start tossing things on the bar, the sense that the Adonis is moving closer making me hyperventilate, but the bartender is giving me his best hurry-up smile. “Just a second…”
I pull out an old lanyard with a security badge from two jobs ago, then a keychain heavy with twenty keys, most of which I have no idea what they’re for, then my makeup bag, which is half open.
The contents clatter onto the bar top, mascara spinning and my compact busting open, little shards of formerly-compressed powder tumbling onto the polished wood.
“Shit.” I search the abyss of my bag, but there is no pink to be seen anywhere. “I’m sorry…my wallet. It must be in my car—”
“On me.” A dark voice from some far away galaxy turns me into a steaming pile of girl goo, as the magic man stands directly to my left. I’m sucked into his masculine aura and a spicy, dangerous scent that nibbles directly on my clitoris.
Hello.
“No, it’s okay, it’s in the car I’m sure…” I lie, like I’m not legitimately notorious for losing my wallet.
Three times last year, once already this year; pushing up on twice, it seems. The lady at the emergency bank number knows my account by heart.
“Red dress. Are you Caroline?” His voice seems to echo around me as I take in the way his nose is a bit off center, but in the sexiest way, and I have this sudden vision of my clothes spontaneously bursting from my body.
I shake my head, so slowly I’m sure it’s almost imperceptible. “No, I’m…not Caroline.”
Should I be Caroline?
I want to be Caroline.
A flash of what looks like disappointment darkens his eyes as I open my mouth to offer my name, but a horrible screech steals the wind from my throat.
“I’m Caroline!”
We turn in unison, like synchronized swimmers, then release matching groans.
A waving woman with plumped, pursed lips is eagerly approaching, holding out a nearly empty wine glass.
“Are you Tor? I’m Caroline!” she repeats, smacking her chest so excitedly I think she’s going to explode into a vapor of glittery confetti to match her midi-length strawberry-colored sequined dress.
Something about how she looks at me makes me want to crawl under my barstool. My face heats as I note the deep indigo horned animal skull tattoo that decorates the back of the sexy stranger’s hand, before he mumbles something about his grandmother as an angry tension hardens his jaw.
“Who is this?” The woman hits me with a hard look and I immediately shrink back as the man closes his eyes and I hear him counting under his breath.
One. Two. Three. Four…
All the way to ten, and actually, honestly, as anger management techniques go, it’s not so bad. Straight off of Wikipedia.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes land on mine and I’m lost on a life raft floating in their blue tidepools. He sounds actually sorry. Defeated, almost. He waves to the bartender, then points at my glass.
Uncle Sylvester the bartender gives him a slight nod, and I understand the silent agreement they just made relieving me of the need to find my wallet.
His fingers brush across mine, sending a battalion of fire ant stings up my arm as the woman tosses back the last of her white wine, her hair in a tight black bun as she struggles to walk in the mermaid-tightness of her dress.
“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper as he steps around me, jabbing at my heart with one more killer look as someone else appears in the entryway of the bar, and I know immediately that the evening just went from bad to worse.
Because the Adonis wasn’t Arthur.
There is Arthur.
My MatchMe date stands there, his hair a wisp of what once was slicing across the shine of his bald head. His profile pic was a decade old, easy. Khakis with a grease stain on the right thigh are paired with a short-sleeve open-collar light blue button down with the NASCAR emblem embroidered on the front pocket.
And he’s gnawing on a pulpy toothpick. Because of course he is.
Suddenly, a free dinner seems less like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and more like a steaming bucket of you-get-what-you-deserve.
Hi, Karma. It’s me, Natalie.