Bang Theory

by Valente, Lili

  “Pinot Grigio?” An older woman with clear gray eyes and a tray of wine glasses filled with straw-colored liquid appears beside me before I can dart behind the fountain to hide.

  “Um, no, thank you.” I flash a quick smile her way before turning to scan the rest of the crowd.

  I spot Bridget across the patio by a pair of trees sporting flaming red leaves. She’s wearing a blue dress and a white cardigan with pearls on the collar that instantly inspires trouble south of my waistband—the prim, old-fashioned things she wears when she’s working do it for me in a major way—but there’s no sign of Kirby or Colin.

  My shoulders relaxing, I turn back to the server. “I’m just here to see Bridget. I’ll hang out here until she’s done.”

  “Might be a while,” the woman says. “These things always run long. I could get you a glass of the Pinot Noir instead, if you like. Or a beer. We have a few in the mini-fridge on the porch for people who don’t like wine.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” I say, stepping back under the trees surrounding the fountain. With a warm smile that makes me think she’s relieved to get a break from fetching and carrying, the server turns, making her way back through the crowd.

  I slide my hands into my pockets, happy to be beer free. I don’t want my senses even a little bit impaired. I want to remember every second of this epic mistake I’m about to make with Bridget so I can replay it over and over again in my mind when I’m on the road, going to bed alone, torturing myself with thoughts of all the men Bridget will be dating once she realizes she’s irresistible to the opposite sex.

  She just needs to start paying attention.

  That’s at least part of her problem.

  Even now, in a crowd of no more than twelve people, most of them coupled up and far too old to be suitable date fodder for a woman in her mid-twenties, she’d have company tonight if she wanted it.

  A businessman who looks to be in his early thirties, dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and neatly pressed black pants lingers at the edge of the crowd Bridget’s entertaining with stories about the history of the property. He’s doing his best to catch her eye, but when her gaze drifts his way, she skims right over his meaningful smile without a beat of hesitation, missing the unspoken signal of interest.

  Bridget needs a map, not a tutor or an experiment.

  I should tell her that and help her modify this arrangement to address what’s really standing in the way of her finding potential partners.

  Instead, I lurk unseen in the shadows, watching the bed-and-breakfast guests drift away—back into the house or through the garden gate to wander downtown for a late dinner—and when the man in the blue shirt shuffles away with nothing to show for all his longing looks and hopeful grins, I’m glad about it.

  More than glad.

  My thoughts are downright vicious—That’s right, asshole. Head back to your room and finish that glass of wine all by your lonesome. She doesn’t have time for you tonight.

  I’m jealous, I realize. Jealous of a man Bridget barely knows and clearly has no interest in. It doesn’t bode well for my mental state in a future in which Bridget is actively seeking out other men. But I decide not to think about that right now.

  Or for the next month. Not thinking is the only way I’m going to get through this without bailing or confessing the way I really feel—both of which would be very bad, very pointless ideas.

  I watch Bridget give a few last instructions to the older woman with the wine tray and another white-haired woman I don’t recognize—she’s added staff since the last time I stopped by during an evening event—and turn toward the cottage at the back of the property with the “Hotel Manager” plate on the door.

  I’m about to follow her when a breathless voice behind me says, “Oh no, am I too late? Have they already finished the tasting?”

  I turn to see a tiny woman with two dark braids and enormous brown eyes twisting her hands in her long black skirt. I’m instantly struck by how frail she looks—like a gothic doll escaped from someone’s Halloween decorations.

  Hidden Kill Bay has an epic town-wide Halloween party every year, and residents who live around the square go all out with the jack-o-lanterns and creepy yard displays. This woman fits right in, though I get the feeling this isn’t a seasonal look for her.

  Which is just fine—people should dress in whatever makes them comfortable and happy—but all the black draws attention to the dark circles under her big eyes.

  I have to fight the urge to ask her if she’s feeling okay before I say, “I’m sure you can still grab a glass. Just ask one of the women with the trays over by the bar. They just started cleaning up.”

  “Oh. Good. Thank you.” She glances quickly past me, toward the bar set up on the back porch, before her gaze returns to my face and her eyes narrow. “I’m sorry, but…do I know you? You look so familiar.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I’m local, though, so if you’ve stayed here before we might have crossed paths.”

  “I’m local, too,” she says, before shrugging one black-sweater-covered shoulder. “I mean, not for long. My mom and I only moved here six months ago, but it’s home now.”

  “Nice. Do you like it here?”

  “I do. The people are really cool,” she says, her brow furrowing. “But I would swear we’ve met. It’s right there, tugging at my brain.”

  “Well, let me know if you figure it out,” I say with a smile. “My brain is pretty bad with faces.”

  In the early days, hedging about my semi-famous status gave me a sour stomach. It felt disingenuous.

  I’ve since realized, however, that drummers don’t get the same star treatment as the rest of the band. I’m in the back, pounding away at my kit with sweat running down into my beard. People don’t get a clear look at me all that often, not even in the music videos. Colin, Cutter, and Zack are very photogenic and great at getting into whatever story our directors are trying to tell, while footage of my goofy mug has a way of ending up on the cutting room floor.

  And then there’s the fact that every guy and his brother, father, and great aunt with a testosterone imbalance has a beard these days. We all look alike, and I’m mistaken for an old friend from college or the guy that cuts the deli meat way more often than I’m recognized as part of a platinum-selling rock band.

  Gothic Doll Girl’s lips curve into a tight smile, but her forehead stays wrinkled, making her face look at odds with itself.

  She shoots another glance toward the bar, worry creeping into her expression as she murmurs absently, “Mine, too, apparently.” With a sigh she turns to me. “Anyway, thanks for the tip about the wine.” But instead of heading straight for the porch, she cocks her head and asks, “So, you come here a lot?”

  “Fairly regularly. My friend owns the place.”

  Her brow relaxes. “Oh, Bridget? She’s so nice.”

  “She is.”

  “I’m sure she keeps a close eye on you, then,” Goth Girl says. “That’s good.”

  “Um, yeah, I guess,” I stammer. Partly because it’s an odd thing to say and partly because Bridget is crossing the garden toward us, a sparkle in her eyes that leaves little doubt what she’s thinking.

  She’s thinking about sex, and my thoughts leap straight into the gutter with hers, two matching swan dives into Things We Could Do Once We’re Naked.

  I’m dimly aware of Goth Girl saying her goodbyes and heading for the bar—lifting a hand to Bridget as they cross paths and thanking her for an invite to some party they must have both attended—but that’s all in soft focus.

  Bridget is the only piece of the picture coming in bright and clear.

  “Hey, you.” She stops in front of me, close enough to smell her springtime scent, but not nearly close enough. “Sorry to keep you waiting. People didn’t want to stop drinking tonight.”

  “No worries. I’ve got nothing else on my calendar.”

  She crosses her arms, rocking back on her heels as sh
e laughs. “Good.” She laughs again, shaking her head as she lifts her gaze to the dusky pink-and-blue sky. “I somehow managed to convince myself I wasn’t going to be nervous.”

  “Don’t be nervous,” I say, my own heart already skipping every other beat. “It’s just me.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and her breath rushes out. “Right. I’ll just think about all the times your stinky sneakers funked up our basement when you and Kirby were in high school. Then I won’t be nervous at all.”

  My lips turn down. “No. Don’t think about that.”

  “Too late,” she says, grinning. “I swear, you had the most foul-smelling feet in the state of Maine.”

  I prop my hands on my hips, shoulders bunching toward my ears. “Yeah, well, getting to the washing machine with ten other people’s clothes competing for a turn in the spin cycle wasn’t always easy. I’ve got the situation under control these days. I promise. Feet like roses.”

  She arches a brow.

  “Slightly moldy roses,” I amend, loving the sound of her laughter drifting through the cool air in response.

  “Come on.” She nods toward the office. “I got everything I’ve been thinking sketched out during my lunch break.” She pauses, skimming me up and down, her smile fading. “Did you forget your notes?”

  “My notes?” I start to make a joke but realize she’s serious and course correct. “Um, no. I’ve got it all up here.” I tap my temple.

  “Oh. Well…good. Shall we, then?” She starts toward the back of the garden, chatting over her shoulder as she moves quickly down the paving-stone path. “We’ve got a lot to cover, and I’ve got to be in bed at a decent hour. I’m coordinating a sunrise fishing trip for four of the guests and need to be up at five to have their picnic breakfast and coffee ready to go before they head out the door.”

  “You work too hard,” I say, ignoring the prickle of dread at the back of my neck.

  A lot to cover? What is she talking about?

  I mean, yes, there are subtleties to the courting ritual, I guess, but it’s really not all that complicated.

  You meet someone interesting. You express your interest. They accept or decline the offer to get to know you better. If the offer is accepted, you proceed on your best behavior, being as charming and bang-worthy as possible until such time as a relationship is established or the initial flirtation fizzles due to a lack of compatibility or loss of interest on the part of one or both parties.

  Boom. Done.

  You’re welcome, lovesick people of the world.

  Bridget pauses in front of the office, trying the handle before making a soft sound beneath her breath and pulling a key from the pocket of her dress. “Sorry, I just started locking up when I’m not inside. Ever since the craziness in Vegas, Kirby’s been super paranoid and protective. She insisted I get the locks replaced on the main house and locks added to all the outbuildings.”

  “Probably smart,” I say, following her inside and closing the door behind me.

  “Or paranoid.” She clicks on the light and circles around behind her desk.

  The office is small, but not cramped. There’s plenty of room for Bridget’s desk, the large reversible white board behind it, and four small leather chairs, two of which are arranged in front of her desk and two that sit on either side of the door when they aren’t needed for a full staff meeting.

  “Better safe than sorry, right?” I remain standing, too restless to sit.

  The thought of meeting in her office didn’t bother me in theory, but in reality, it’s awfully...businesslike.

  I’m about to ask if she’d be up for taking this meeting somewhere more comfortable, where we can sit and talk in a more relaxed way, when she reaches for the top of the blank white board and pulls it down. It revolves to reveal rows and rows of neat handwriting, topped by a header written in bold black—Variables to Evaluate within the Context of the Original Bang Theory Equation.

  There have to be at least fifty things written on that board. Maybe more. And as my eyes skim over the rows, I realize it wasn’t a sex gleam in Bridget’s eyes when she caught my gaze across the garden. It was a spreadsheet gleam. There are few things in life this woman loves more than a spreadsheet.

  I’m wondering if it’s too late to fake a headache—I’ve been trapped with Bridget and a spreadsheet before and, as a result, know more about the cost-to-profit ratio of our band merchandize than any rock star should—when Bridget turns to me with a clap of her hands. “Let’s get started. I’ve made you a printed copy so you can follow along and make notes.”

  I sit down.

  Hard.

  And accept the three pages of neatly stapled spreadsheet with already sweating hands.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bridget

  Fake it until you make it, I remind myself as I grab the pointer from beside my closed laptop and spin to face the white board.

  The new Bridget does not run and hide from things that stress her out; she puts on her game face and gives it her best shot.

  And if I fail, I fail. So what?

  I’ve finally realized that there are worse things than failing. There is loneliness and regret and feeling stuck all the time. There is watching the people I love moving on with their lives while I’m left behind, still living the same life I lived five years ago.

  But no longer.

  First, I’m going to conquer love, sex, and dating—hopefully in the reverse order.

  After that, who knows what might come next? Once I’ve proven that putting myself out there with the opposite sex won’t kill me, I might have enough confidence to tackle some of the other things on my wish list.

  Or I’ll be dead from mortification, in which case I won’t have to worry about working up the guts to sell my watercolor paintings online or taking out a loan to open a sister B&B fifty miles up the coast.

  Because I’ll be dead.

  Doesn’t sound so bad right now, actually.

  At least you don’t have to talk when you’re dead. Especially about things like current trends in nether region grooming.

  God, why did I put that on the list? What was I thinking?

  I mean, yes, I could use some advice in that area, but that’s something I could have texted Collette about. She’s a woman of the world who knows what other women of the world are doing with their girl parts these days. And she would have been sweet and discreet in her responses, and Shep never would have had to know that I’m basically a savage, uncouth beast who has no clue what to do with my feminine fuzz aside from keeping it trimmed enough not to show when I’m wearing a bikini.

  “So, um, let’s start with section two, actually,” I say, sweat breaking out along the hollow of my spine as I shift to the left, covering row one with my body and jabbing my pointer at the top of row two.

  But of course, Shep has the spreadsheet in his hands and he’s perfectly capable of reading the embarrassing things I’ve written on page one. A point he proves by humming beneath his breath as his brows shoot up his forehead.

  “Don’t read that part, forget that part,” I sputter, flapping my free hand in his direction. “We can come back to that later. Or not.”

  “How do you know that his mandatory, pre-sex STD test results are real and not a forgery?” Shep glances up from the page. I’m relieved that he isn’t teasing me about the personal grooming part, but then he asks, “You’re going to make every guy you sleep with get an STD test first?”

  I blink, confused by his tone. “Yes. Of course. Before any clothes come off, for sure. I mean, doesn’t everyone?”

  He makes a sound that’s somewhere between laughter and a vigorous clearing of his throat. “Um. No. Not in my experience.”

  “Why not?” I frown, truly shocked. “Do they want to catch diseases?”

  “Well, no, of course not, it’s just—”

  “And don’t they care about their partner?” I ask, growing progressively more distressed by this revelation. And his attitude. “I wouldn�
��t want to give the person I love cooties.”

  “No one wants to give the person they love cooties,” Shep agrees. “But when it comes to being with someone for the first time, usually it’s more…” He clears his throat again. “Well, you’re usually not thinking about cooties, you know? You’re thinking about how amazing the person is and how much you want to be with them and…”

  “And?” I demand.

  “And so you sleep together first and think about that stuff later. Usually much later. If at all.”

  My eyes bulge so hard it hurts. “But that makes no sense at all. Later is too late. You’re already infested with cooties by then.”

  He looks like he’s fighting a smile, but when I prop my hands on my hips, his expression sobers. “You use condoms, Bridget. To protect against pregnancy. And cooties.”

  “But condoms aren’t one-hundred percent effective. And they don’t protect you against some things. Some diseases are smarter than condoms. And if you don’t know that, then they’re also smarter than you.”

  He laughs—a big, booming, Shep belly laugh—and a heated flush spreads from my chest up my neck.

  “Seriously? You think this is funny? That you’re dumber than an STD?”

  “Well, I’m dumber than a lot of things,” he says, his smile fading. “And no, I don’t think it’s funny. I’m just trying to be honest with you. Most men—and women—are going to be at least a little weirded out if you start pushing for an STD test before any clothes have come off. That’s usually a bridge people cross when they’ve decided to be exclusive and want to have sex without condoms.”

  “Well, that’s…” I break off, shaking my head as I finally sputter, “Stupid. It’s stupid.”

  “You could be right.” He shrugs, his eyes shining into mine. “Will it make you more or less mad if I say you’re cute when you’re pissed off?”

  “I’m not pissed off.” I try to cross my arms but end up stabbing myself in the stomach with my pointer and abort the gesture with a wince and a soft curse. “I’m appalled. Nathan and I both got tested before we were together. And we were virgins!”