by KB Winters
The page loaded and I groaned at the figure staring back at me on the computer screen and quickly pushed the laptop away. “I’m so, so screwed.”
Despite some strong sales days, my check was still several hundred dollars lower than it had been two weeks before, when I’d received my last paycheck. For most people, it would look like an enormous salary, but the truth of the matter was that Seattle is one of America’s most expensive cities, and to live alone, in a one-bedroom apartment, drive a new-ish car, and have a wardrobe that matched my personal shopper job title, I was left scraping the bottom of my fake Fendi purse every month to pay all of my bills.
I reached for the bottle of wine and took another long pull. My buzz from bowling night had long worn off—which had been necessary to drive home—and I was missing the fuzzy, light way it made me feel. I was far from being a regular drinker, but certain occasions called for it. And this night had qualified before I’d even left work, hours before.
“Damn,” I sighed to myself, laying my head back against the couch, staring at the warm, off white ceiling.
After a long, indulgent, mental pity party, I straightened and reached for the computer. It was time to take action on my conversation with Becca, and start looking for a new job. I shoved aside my despairing, woe is me, self-talk, and started channeling some powerful, kick ass woman attitude, as I pulled up a job listings website and started to browse. Becca was right, I was capable, hardworking, and smart. I was tired of letting my lack of a high school diploma keep me from putting myself out there.
The hours ran together as I sat, drinking and job hunting. By the time I’d polished off the second half of the bottle, I’d applied for three positions, and my head was warm, fuzzy, and satisfied. I refreshed the page, checking if anything new had been loaded, when something on the side bar caught my eye:
Now that you’ve found your new job, click here to find your new love!
Yeah, that’s what I need.
“Really? You too?” I said, snarling at the screen. The banner ad ran down the side of the website, and upon further inspection, appeared to be an online dating website that was run by the same company as the job listing hub. “God, maybe I should call my mother and really go for the trifecta of nagging.”
With a laugh, I clicked out of all the ads, and went to check my email. I was reading through a list of sale items at one of my favorite makeup boutiques—aka making a mental shopping list, with money I didn’t actually have—when I saw another dating website advertisement pop up on the side of my window. I rolled my eyes and was a click away from closing out of the entire thing and putting the laptop away for the night, but my finger hung in the space right over the touch pad.
An impossibly handsome man, with a chiseled, tanned face was staring at me, with brown eyes so deep I had to remind myself that he couldn’t actually see me. He had dark brown hair, that was cut short, but still long enough to have a little personality. He had a squared jaw, in a totally non-meathead way, and a dimple etched on either side of his mouth where his full—and completely delicious looking—lips were drawn in a mischievous smile. The photo only showed his face and the tops of his shoulders, but it was obvious that he was wearing a service uniform.
A soldier? I realized, leaning closer to the screen, unable to get enough of the picture. This guy obviously had to be a model. A hook, to get lonely, desperate girls to click and join the site in hopes of meeting Mr. Hottie in a Uniform.
I didn’t identify with the labels lonely or desperate, but my fingers apparently didn’t agree, as I found myself powerless to keep from clicking smack dab in the middle of the photo.
The picture enlarged, the man’s perfection only growing, and a small paragraph appeared at the bottom:
My name is Colton Hawkins—most of my friends call me Hawk. I’m not into mind games, so this is gonna be real blunt.
I’m looking for a wife.
Chapter Five: Karena
“Karena? Earth to Karena?”
I snapped to attention, startled to find Becca hovering inches from my face as she leaned down to where I was sitting, staring off into space, behind the desk arranged in the corner of the bank of personal shopping fitting rooms. “Sorry, Becs. Spaced out for a minute there.”
“I guess so,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes.”
“Sorry,” I repeated. I brushed my hair back and blinked a few times, clearing the cobwebs from my mind. “What’s up?”
Becca perched herself on the corner of the desk. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay. You kinda bolted last night. Is there something going on?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
She considered me for another half a minute, and I knew she didn’t believe me, but before she could fire off another question, Mary came into view and stopped in her Louboutin tracks, shooting a pointed look at each of us in turn. “What on earth do you two think you’re doing? This isn’t a slumber party. We have clients waiting!”
I jolted up, the computer mouse flying from my hand, skittering across the desk and crashing to the floor. Mary glared harder, daggers flying my way. “Sorry,” I said, stooping to pick up the device. “I’ll go see…” My eyes darted to Becca’s, unsure of who was waiting. I’d been lost in la-la-land all morning, unable to clear Colton Hawkins from my mind long enough to rub two brain cells together and spark something productive.
“—Ms. Porter,” she filled in. I nodded and marched off, changing directions slightly, when Becca called at me, “Room four!”
I heard Mary sigh, say something to Becca, and then the click of her heels as she tore off out of the department.
At lunch, Becca and I collapsed into two of the overstuffed break room chairs and took a collective sigh before Becca started in on me. “All right, girlie, spill. What’s really going on with you? You’ve been out of it all day, and while I know that you’re not a fan of all the gaga love talk, I’ve never seen you to be the first one to leave girls’ night.”
I tugged my lunch bag over and picked around through the contents, before settling on a granola bar. “I don’t know, Becca. I think there’s something wrong with me,” I started, peeling at the packaging to avoid meeting her eyes. Becca was the sweetest, most understanding and kind person I knew, but I didn’t want to see pity looking back at me. “I should be happy for other people when they get engaged or married or have a baby. I mean, they’re my friends. Not being happy for them at the best moments in their life, pretty much makes me a monster.”
Becca laughed softly. “You’re not a monster, Karena. It’s hard for me too. I mean, I’ve been with Keith for four years now, and I doubt I’m any closer to getting a ring now, as I was last year, or the year before that.” She stopped and sighed, a wistful, sad sound that tore at my heart. I glanced up and followed her blank stare to a point on the opposite wall. “Sometimes, watching everyone else get what I’ve always wanted…it’s hard.”
I abandoned the granola bar on the table and reached for Becca’s hands. “You’ll have that too someday, Becs.”
I wished I could say that Keith would man up and give her a ring, and the wedding of her dreams, but it would be a lie—no matter how well intentioned. I wasn’t sure how often Becca dropped hints to Keith about wanting a ring, but there had been a three or four-month period where she’d taken to depositing jewelry store leaflets from his Sunday paper into his briefcase come Monday.
Becca shook her head and brought her eyes back to mine. “I hope.”
I squeezed her hands and nodded. Talking about marriage and the future was not my forte.
“You too, Karena.” She pulled one hand free from mine and wiped at the corner of her eyes before her eyeliner could smudge. “I know you think you’re all big and bad, but I think you’ll meet someone who softens you up and makes you change your mind about getting married.”
“Spare me the prince charming
speech, Becs.” I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t keep the smile from my face. “I know, I know, that’s what I’m supposed to want, right? Marriage? Family? Happily ever after? But, that’s not me. I don’t want any of those things. Or, maybe it’s just that I don’t believe in them.
“I think that’s what it is,” I paused, turning the statement over in my mind and then nodded. “I don’t believe in it, so it’s hard to get excited.”
Becca offered a sad smile. “I get that, too. After everything with your parents…”
I nodded. “When you live through someone else’s happily ever after imploding like that, it’s hard to go on keeping the faith, I guess.”
A long silence stretched between us, each lost in our own observations on the matter. Eventually, Becca cleared her throat. “I still don’t think that makes you a monster or even a lost cause. You’ll change your mind when the time is right.” She smiled at me, and I returned it as warmly as I could manage. Becca meant well and I didn’t want to stamp out her optimism. It was one of the things I loved about her the most.
“Yeah,” I agreed, forcing as much enthusiasm into my voice as possible. “Maybe. But, in the meantime, I think I’ll stick to avoiding as many proposal play-by-plays as possible.”
Becca laughed. “I’d expect nothing less.”
* * * *
In between afternoon clients, I found myself with a few minutes to spare, and as Mary had already clocked out, I took advantage of the opportunity to sit down behind the desk and rest my feet. I pulled up my email account to see if I’d received any replies about the jobs I’d applied for the night before. There was only one email, and I cringed, reading the subject line.
Welcome to Perfect Fit Dating
Even though I’d consciously made the decision to join the site—and ninety-five percent sober—it still felt like someone else had hopped into my brain for a moment, took over the controls, and entered all the membership information. The version of me who had been talking to Becca about the unrealistic odds of anyone finding true love, only hours before, didn’t recognize the version who’d sat up for an hour the night before, filling out the extensive questionnaire.
Below all the generic welcome mumbo jumbo, the site had pasted in a few members they’d cooked up to be my “perfect fit” and I scrolled through, trying to find the bottom link in order to get off the mailing list, when my breath caught in my chest.
Colton Hawkins was my third match.
My hand began trembling, struck by the irony that I’d originally assumed that Colton’s image had been some kind of stock photo, or a model the site used just to drum up traffic. Not only was he actually real, but he was single, and as he’d stated in his ad, looking for a wife. Sooner rather than later. Stumbling across his profile the night before had been jarring enough. Finding him in my inbox, with the big, bold proclamation that he would be a match for me, was completely insane.
Still, my eyes devoured his picture, revisiting every detail that I hadn’t been able to get out of my mind all day—or night. I read his profile again, the words familiar enough to feel as though I’d written them, after having read them half a dozen times the night before—and once this morning, over breakfast.
My name is Colton Hawkins—most of my friends call me Hawk. I’m not into mind games, so this is gonna be real blunt.
I’m looking for a wife.
I’m a soldier with the US Army and it’s time I settle down. At least, according to my commanding officer.
Now, this isn’t a one sided deal. In exchange, I offer a stable lifestyle, enough money to be comfortable, and, above all, honesty.
I realize this ad will be a turn off to most of you reading, and that’s a good thing.
I’m only looking for one woman who is willing to trust me and build a life with me that is not based on hormones, ulterior motives, or fairy tales.
I’m looking for cut and dried, simple, and straight-forward.
If you’re interested, message me. If not, that’s okay too. All I ask, is that if you do message me, be prepared for what I’m asking.
I wasn’t the type that believed in fate, destiny, kismet, or love at first sight. But as I stared at Colton’s picture, his words looping through my mind, I was dumbstruck. It was enough of a marvel to find someone who was so open and honest about their intentions. I didn’t know him, but there wasn’t a shadow of doubt in my mind that he was anything other than authentic. There was no way he was trying to scam women into sleeping with him. He’d said all the wrong things if that had been his end goal.
I wondered what having an actual conversation with him would be like. Was he always so blunt?
In a world of people trying to undermine and maneuver their way to the top, by whatever means necessary, it was refreshing to find someone so direct.
But still…it didn’t mean anything. Colton being matched with me was just a harmless coincidence. For all I knew, maybe we were two of ten members in the entire Perfect Fit dating algorithm.
In an attempt to get my mind off the dark stranger, I scrolled through the rest of my so-called “perfect fit” contenders, but it was impossible to feel anything other than bored with each passing profile. There were other handsome men, to be sure, but none of them had that x-factor. That undeniable, magnetic, can’t-stop-staring quality.
I was a flicker away from clicking back on his profile, for one last look, when footsteps came up behind me. The pointer flew to the top corner and I closed the screen, getting back to the schedule page, just as Becca entered the room. “Hey, Karena, Mr. Clemmins is here. He was hoping to pick up something for Mrs. Clemmins and has requested your help. Are you free?”
I turned and smiled at Becca, masking the confusion and twisted thoughts still brewing in my mind. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” Becca said, her words like a sigh of relief. “He’s over in the intimate’s department.”
“Got it.” I pushed out of the chair and went to search for Mr. Clemmins. I’d worked with him before, and I was confident I could steer him in the right direction. It was uncomfortable helping men pick out lingerie for their wife or girlfriend—or, in some cases, mistress—but I’d gotten used to it and could usually get the job done in under twenty minutes. After all, selling lingerie to men wasn’t exactly rocket science. They tended to be on board with just about anything I suggested, and other than getting the size right, they usually had few other requirements. After all, they weren’t the ones who would be worried about how their thighs or breasts would look in it.
Sure enough, Mr. Clemmins was waiting by the bras, looking overwhelmed. He was an older man, maybe nearing sixty, and I smiled as I approached, rather inspired that after so many years together, he was still into his wife and wanted to buy her something pretty.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Clemmins,” I greeted.
He turned and his face brightened, visibly relieved. “Karena! Just the gal I was looking for.”
I bobbed my head. “How can I help?”
He cast a glance to the left, as though he were expecting someone else to join us. When he looked back to me, his expression had shifted, making him appear almost…embarrassed. “This is a matter of some delicacy, but I knew you could help. I’ve recently…well, I’ve started seeing someone. She’s quite a bit younger than me, and I have no idea where to start with all this,” he paused, gesturing at the hordes of lacy, silky, and satin garments hanging around us. “I want to buy her something nice for a trip we have coming up. Our first trip…really.”
I stuffed my surge of disgust down into a tight ball in the bottom of my stomach and plastered an understanding smile on my face. “Of course, Mr. Clemmins.”
Over the course of picking out three different sets of lingerie for Mr. Clemmins’ mistress, I gathered that she was a twenty-five-year-old ballroom dance instructor that he’d met while taking lessons with Mrs. Clemmins. To his credit, he hadn’t gloated about taking a lover, and actually seemed quite flustered by the whole thing at c
ertain points, but there wasn’t a hint of regret or mention of the fact that he was still a married man. I glossed over the situation, not letting my own feelings and opinions on the matter shine through.
My own parents had dragged me through the unpleasantness of infidelity, and although I figured that if Mr. and Mrs. Clemmins had their own children, they were already out of the house, likely with young families of their own, I was sure that if they knew about their father’s affair, it would hurt just the same. In my case, my mother had been the guilty party, spending three years on the down low with some scum bag she met in a bar on a girls’ weekend getaway to Reno with two of her best friends. I’d been fourteen when everything hit the fan, and the fallout had been earth shattering.
Life shattering.
The night my father found out, he’d hauled my mother outside, threw all of her belongings in the front yard, and berated her for over an hour, while she begged him to let her back inside. Eventually, one of our neighbors called the cops, conflicting reports were given, and my younger brother, Zach, and I were taken into state custody until the whole mess could be sorted out.
After a few weeks, we both went to live with my dad, and although the worst should have been over—it wasn’t. The divorce dragged out forever, each day a new catastrophe, and our parents pit us in the middle, using us as messengers, verbal punching bags, and mindless pawns in their selfish battle.
It was no wonder Zach and I both ended up turning into out of control, party kids. Luckily, I’d grown beyond that phase, but I couldn’t say the same for Zach. He was still heavily entrenched in drugs, partying, and had even done some time in juvie, for petty theft.
“Thank you for all your help, Karena,” Mr. Clemmins said, breaking into my series of haunted memories. I nodded and gave him a final, fake smile as he waved and walked out of the store, clutching the small shopping bag of intimates.
“Happy to help,” I mumbled under my breath to myself.