by S. E. Hall
Sawyer smirks, “and ass cushions for these shitty bleachers, I hope.”
There’s no way I believe college coaches and Dane struck up a “dugout deal.” This is ridiculous. But then again, he did just whisk her to his car; that cannot be denied.
Whatever. I’m sick of thinking about it. At least she’s taken care of.
CHOSEN ONE
There are different types of single. For example, some people are “Should Be Single,” because, well, no one in their right mind would seriously date them. Not until they get their act together, anyway. Perfect examples of this category are Kaitlyn Michaels and Matt Davis. In fact, those two should probably just give up all hope now and go have evil babies together.
Sawyer is what I would call “Strut Your Single.” He owns that shit and is happy about it. He would rather get in and get out, then spend the saved time with his friends. He’s upfront about it and never gives the female false hope…he scratches the itch, then goes about things more important to him.
And then there’s me. I fall into the “Quit Feeling Sorry for Yourself and Do Something about It Single.” Yeah, no catchy title for mine, I’m as pathetic as the category.
Because I’m lying in my bed, lonely and staring at the ceiling, analyzing the categories of singledom, I know it’s time to try again.
Date #3.5
Conspirator- Me, myself, and I Girl- Amy
Stats- brunette, can be found at bar Problems- None so far
Yes, I went back to the bar and found Amy, the girl Sawyer threw in my lap the first night I hung with him. As horrific as dating has proven to be so far, I gotta branch out. I need more friends, preferably ones that do things besides hang out with Dane and Laney. I also need female companionship, other than the one I’ve sworn myself away from for reasons I refuse to justify in my head, again. I wish it was season so I could make friends with some guys on the team other than Zach. But with only open schedule weights and conditioning right now, it’s just a “hey” or “what’s up” passing my teammates in and out of the tunnel for now.
Which brings me back to my current outing with Amy. She’s a pleaser. Everything I say, she agrees to, or she’s done it, or she knows somebody who’s done it. And who’s she kidding? I am not that damn funny, yet she cracks up at my every other sentence.
She chooses the drive-in when I ask her where she’d like to go after dinner. Grease is playing. Fucking Grease. That movie is older than me, and that’s what they’re showing? I can’t help it and I think of Whitley—she’d be giddy about a freaking musical at a drive-in. What is it about girls I know and movies with songs? You know how many songs there are in Disney movies? And we won’t even revisit the Moulin whatever nightmare. And yet, here I sit, watching some beauty drop-out with pink hair and angels in curlers floating around.
I’ve taken nice guy and turned him into pussbag. My dick hates me—he told me so—and I’m all but ready for tampons and a training bra. Fuck this; I reach over and lay my hand on Amy’s bare thigh, pulling for her to come a little closer. “You’re awful far away,” I say in a low voice.
She moves beside me, her thigh now pressed to mine, laying her head on my shoulder. Her brown hair falls against my cheek and smells like…smoke. Okay, moving on. Her arm snakes its way around my waist, one finger sliding under my shirt to tease along the waistband of my jeans. My grip tightens on her thigh, the crotch of my jeans growing uncomfortably tight. “What do you want?” she moves her mouth to my ear and pants.
“How about a kiss?”
“Mhmm…” She moves astride my lap like a ninja, bracing my hips on either side with her knees and dives into my mouth.
She tastes like smoke, too, and cinnamon. I hate both, but I go with it, returning each swipe of her tongue tease for tease. I grab her hips now, attempting to slow her gyrations just a bit; my windows
aren’t tinted. She locks her hand onto one of mine, moving it under her shirt, directing my hand to squeeze one of her breasts—fake. I can feel her nipple harden against my palm and she moans into my mouth, sending a fire through me, but only physically.
I should not be thinking about the other cars around us. I most definitely should not be thinking that “You’re The One That I Want” is the most annoying song ever. And under no circumstances should I pull back and move her off my lap. Which is exactly what I do.
“We better go,” I say, starting the truck, “don’t want an audience.”
“You’re not shy, are you?” She’s slid back over, her wandering hand making it very hard for me to drive. “You shouldn’t be.” She squeezes my dick. “Feels like something to be real proud of to me.”
I refrain from saying “thank you,” barely, but rather go with, “Ya think so, huh?”
“Uh huh.” She tucks her head into me, licking up my throat and biting my earlobe. “I sure do. I wanna see if I’m right.”
The snap of the button and rasp of my zipper coming down sound through the cab as if in stereo. My chest heaves up and down rapidly with my deep breaths, and I’m throbbing, so turned on I can only just keep the truck on the road. Maybe Sawyer’s got the right idea. Maybe this is what I’m supposed to be doing.
I have no doubt Amy knows exactly what she’s doing and could make me feel real good, but no matter what, I am who I am.
I veer off the road into the first empty lot I see, throwing the truck in park. “Amy,” I grab her hand and pull it away, drawing it to my mouth and kissing her knuckles softly, “how about a second date?”
“W-what?”
Moving her hand back to her own leg, I rest it there and let go, then close up my pants. “Let’s go out again, get to know each other. Sound good?” I ask her with a comforting smile.
Her eyes flash to mine and her smile brightens the dark cab. “That’d be great.”
“Okay then, next Friday night?”
“Perfect.”
We’ve graduated to group messages, and boy oh boy, they’ve included me. And Whitley. I start humming the music from The Brady Bunch before I can stop myself. I should be using The X Files theme, though, ‘cause it’s just too hunky-dory to be real, right?
Laney to group: Crew hang at The K 2night at 8. C everyone there!
My phone’s blowing up instantly with everyone’s questions and replies. How the hell do you get yourself out of a group text?
Sawyer to group: Evan, you wanna ride with me? Me to group: Not in. Have a date.
Sawyer, still to the whole group: With who? Anyone I know?
Zach to group: I’d say those odds r pretty good, unless he went 4 towns over.
Sawyer to group: Fuck you, it’d take at least 6 towns and u know it.
Laney to group: TMI Sawyer, yuck. Bennett to group: RT Laney
Sawyer to group: WTF do TMI and RT mean? And WHO is your date with Evan?
Evan to group: Too Much Information and Retweet (even though we’re not tweeting) and none of your business. How do I get myself out of this message? My phone sounds like Morse code going off.
Whitley to group: Why are you grumpy? Sawyer to group: RT Whitley.
Insane…all of them. I turn off my phone and head out to pick up Amy. She looks great in tight, dark jeans, a black shirt that molds to her body and high, red heels. Her long, brown hair is down and curly. Amy’s very hot, and I’m sure she still would be without such heavy make-up. Her eyelashes are so black and sticky looking that they kinda look like spiders coming at me. Other than that, though, not bad at all.
Tonight we eat at a pizza place Amy suggested and split a Meatlovers, except she picks off all the meat. “Why’d you agree to a Meatlovers?” I ask with a laugh. “We could’ve gotten something else, or half and half.”
“It’s fine,” she concedes happily.
It’s really not fine. You don’t have to offer to put out on the first date and you don’t have to pretend to like something you don’t on the second. Whitley picks at her food all the time, which most guys think is annoying, but at leas
t she owns it. She doesn’t order to please me and then pick, she usually just dissects what she chose herself. But I digress…
“Amy,” I take her hand in mine and rub my thumb in circles on her palm, “just be yourself, okay? That’s who I want to know.”
“Really?” Her voice is hopeful; she wants to believe I mean it. Wow, so I’m not the only one who thinks dating is a big, fat, scary ass mess where no one really knows what they’re doing.
“Of course.” I wink at her. “So, what would you really like to do after this?”
“Well…” she toys with her lip nervously, “there’s something I’m really into, if you want to try it.”
In the spirit of encouraging her to be herself, like I’d just preached to her, I agree, even though every instinct in my body bet the whole enchilada that I shouldn’t have.
Amy’s apartment is…interesting. I’m very happy to report that I’m not allergic to cats since I count five from where I’m standing, and I’m praying to God the glowing eyes underneath her TV stand belong to the sixth. And I’m also suddenly fond of the smell of smoke, seeing as how its stench is a welcome mask to the odor of cat piss.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she coos, which must be a joke, “I’ll go get my stuff.”
There’s no way in hell I’m gonna be comfortable until I’m home, but I try to navigate my way to the couch, in the dark. Amy is blatantly fond of red light bulbs instead of, you know, normal ones, and I can’t see shit. Silly me, running out without my infrared night vision goggles and all.
“You ready?” She sits down beside me, a black bag in her lap. “For?” My voice shakes, understandably.
“Well…” She starts pulling stuff out of the bag, arranging it on the coffee table in front of us. “This is what I’m really in to. So first,” she turns to face me, “give me your palm.”
I let her pick up my hand and she hunches over it, tracing the lines with one finger. How she can see anything is beyond me. I mean literally, not just the hocus pocus.
“Hmmm, very interesting. Okay, I need more. Here,” she hands me a deck of oversized cards, “shuffle these three times then cut them twice with your left hand.”
For shits and giggles, I shuffle and cut the cards as she instructed, then watch as she starts flipping them over and laying them on the coffee table in a big square.
“Oohhh,” she groans, covering her mouth with one hand. “What?”
She looks at me, worry lines creeping out from her spider eyes, then turns back to point at the cards. The middle one depicts some grim reaper looking dude, the one in the corner…I think it’s a man head with a horse body. None of them look good; I must be doomed.
“Evan, what’s your sign?”
“Right about now, I’m thinking Proceed with Caution.” I’m not kidding.
“No,” she scoffs, “your astrological sign. Like Pisces, Aries.”
“Oh, the Virgo one I think.”
“Uh huh, just as I thought. Evan,” she huffs, her shoulders dropping, “we can’t see each other again, I’m sorry.”
Well, of course we can’t. Perfectly logical. And honestly, at the rate I’ve been going, I should have seen the creepy man-horse and the kiss of death coming, really.
I pretty much tune out after that. She may have said something about my house, which I don’t have a house, or her moon, or barren harvesting…not even sure, but I’ll recover.
“Sounds about right. I’ll see ya.” I stand and risk my way to the door, making sure not to “feel” my way, which would require touching things.
“Evan, wait!”
I turn back, ready for her to turn on the damn lights, change the litter boxes, and tell me she’s kidding, but instead she sprinkles a circle of some white dust around me and wishes me luck with “my chosen one.”
Chosen by who?
Nope, not gonna ask…keep walking, Evan.
CRAZY
“Dude, give it up, you’re never gonna be as big as me.” Sawyer grins and kisses his bicep.
“I’m pretty sure only the football team’s allowed in here.” I put down the weights and move to the leg machine. He’s right, my arms will never be as big as his, even though I work out non-stop these days, but I know I’ve got him in leg strength, so I’m gonna work those while he’s here; kinda an ego thing.
“Nobody else will be down here at ten o’clock on a Friday, Evan. They have lives. Pretty sure it’s safe.”
“I have a life.”
“No man, you don’t. Your first year of college is gonna be over before you know it and what do you have to show for it?”
“A 3.6?”
He whistles. “And what else?”
“A football jersey.”
“You know what I mean. You don’t go out, you don’t hang with the Crew, and you even quit coming to the softball games. You don’t date, no one ever sees you. What gives?”
“Nothing.” I press out twenty-five reps before going on, trying to quell some of the aggression his accusatory words are building up in me. “I go home on the weekends to help Parker, class during the week, football stuff; just been busy.”
“So how about tomorrow night? I got a double date lined up for us.”
“No.”
“Wait a second, hear me out.”
“No.”
“Come on, you’ll have fun, I swear!”
“Sawyer,” I stand and wipe my face with a towel, “I’ve decided there are no normal girls on this campus. I can’t even imagine what would be wrong with the next one. I have had my fortune told by the crypt keeper, fed another man’s fetus and I’m pretty sure I went out with a dude! I said no!”
“I’m sorry.” He covers his face and turns his head, trying to hide his laughter.
“You done?”
“Sorry,” he turns, under control now, “one more try, come on. You let Zach and Avery set you up, give me a chance. Listen, if there’s anything super wrong with this girl, I’ll let you kick my ass.”
“Have you met the girl?”
He nods. “Many times.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Have you slept with her?”
“Not even close.”
“Do you know anything you’re not telling me? Like she’s transsexual, pregnant, into voodoo, drinks blood, is married, has three nipples or anything else that might strike you as odd?”
“Nothing like that.” He clutches his side as he loses the fight to keep a straight face. “Seriously though, totally normal. And hot.”
“You had me at normal. I’m not kidding though, Sawyer, one weird thing and I’ll stand up and walk out, then take you up on kicking your ass.”
“Deal.” He sticks out his hand for a shake. “Allister’s at seven, cool?”
“I’m not picking her up?”
“Nah, they’ll meet us there.”
Date #4
Conspirator—Sawyer Girl- Jenee
Stats- Sawyer and details? All he can positively attest to is that “she’s normal” and he hasn’t slept with her.
Problems- Nothing will phase me
“Why do you keep checking your phone for the time? Sawyer, I swear to God, if these are by the hour girls—”
“Relax, man, I don’t have to pay for hookers. Neither do you, fool.”
“So are they hookers?”
I think my paranoia is totally justified, considering.
“No, and shut up, mine just walked in.” He stands and pushes his chair back, walking over to greet a voluptuous bottled-blonde. Everything about her and her cheetah print pants screams “Sawyer.” He pulls out her chair, then something catches his eye briefly before he looks at me and smiles. “You’re welcome. Turn around.”
On pins and needles, I slowly stand and turn, ready to greet my next tragic date and grip the back of my chair to steady myself. My date is beautiful—long brown hair, dark, catlike eyes and a sexy but subtle outfit.
“Hi, I’m Evan.” I offer my hand.
“Jenee,
” she says, just says. She doesn’t giggle it, or say it with invitation dripping off it, and her handshake is just firm enough to let me know she’s there.
I pull out her chair and awkwardly say, “You know Sawyer,” because I don’t know if he told me his date’s name or not, and I absolutely don’t want to chance a guess.
“Hey, J, this is Hailey,” Sawyer introduces his date who either needs to sneeze or doesn’t return Jenee’s greeting very nicely. I don’t try to guess that either, but when no sneeze comes, I think she might not like Sawyer knowing Jenee. Have fun with that one, buddy!
We settle in, just some light small talk and me arranging my silverware nervously, giving Jenee a smile every so often when good ol’ Hailey goes and breaks awkward all out of its case by pouring herself into Sawyer’s lap. This restaurant seems too nice for lap sitting; I mean, they provide high-backed, cushioned chairs, enough for everyone to have their own, but she doesn’t seem to care. She does seem to think Sawyer needs his tonsils checked, which she is currently doing a very good job of…you know, in a restaurant.
“So…” I clear my throat loudly, trying to ignore the spectacle across from me. “Jenee, do you go to Southern?”
“I did.” She tries to smile, her eyes flicking from me to them on their accord.
I understand, really. It’s like a car wreck; you don’t like looking at it, you know you’re probably gonna see something gruesome, and yet…your eyes are drawn like bugs to a light.
“You go there, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, I transferred this semester from UGA.”
“I heard that too. And you play football?”
I nod, taking a sip of my water as our waitress approaches.
“S-sir,” she stammers, but a quick glance confirms she isn’t speaking to me. “Sir,” she insists, louder this time, tapping Sawyer on the shoulder.
Jenee and I sit silently, watching the whole tacky-but-hilarious scene unfold. Another sharp tap to the shoulder and Sawyer finally breaks free to acknowledge the waitress.
“Oh, hey.” He throws her his best smile. “Take a seat, darlin’,” he encourages Hailey, moving her to her own chair.