The Fallback

by Dietz, Mariah

  I can still see his invisible handprint on my arm, making my heart strum as I sit back farther, the pillows practically swallowing me.

  Last night, Felicity finally took a break from the dance floor just in time to catch sight of Levi before he had to leave following a series of messages he received.

  “Who was that?” she’d asked.

  I’d tried to play it off and act casual with a shrug of my shoulders. “Just some guy.”

  She cocked her head, staring at me for three long seconds before her jaw dropped and her eyes got wide. “You’re smiling!” she cried.

  I shook my head dismissively. “He was funny, but it was nothing.”

  “You’re smiling!” she repeated. “Not just smiling, but glowing! I haven’t seen this face since…” she paused, her eyes thinning with thought. “Since you had that crush on that guy we met in New York you thought was so dreamy.”

  “I never called him dreamy.”

  “I know. I was saving you the embarrassment of all the ridiculous things you did think about him.”

  I glared at her.

  “His name’s Levi, and he works here.”

  “Did he ask you out?”

  I stared at her, debating my answer.

  “He did!” She squealed, grasping my arm. “Tell me you said yes—or at least said you’d think about it!”

  “He didn’t really ask, more suggested I contact him.”

  Felicity’s brow furrowed. “Like a … booty call?”

  “No…” I leaned against the bar, working to decipher his intentions as she eyed me, her lips turned up with a smirk.

  “Is he coming back?” She’d turned, staring in the direction he’d disappeared.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you’re going to call him, right?”

  I held up the napkin with his information scribbled across it.

  Felicity grinned, snatching it from my grasp. She carefully folded it and opened my purse, sliding the napkin safely into my wallet. “Ready for a second round?” she asked.

  The interaction with Levi had left me in a daze of happiness I hated to admit was caused by him but knew it was. However, I embraced the feeling and didn’t fight the easy laughter that flowed from my lips in agreeance.

  While she finished her second martini, I took occasional sips of mine, and then we went back out to the dance floor until just after midnight, when she turned to me and apologized for being exhausted, and I drove her home while she slept in one of the seats she had told me were so comfortable.

  I lean over the edge of the bed to grab my purse and dig through it until I find the napkin still tucked inside of my wallet. I let the purse fall back to the floor while staring at his handwriting. Each character is the same height, the numbers each narrow, while the letters are all uppercase and written so they almost look harsh. Scratches instead of letters. Yet, it’s legible and almost artistic.

  I set the napkin on the nightstand and flip the duvet off, dropping my legs to the side of the bed to retrieve my laptop. Of all the tasks and responsibilities I have at Glitter and Gold, all the random and eccentric useless details I know regarding Catherine’s life, diet, and preferences, the one thing I have no experience with is our website. It takes me a solid hour to determine which platform I’m going to use for my blog and then another to decide on the background color. I call it Tales of Being Single.

  My fingers hover over the keys as I determine how I’m going to write the introduction. I have no idea what to expect. If someone—anyone—will ever read my words, but the possibility brings forth a sense of caution that is fueled by self-consciousness.

  I decide to make the introduction brief and vague.

  Welcome to Tales of Being Single, my personal journey of learning how to be single.

  As my thirtieth birthday approaches, I’m facing a task I should have learned more than a decade ago: how to be comfortable alone.

  Some may choose to be single, others don’t, but regardless, when we look in the closet and only find one person’s belongings, one toothbrush in the bathroom, and a single agenda for the weekend, you’re forced to deal with the reality that things are different. Things are going to change. Good, bad, or indifferent, there’s a new reality dawning. To baptize this moment, I’m starting this blog to share my adventures and experiences as a single woman in Chicago.

  Then I begin my first blog entry.

  April 3

  “Letting Go”

  My best friend and I tackled rock climbing this week. We were both novices but anxious to discover another sport that we could do in yoga pants. Not certain of what to expect, we did a little research so we would be prepared (aka not look like complete idiots). Unfortunately, looking like an idiot was unavoidable—at least in my case. We arrived at the rock climbing center, keep in mind we went to an indoor facility, and ventured inside on a weekend. Not knowing anyone who rock climbs personally, I was surprised to find how busy it was. They provided us with shoes that reminded me of water moccasins and then equipped us with harnesses—the first stage of feeling a bit awkward because a stranger’s hands worked to secure said harness near your … nether regions. That high school insecurity aside, they provided us with an instructor who taught us the basics, starting with the safety instructions, before we signed our limbs, vital organs, and lives away—seriously.

  Next, with my harness attached to my instructor, I scaled the first wall, which had larger “rocks” for my feet and hands to grip.

  Surprisingly, I found climbing up the wall quite easy.

  Then karma came and backhanded me. (This is the part where I looked like an idiot, so take note.)

  Once I was at the very top, the instructor told me to let go.

  I was thirty feet in the air with a death grip on those fake rocks, trying to convince myself that the belaying rope attached to my harness would indeed support me as he swore it would—even showed me it would before I had climbed all the way to the top.

  “Just let go!” He made it sound so easy. So simple.

  I told him I wasn’t Elsa. That I wasn’t good at letting go.

  He laughed and began singing. My fingers began cramping. Then I watched a seven-year-old do it and forced myself to pull up my big girl panties, and what do you know, it did in fact support me.

  We continued to climb additional walls, even tried a few where we had the challenge of climbing horizontally versus vertically, which I found to be a much bigger struggle.

  I laughed.

  I sweated far more than I’d expected.

  And most importantly, I learned that letting go was much easier after that first time.

  I read through it twice, wondering if I’m revealing too much. If others will understand how the term “letting go” refers to so much more than the physical act of releasing that wall and how profound it felt when I was finally able to do it.

  Knowing that the chances of anyone discovering my blog are next to none considering there are no less than five billion blogs, I treat it like an online diary and go as far as adding some pictures I’d taken while we were there.

  It feels refreshing to see the post. To see that I am in fact moving forward, trying new things, and making the promise to myself and the World Wide Web that I’m going to continue.

  I decide it’s time to let go of another fear and reach for my phone so I can text Levi.

  Me: Would the fans maul me if I were to wear a shirt that was half-black and half-red?

  It’s still fairly early, so I don’t expect him to reply as I stand and gather my things for a shower. But as I reach for my duvet to make my bed, he does.

  Levi: You can wear white, pink, orange, green, or gray.

  Me: What?! There’s a dress code?

  Levi: Want me to just tell you which team is better so you know who to cheer on?

  Me: I was planning to cheer on the Cubbies. I like their uniforms better.

  Levi: …

  Levi: You’re killing me.r />
  With a smile pulling on my lips, I sit back on the bed, considering what to say. It’s been so long since I’ve flirted with someone, especially someone I don’t know. He might find my sense of humor strange. He might not realize sarcasm is my first line of defense when I’m uncomfortable. He may not consider this feels monumental for me. Then I panic when I consider if he knows exactly how big of a deal this is. How he might have expected me to message him. How he likely believes I’m desperate because he knows I recently got out of a relationship and I’m texting the man twelve hours after meeting him.

  There are rules.

  Dating rules.

  Commonsense rules.

  Self-respect rules.

  And over the past several years that I’ve been in a relationship, cocooned from this world and the many facets, I’ve been oblivious to exactly how many of these rules exist and even what they are.

  I stand up, and rather than head to the shower, I stalk to the stairwell and wait to hear Dan’s voice before continuing my journey to Felicity’s room, where I swing the door open and stomp to her bed.

  “You’ve failed me as a best friend,” I announce, lying down in a dramatic heap beside her.

  She mumbles incoherently.

  “You’ve been with Dan since you were twenty. Twenty!” I cry. “I have no idea what the social norms are when it comes to dating or being single.”

  “How is this my fault?” Her words slur. Long strands of her dark hair remain in her face, blocking a clear sight of her.

  “Because one of us was supposed to be normal. One of us was supposed to learn these facts.”

  “You need coffee.”

  “I texted him!” I cry.

  This makes her move, swiping the hair from her face so she can look at me with rounded eyes. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t know. Something stupid because I don’t know how to be cute or flirt! I don’t know how to be a girl!”

  “I thought he was no one and you didn’t care?”

  I bury my face into a pillow and scream. When I lift my face, Felicity is smiling. “Okay…” I sigh. “I feel a little … a little”—I repeat, holding my thumb and forefinger out with a fraction of space between them—“interested in him.”

  Her smile turns radiant.

  “Stop smiling!” I reach forward and bop her with the pillow. “I have no idea how to do this.”

  “You’re going to be fine. Did he text you back yet?”

  I nod.

  “What did he say?”

  “That I was killing him.”

  Her eyebrows soar upward. “Maybe we should read something or call some friends over…”

  I groan.

  My phone chirps, and Felicity and I both stop, staring at each other for a solid moment before we dig through the blankets I’ve tangled in search of my phone.

  Levi: There’s a game tomorrow at 1:05. We could meet at 11. There’s a bar just two blocks from the field. You in?

  Felicity throws a fist into the air and cheers.

  13

  “Okay, so remember three things,” Felicity says as I curl a remaining section of hair. “Be confident in your flirting. Don’t get too comfortable too quickly—but don’t act detached either,” she quickly adds. “And assume he’s dating other people.” She pushes her hair back, tucking it behind an ear. “I don’t ever remember wondering if Dan was dating other women.” She scrunches her face with thought. “This makes me feel really old.”

  “You did,” I remind her. “But I’ve decided I’m not even going to look at this as a date. Instead, I’m going to consider this another experience for myself.”

  She tilts her head back and dramatically rolls her eyes. “It’s a date. Learn to accept that, and this will be much easier.”

  I give her a sidelong stare, not bothering to argue.

  “You shaved your legs, right? I mean, just in case…”

  “No!” I cry. “I’m not preparing myself for a date, let alone for sleeping with him. I barely know him.”

  “It sounds like sex happens much sooner when you’re an adult versus a teenager. Apparently, strong sexual chemistry is a high priority.”

  “That says a lot for humanity and why I have so many repeat customers planning weddings.”

  Felicity’s lips teeter, fighting a smile. “You need to get going so you’re not late,” Felicity says, glancing at her phone. “Are you ready?”

  I take a final look at my reflection, smoothing my dark-blond hair a couple of times before Felicity bats my hand away.

  “Stop. You look great.” She reaches for the vanity and hands me the tube of lipstick I applied. “Hairy legs and all.”

  I roll my eyes and snatch the makeup from her. My nerves are frayed. Since I’ve never been to a baseball game, or any professional sporting event for that matter, Felicity and I had taken to the internet and were able to make quick and decisive decisions as we flipped through my closet, agreeing on a pair of torn skinny jeans, a lightweight lavender sweater, and a pair of black ballet flats that come to a point at the toe.

  I suck in a deep breath and face Felicity. “Is it too soon for me to be dating?”

  “No.” Her tone is level but firm, her gaze intense. “I’m pretty sure it’s about five years too late.”

  With her hands on my shoulders, we descend the stairs and cross the foyer, going straight outside and to my car. “Text me,” she says. “If anything feels weird or if you feel uncomfortable.” She pulls something dark from the pocket of her sweatshirt and hands it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Mace.”

  “Because you want to ensure I’ll make a lasting impression?”

  Felicity folds her hand over mine. “There’s also a whistle. If you feel threatened, you spray him with the mace and blow your whistle.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Aim for the eyes.”

  “Is this another rule for dating?”

  She shoos me.

  “Now you’re worried about me being late?”

  She grins. “You should be carrying those things with you anyway. Now, have fun, be safe, and don’t forget to touch base with me so I don’t have to send security out looking for you.”

  “You’re going to make this date flawless, aren’t you?”

  “At least you’re admitting it’s a date.” She smiles and slams my car door shut before I can object. She retreats back to the front door, turning to wave good-bye.

  The thirty-minute drive to where I’m meeting Levi is spent with the muscles in my hands strained, gripping the steering wheel so tight my fingers ache. The bar is a large stone building, and like most places in Chicago, the parking lot is small, but luck is on my side and I’m able to find a single spot.

  I get out of the car, and the wind pulls my hair in front of my face. It’s as though Mother Nature knows I spent a full hour blow-drying, straightening, and curling it just so she could show me how quickly she can mess it up.

  The bar is packed, the noise level so high it’s nearly overwhelming as I step out of the way of the doors and peer around. It’s instantly apparent Levi is a White Sox fan. Half the people in attendance are wearing Sox jerseys; many others have painted their faces.

  I scan the crowds, trying to remember if I can recall exactly what Levi looked like. It was only two days ago that we met, but as I stand here, likely looking like a sore thumb, I wonder if I’m remembering him correctly or if the dark club and unease with the situation fabricated part of that evening.

  “Brooke!” I glance to my left and see the same golden hair and bright-blue eyes that seem to hold a myriad of emotions—all of them positive and humorous. He makes his way to me, his smile widening. “I was convinced you’d show up wearing blue.”

  A grin consumes my features. The reaction both involuntary and immediate. “Believe me, I considered it.”

  His responding smile makes my lips tip higher. “I believe it. How are you?”

  I
nod. “I’m excited for my first baseball game! How are you?”

  He tilts his chin up, the movement fractional but a clear indication my answer makes him happy. “This is nothing. Just wait.”

  “Do you come here before every home game?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but it’s always a fun stop before a game as long as you scope it out and know who to avoid.”

  “Who do we avoid?” I ask, looking around the crowded space again.

  Levi steps closer to me, dropping his face next to mine. “See those guys at the bar eating wings?”

  It’s difficult to focus on much aside from how good he smells and how his voice makes something in my belly curl. I track the people sitting at the bar, though, and notice two men sitting with baskets of wings in front of them and nod.

  “They’ve been ranting about the coaches and the players and the weather and everything else for the past fifteen minutes. People like that are total buzzkills, and it’s not uncommon fights break out because of them.” He turns his head, surveying the rest of the bar before pointing to the far end where there’s a table of guys with hats and jerseys deep in a conversation as they listen to the pregame show. “You’ve got the diehard fans over there. They can be total assholes and like to compete with their knowledge of the game.” He gestures to a table of women dressed in tight, low-cut T-shirts, numbers painted on their cheeks. “I’m betting you can guess what they’re here for…” I look at him, but he nods toward a group of guys who are eyeing the same women he just drew my attention to. “And those guys are here strictly for those women,” he confirms.