Warning

by Rayana S Hughes

  Tina whipped me around faster than she should have and gave me a good push toward the entrance. Only one person could walk through the door at a time and it was a tight squeeze. The whole thing seemed kind of sketchy, but we had seen other people walking in and there were bouncers checking IDs at the door, so I assumed it was legit.

  My dad would be so disappointed in me.

  Oh well, anyway, on we went.

  When we entered the room, it was blank of everything except a staircase. Going down, it was very steep and went very deep. We got a lantern at the start of the stairs to help us on the way down. And it turns out that the club was a cavern. How stinking cool! But I wouldn’t know because, right when I got to the last step, I tripped on a pebble and went flying. Stone and bone don’t mesh. Meaning, I knocked myself out from the force and saw stars, and then nothing.

  Five minutes later, I was awoken to the soft breeze of a hairy man.

  Explanation: They had me on the floor near the entrance of the club and this hairy man was blowing air on my face. It was a mix between hot Cheetos, and tequila but it did the job. After I thanked him profusely for preventing my trampling, I finally took a look around the cavern. Let’s start with the ceiling, shall we, because that was where all the rent was going to. It was magnificent to say the least. Sharp columns arched to a point at the highest peak and were covered with colorful mosaics. They consisted of biblical stories, and prominent figures. Somehow, Elvis Presley made his way to the column on the left.

  The dance floor was rainbow-stained glass to match the ceiling. The club owners knew good and well that the whole club was a beautiful inevitable death trap. Only fifty-nine people were allowed to dance on the floor at the same time. Is it maniacal if I wanted to see what would happen if the number went even? Anyway, the music was off to a slow start, many of the club’s inhabitants were highly annoying and the wedges I chose to wear were giving me blisters. To top it off, I still hadn’t found Tina from when she completely abandoned me at the end of the stairwell. The place was huge but thank goodness for the height cap. Half the club was shorter than me and I saw her in the middle of the floor shaking her tailfeather. If you need to know anything about Tina, it’s that she can dance. But alas, she literally left my health up to some random man and I had to be a little pettifogging, so I started my march to the floor.

  Before I could step foot, I heard an ear-piercing whistle from a corner near the DJ booth. I couldn’t see who it was because of the epilepsy unfriendly strobe lights, but I heard some man yell, “ONLY FIFTY-NINE.”

  I was like, dude why are you yelling? The second he did, the record scratched and the whole club looked at me in horror, it was like some unbroken rule, people really throw you under a bus. I promise I saw Tina duck from my line of sight and move further to the middle of the floor, how that is even possible, I’m baffled.

  The music started back up a couple moments later and everyone moved on, so that was good. I had to shimmy around the edge of the floor and practically pull Tina off, so I could yell at her.

  Before I even had a chance to warm up my vocal cords, she spieled, “Sorry I left you, my favorite song came on and the power of my hips were too strong.” I understood completely, her favorite song was by Spanish pop mogul Frankie Delamine and anytime that song came on, she had to dance, or she would feverishly combust. But I wasn’t letting her off easy, so I did what I did best: ignored her and walked off toward the drinks.

  Remember, folks, this book is about how I discovered the meaning of having a love life or lack thereof, so here is the part you came here to read. Picture me, the bartender, and a lot of love. “Love” being the drink of the day, it was pink and sparkly and I’m pretty sure not safe to consume. But this particularly handsome man seated across from me had ordered two so I’m guessing he liked them, but then he started to walk over towards me. Correction, he started to slide from his barstool over six more towards me.

  It was a mix of creepy and kind of intriguing, I would dare say smooth, if he wasn’t bumping over each seat and spilling half of the drink on his shirt along the way.

  Close your eyes and imagine that for a second.

  Okay, so this charmer was without doubt exceedingly drunk and apparently, he wanted me to join him. But I tend to run away from my problems. So, seeing as he was the problem, I ran. I quite literally hopped off my stool and shimmied to the dance floor backwards. Was that a good idea? No. Did I do it anyway? Yes.

  I feel like this was the point where my dear mother would have said, “You are going to trip and fall, watch where you’re going!” but I was twenty-five, I didn’t need parental guidance to dissuade me from making dumb decisions. I could do that myself. So, as I conclude my case, listen to your parents. They do know what’s best thirty-six percent of the time.

  The linebacker in me completely knocked over this unsuspecting man and he pushed his drink on to his date’s dress. She spewed some choice words at him, and he angrily looked at me. So now, I had two people chasing me. I can honestly say that they probably weren’t actually behind me when I turned Steve Mullings in Club Average, sprinting from the bar to the floor and doing a little zig zag trick that I learned to fake out my brother in basketball.

  But that didn’t mean that the whole situation wasn’t the most interesting thing that had happened on the trip. The bouncers were the evident party poopers of the situation because they kicked me out faster than I thought was moral. But it’s fine because I was tired of the club anyways. I hadn’t met any guys and Tina was in her own world.

  I waited on the curb for my dear friend shaking her hips inside. What felt like decades later, she finally came looking for me. I rolled my eyes at her and said, “You are continually losing best friend points from the entirety of this night.”

  To which she gave a nervous laugh and said, “I’m going to call us a cab, my treat.” When we arrived back to the hotel, Carol was fast asleep and apparently used a horror flick as her soothing sound. Tina looked at her and decided to imitate. I, on the other hand, had work to do. I showered, brushed my teeth, and braided my hair. I also set out my outfit for the next day because there’s something about having that much of my life figured out that brings comfort.

  It’s the whole concept that you did something productive that day if you at least made your bed. It’s most likely a psychological flaw but I take that to heart and stick to routine, even when I’m exhausted from the day’s events.

  In the start of a new day, I was surprised to find breakfast waiting at the foot of my bed. And two creepy smiles on the horizon. My dearest best friends treated me to empanadas and fresh fruit that, mixed together, smelled like sweet and spicy magic. Carol gave me the lowdown: “Waverly, I know we agreed to go with you horseback riding on the beach, but we really want to go on a true Barcelona chocolate tour.”

  Tina piped up, “Yeah, I know you don’t like chocolate, but we don’t really like horses so maybe we can spend this morning separate and you can meet us for lunch and tell us all about beach riding.”

  I groaned. “Guys, you made it seem as if you were equally excited to go, but I’d rather do it by myself if I’ll be the only one to enjoy it.” Now, I’ll admit it, I most definitely tried the whole guilt route, including the pouty lip and hanging shoulders but what I got in turn was a unified thank you, and Tina running for the door while Carol claimed, “We already purchased the tickets. Thanks for understanding, see you at lunch. Keep in touch.”

  Ridiculous, they were making me go solo again. And this time, not by choice. All for the love of chocolate.

  Intermission: Choco Judgement

  For those who don’t know me personally, I feel it important to include a description of my disdain for chocolate. The very food itself is therapeutic to many people and they can eat it all day. I, on the other hand, cannot stand it. Pure chocolate, including, bars, chips, various frostings and glazes all taste like powder, and they give me a headache. So, imagine the surprise of people when I say I l
ike Oreos and brownies.

  Listen, there is a difference between chocolate bars and baked goods. I could enjoy a chocolate cookie as long as it wasn't coated in an extra inch of chocolate or the chips weren’t more noticeable than the cakey taste. Just not my preference. Needless to say, Valentine’s Day isn’t my least favorite day just because I’m single. And I like Halloween for the experience, not the reward. I find that I’ll eat just about anything but will always have my limits about chocolate. I’d rather swim in a pool of ice cream, but to each their own.

  5’7

  Age 25

  Darrell

  Notice the title of this chapter. Take a moment and try to guess what this guy looked like. We all contain a judgmental part in our brains that likes to stereotype, where the name and occupation of someone can conjure a look.

  So really, imagine the Darrell of your horse stable dreams, and paint him up. Think about his outfit. Picture him as country as possible but remember he’s in Spain, not the Midwest. Conjure up his dialect and make it bizarre, imagine him saying your name and inviting you to ride into the sunset with him. Watch as he tenses his shoulders to control the reigns and how his biceps flex when he changes direction. Stare at the chestnut ponytail situated on the back of his neck. Smell the hint of aftershave and feel the washboard abs as you hold on to his waist—boys, you do it too. Lean into him and trust your life in his hands.

  You are starting to relax and enjoy the sounds of the Nanday parakeet chirping softly in the background. This is the most at peace you’ve ever felt near a large farm animal. The horse, you discover, has a personalized blue and white saddle, and as you look down, you see that the saddle is monogrammed with the horse’s name. The horse’s name is Darrell. And now you look folly because you just enjoyed a fantasy about a horse. One that was malodorous and older than the dinosaurs. You’re welcome.

  There were only four other people enjoying this ride and they were together, so I was truly on my own. Which was fine if it weren’t for the fact that they were seemingly on a double date. I’m all for love at this day and age, if it’s genuine, the world needs more of it. But hearing kissing sounds behind me as the trail stretched on started to get a little old. I don’t even understand how they were managing to keep up. The guide’s name was Larry and he was, without a doubt, the most interesting man I’d ever met. Solely because he had his goatee stretched with rubber bands and it hit around his belly button. Every time he would turn to explain something, it would swish. He also smelled like a bag of skittles which was odd because in his right hand, he was donning a rather large turkey leg. He offered me some but I’m a vegetarian, so I kindly turned him down.

  As he was taking another bite, through a mouthful he said, “I know you hear the kissing sounds too, and I have a feeling you don’t have anyone to replicate them with, so how about I save you the agony and teach you how to gallop so you can pace a little farther ahead of us.” I thought about it for a minute and piqued to attention, so he could teach me his ways. A moment later, I was on my way. I had only ridden a horse one other time, and most horse movies fail to show how much balance it takes to stay on a horse. Their hip bones jive up and down as they walk on each leg, just like any living mammal, but that made the ride rough. I kept slipping from one side to the other, especially as Darrell picked up the pace. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the old gremlin was trying to buck me off.

  I held steady and gleefully escaped the kissing. Considering this excursion was called a ride along the beach, we didn’t get to the beach until the ride was almost over. The stables were a substantial distance from the beach. When we finally arrived, we caught the final glimpses of sunrise. The sky was freckled with wispy clouds, amidst a hazy violet background that turned into a gradient of pastel yellow, and twenty different hues of pink. The rising sun almost seemed flecked with gold and that sight was enough to shock me so much, that I accidentally let go of the reigns, slid dangerously to the left, and tried to balance myself while overcompensating my right side and I fell. Face first into the sand. If you’ve been reading avidly, you may see a trend, which is my inability to land with my hands out to protect my face. The double date couples rushed to my aid while Larry shook his head and magically pulled out a pack of cigars. He must have been hiding them in his goatee.

  Intermission: Open Up

  Now that we are about halfway through my girls’ trip, I am about to get to the memorable parts—if you consider what I’ve already told you not all that interesting. I feel as if I’ve robbed you of descriptors starting from the first page so now allow me to fix that. In my previous chapters, I’ve told you about the unfortunates—I mean men—who failed to be impressed by my razzle dazzle. If you find it difficult to put a face to their names, that’s okay. Actually, that was the point. While they were all a big reason for my romantic failure and lack of reassurance in my own self appeal, they are mere pawns compared to these next guys.

  Also, I feel as if you know nothing about me but that’s also on purpose. Often times, romance books are filled to the brim with sensory mementos, you are forced to imagine what the characters look like. I, on the other hand, am seeking to create sympathy. Because I’m not the only one who seems to continually be the single one, the third wheel, the inexperienced, and the unlucky.

  I’m not saying I’m you, whoever happens to be reading this. I’m just saying that it’s a lot easier to relate to something if you can make it your own. Those very illusive characters in the previous chapters could be your very own ridiculous Romeos. In other words, it’s less work for me. As I was saying, I will go into depth about these next guys because they were fetching, similar to that of your modern-day idiot. They also almost got your fellow trio killed.

  Ha! Gotcha

  Age 25

  Ricardo

  If you remember the stunt I pulled with Darrell, that was before, and this is now. What I describe will not be a farm animal but instead the man, the myth, and the legend. Times three. That’s right, there were three of them: the name Ricardo stood for two twins and their older brother. As it goes, their names were Ricky, Cary, and Dominic. Ricky and Dominic were identical twins and equally fun to look at. They were both extremely bronze and had shoulder-length, black, curly hair that they had situated in a man bun at the top of their heads. They were broad shouldered and each easily over six feet tall. They both had green eyes and Ricky had a beard while Dominic had a mustache. Facial hair is typically a turn off for me, but it sure worked in their favor.

  Cary, on the other hand, was their complete opposite. For one, he was adopted. He was from India and very short. He was barely four eleven and quite stocky. But he had a cute baby face, even though he was older than the twins by two years.

  He had no facial hair and his left ear pierced. His hair was also black but in sharp contrast, a buzz-cut. He played soccer and had the legs of a seasoned athlete. The twins had your more typical beach body: one that spent a little longer in tanning beds and gyms as opposed to the fresh air outdoors. We met all three while they serenaded us at a local outdoor restaurant. In case I forgot to mention, they were in a band. Hence, the conjoined name. Ricky was guitar. Dominic was piano, and vocals while Cary played the triangle— very well, I might add.

  Even as I speak highly of Cary, I realize how obvious the ploy was now. The odd one out act was just what it seemed and Carol, Tina, and I were certified targets. Quite frankly, they did take us on an adventure before the metaphorical bomb dropped, but I had grown quite fond of my friendship with Cary. Which is why unlike the other guys I mentioned, he made the largest imprint. In laments terms, I thought we were becoming true friends. But it was all a very large lie.

  As I mentioned earlier, we met Ricardo in a local outdoor restaurant. After they did their set, they came to our table in particular and introduced themselves. Carol, always the boldest and already happily in love, showed no distress in offering them our name and asking them to show us “some real fun.” She straightened in he
r pink acrylic chair that matched the pink lemonade theme of the restaurant and said, “Oh my gosh, you guys were awesome, I’ve never seen such talent.” They all gave similar gestures of thanks and Ricky spoke up.

  “Well, it was certainly nice to have such beautiful ladies in the audience to encourage us to do our very best.”

  Dominic countered with, “Well, it would be even nicer if we knew your names, amigas.”

  Tina cleared her throat and said in her high, cute boy alert voice, “I’m Tina, and these are my gals, Waverly, and Carol.”

  I finally looked up after doing a once over of each of them and said a bit too loud, “Since you guys live here, what’s there to do besides dine, dance, sleep, repeat?” It was my way of flirting. Refer to chapter Age 16-18 to refresh on how bad I am at that.

  The guys looked at each other a little nervously and seemed a tad uncomfortable. Carol helped me out, “What she meant to say was, if you guys aren’t too busy with your gigs the next couple of days, would you mind showing us a good time? We’ve run out of excursions and want a less touristy, more local tour.” Now, that sounds so unrealistic, I’m aware, but the girl had the charm and of course, that worked, and they smiled at her. They were very cute smiles that were one hundred percent not meant for me to enjoy, the ones where it’s only you and the person you’re staring at in the room.

  Then Tina giggled, and they gave her one too. I wanted a hundred-watt smile in my direction, so I tried flipping my hair and giggling at the same time, but I did it so jerkily that I backhanded my cheek and had a cough attack at the same time. A girl cannot catch a break.