Stalemate

by Lisa Suzanne

  No one else noticed—at least I’m pretty sure no one else noticed—which means everyone else is drunk enough. Maybe it’s time to move this party over to The Port, but first I’ve gotta figure out how the hell to pretend to do a shot right from the bottle with Axel’s mother.

  She goes first, which is good for me because that means she might not even realize if I don’t do one. The shot girl holds the bottle up to me next. I sigh, resigned to the fact that I have to put on a show here.

  I tilt my head back in a practiced style; unlike Deanna, it hasn’t been years since I’ve done this—more like weeks, maybe even days.

  The shot girl—who must be new because I’ve never seen her, and I know pretty much everyone on this scene—dumps some vodka into my mouth. It’s definitely watered down, which feels sort of unethical to me. I hold it in my mouth and pretend to bob my throat like I’m swallowing. What damage, really, could one shot do one time before I even know for sure I’m with child?

  Since I don’t actually know the answer to that question, it’s best not to risk it.

  Everyone cheers for me like they did when Deanna took her shot, and then the shot girl—and, thus, the attention—moves over to Courtney. I lift my glass of water to my lips and pretend to take a sip of vodka while I let the liquid trickle out of my mouth and into my cup.

  I let out a sigh. That one was a little too close for comfort.

  HOW DO YOU KNOW IF YOU’RE IN LOVE?

  Do you ever wake up one morning and realize you no longer even like something you’ve loved for a really long time? For me, that was hazelnut coffee creamer. I used it religiously in my coffee every single day. I always had four bottles in my fridge at any given time. Even Axel kept a bottle or two in his fridge for me.

  And then one day…that was it. I was sick of it. I didn’t want anything to do with hazelnut ever again. I dumped it down the sink, threw out the bottles, and started drinking vanilla.

  It’s not just the cream, though. This has happened to me with food, too. I used to love pancakes, and now even the sight of them makes me slightly nauseated. There’s no reason why. I didn’t get sick and barf up pancakes. I just stopped liking them.

  It happened to me once with a friend in middle school. It was the height of seventh grade, and Jackie and I were besties. We even had one of those heart necklaces where I wore the BEST half and she wore the FRIENDS half. One day I woke up and that was it—there was something fundamentally wrong with our friendship, and I don’t even know what it was. I took off my necklace, handed it to her in first period math class, and never spoke to her again.

  I guess I’m just terrified this is my pattern. I wake up one day and I’m just done with something—or someone—and I have no explanation for it. What if it happens with Axel? How do I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it won’t?

  What if it happens with my job? I don’t think it will—I love what I do…most of the time—but I’m already having doubts about how long I can sustain partying as a viable career option. My degree is in marketing. I don’t want to leave The Port, but maybe I need to.

  Which brings me to my point.

  How do you know if you’re really in love with someone? How do you know it’s true and real and meant to last?

  That’s the problem with love—you don’t.

  There’s one sure test to tell if you feel strongly about somebody, and that’s the what if they left test.

  What if Axel left me? How would I feel?

  In a word, devastated. I feel tears welling in my eyes just thinking about it.

  He kissed another woman. Okay, okay, she kissed him—whatever. It still happened, and even though I’m trying to move past it, I can’t stop thinking about it. The fact that he told me about it must mean something, right? It means he loves me enough to give me the truth, no matter how hard it is to hear.

  I guess that’s another test—how badly it hurts to find out someone else kissed the man you love.

  Do I love him enough to give him the hard truth?

  I wonder how he’d feel if he knew James kissed me, or even if he knew I saw James. I was off meeting an ex when Axel said he wanted to talk to me. Does the fact that I haven’t told him that yet mean I don’t care about him as much as he cares about me?

  I really don’t think that’s true. It’s a hard truth to admit, but I just haven’t had the chance to tell him. I will, and soon. We have a lot to talk about, it seems.

  I feel a tremendous amount of guilt over the fact that I was too busy making time for an ex to make time for the one person who deserved it the most, but now I can see clearly. I can see how much I love Axel and how much he means to me. Even though we’re on a self-imposed hiatus, it’s temporary. I can’t get the image of his arms around me, telling me not to leave him out of my head. I felt his love wrapping around me like a warm and familiar blanket.

  But I also can’t delete the image of his mouth pressed to Kasey’s from my brain.

  I won’t leave him. I can’t. He’s everything, and I didn’t realize how much I depended on him until we spent a few days apart. I can’t wait to see him again, but I’ve got another week to go.

  Whose idea was it for me to take off work until after Courtney and Carter’s wedding?

  Right. It was Axel’s. Their wedding is a week away now, so it’s a whole week without Axel. A whole week for me to ponder all we’ve been through. Another week for me to try to figure out what everything means and where we go from here.

  Courtney always says writing helps her feel better, but I can’t say I feel any better, and I can’t say I’ve come up with any real solutions.

  But I’m a smart girl. I’ll figure it out.

  COURTING SANDY EGGO

  by guest author Emme Ford

  FAST FIVE: TOP BACHELORETTE PARTY HASHTAGS

  5. #DidIDoThat

  4. #WhatHappenedLastNight

  3. #TwoFewerFishintheSea

  2. #LastNightofFreedom

  1. #HotMessExpress

  CHAPTER 23

  AXEL

  I’ve had enough of the tits bouncing around mere feet from my face. The only naked lady I want to spend time with at the moment is Emme, but I could’ve predicted that before all the scotch.

  I’m ready to leave, but this is Carter’s night. I study him for a minute. He still looks uncomfortable, and I honestly think it’s because he feels the same way I do. When did we become these men wrapped around a woman’s finger? When did strip clubs lose their magic?

  Probably around the time we both fell in love.

  Fucking love. I signal our scantily clad waitress for another scotch.

  Carson, though, is a whole different story. He’s already paid for four lap dances, two from the same dancer and two from two other dancers. He’s ready for a fifth, and I sort of wonder how it’s possible that he’s into this. He’s just a few months younger than me; he should be ready to settle down by now, but he’s not.

  He lives a life very different from mine. I’ll admit that I used to come here and enjoy it, but now I just look at these women and wonder why they’re here. I wonder what void they’re filling or if they’re doing it for the money. I wonder what their relationship with their parents is like. Does Bambi’s mother know she’s here, dancing naked for men as she creates fantasies that rarely turn to reality? Does Bambi’s father remember the days when he visited a club to watch women like his daughter dance before going home to jerk off all alone?

  Is Bambi even her real name?

  I already know Carson’s planning to take Bambi back to his hotel. I offered to let him stay with me, but he knew he’d be taking someone home with him tonight. I appreciate that he won’t be engaging in his loud Carson-style sex in my guest bedroom; I’ve heard it before, and I don’t particularly want to hear it ever again.

  “Want to head to The Port?” Carter asks me while Bambi gyrates on Carson’s lap. He leans his head back and closes his eyes while she starts rubbing herself all over him. She shakes her
tits in his face, and while the rule is no touching, Carson’s never really been one for rules. His fingertips slide up her thighs as he leans his face down into her tits.

  Three dances from the same woman—plus the enormous tips Carson gives—are a clear indication that he wants to take her home, and from the way she’s giving him some extra special attention, I don’t doubt that’ll happen. I sort of just wish he’d think about what he’s doing, though. He came into town to spend time with Carter, and he’s here for less than twenty-four hours. At least eight of those hours will be spent with someone else.

  Someday I’m sure he’ll get his priorities in line, but that day, apparently, isn’t today.

  I shrug in response to Carter’s question. I don’t really want to go to The Port when I’m drunk, don’t want my employees to see me that way, but I guess if I’m lucid enough to think it, I’m not really all that drunk.

  “It’s your night, man,” I say.

  “You think the girls will end up there?”

  I chuckle and shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Should I text Court?”

  He’s clearly looking for any excuse to see how she’s doing, but this is her night, too.

  “No.”

  He nods and turns his attention back to his drink.

  Maybe I should’ve told him to go ahead and text her—then at least I’d possibly get some tidbit of information about Emme.

  Instead, I’m sitting in the middle of a strip club on our boy’s night out wishing it was a quiet night at home with her gathered up in my arms.

  We don’t make it to The Port, but most of us don’t stay at Peaches and Cream much longer. We stumble to a bar a block over from the club to throw back a few more drinks. I always find it interesting to check out the competition, so to speak, though I can’t say this bar is a direct competitor. We’re in a much seedier neighborhood, and the clientele is…well, they’re wearing fewer clothes than the typical patrons of my bar. A red sign proclaiming the bar’s name—Dog’s Tooth—glows overhead as we enter.

  Carson and a few of the other guys who came out with us tonight stayed behind with the strippers, but I feel much more in my element at this bar. While there are plenty of women milling around with less than modest outfits, at least they’re not gyrating inches from my face—well, most of them aren’t.

  Our group is sort of scattered. Carter’s on my right at the bar, and there’s another buddy of his, Brandon, on his other side. A few other guys found a table across the room. I can’t hear a goddamn thing in places like this, and Carter is turned toward Brandon anyway, making me look alone and available. Alone is accurate, but available…not so much.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” a particularly attractive brunette asks me.

  I don’t know, can she? Emme and I are currently apart, but I don’t want a drink from this woman. Besides, drunk blondes are my Achilles heel, not drunk brunettes.

  I tip my half-full glass of scotch in her direction, and she laughs.

  “God, I’m so bad at this,” she says, rolling her eyes in embarrassment.

  “Bad at what?”

  “Trying to pick up a guy.”

  “That’s what that was?” I tease. “I thought you were just being nice.”

  She laughs and pushes my arm.

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing at a bar like this?” I ask.

  She arches a brow. “I’m not really that nice.”

  I chuckle. “Want some unsolicited advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you’re going to hit on someone and use the ‘Can I buy you a drink’ line, check to see if they have a drink first.”

  She laughs. “Solid advice, actually.”

  “I work in a bar. I’ve seen it all.”

  The stool to my left is vacated, and this woman takes a seat. “So what lines work, then?” she asks.

  “Pick your moment. ‘Can I buy you a drink’ isn’t a bad opener, but wait until the glass is almost empty. Keep it simple. Take an interest. Something like ‘What do you do for a living?’ or ‘What’s your favorite beer on tap here?’ usually works. The more complex ones don’t always work, and comedy almost never works.”

  She’s hanging on to my words. “Did mine work?”

  “The drink line?” I shake my head. “Not really.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “The one where I pretended to be interested in what lines actually work.”

  I laugh. “It probably would, but I have a girlfriend.”

  “What’re you doing out here without her?”

  I motion to Carter beside me. “My cousin’s getting married. We’re out for his bachelor party.”

  She nods in understanding. “Did you come from Peaches and Cream?”

  I nod.

  “Was Chastity working tonight?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t hang around long enough to catch their names.”

  She leans in closer to me. “Look, between the two of us, does it really matter if you’ve got some girl back home? I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

  I lean in close to her, too. “Yeah, it really does matter, but thanks for the offer.”

  She stands. “Your loss.” She’s probably right, and I sort of wish Carson was here so at least I could point her in his direction. My heart belongs to someone else, and even though we’re in a holding pattern, I’m not going to fuck it up by sleeping with a girl whose name I don’t even know.

  CHAPTER 24

  EMME

  The next morning, I have a headache despite the fact that I didn’t have a drop of alcohol.

  I stayed up late and wrote two things last night. One was just word vomit to help me feel better about Axel, but it didn’t really help; the other was a Fast Five for Courtney’s blog. I emailed her the Fast Five before I called it a night and slipped into bed completely spent.

  We didn’t make it to The Port last night. All the shots caught up with everyone, so we stayed at Shrine, danced until our feet hurt—well, until my feet hurt since I’m pretty sure no one else was feeling their own—and then we headed home after last call. The Port was closed by then anyway, and I’m glad we didn’t go there. I’m not ready to talk to him yet, and I bet he ended up there.

  I just hope he didn’t end up in Kasey’s arms.

  A trickle of jealousy rolls through me. I hate feeling this way. A week ago, I wasn’t even sure I wanted a commitment, but now…now I’ve decided, and it’s so much more complicated than I ever thought it would be. I just need to trust the man who says he wants to be with me.

  Half of me wants to call him, but the other half of me is terrified. I want to be with him, but I’m not ready to see him. I’m not ready to face the reality of what’s happening inside my body.

  Even so, it looks like today’s the day I might just learn the truth.

  It’s a little after three when there’s a knock at my door. I’m not expecting anybody, so it takes me by surprise. I’m not wearing any makeup, and I let my hair air dry after my shower. I’m in sweats, and for some reason, my appetite has returned with a vengeance.

  The un-fillable hole in the middle of my body seemingly only wants pasta and cheese, so the most viable solution is to chow on mac and cheese. I’ve eaten three entire boxes of the Kraft stuff just since this morning. I can’t even remember the last time I treated myself to pasta, let alone macaroni and cheese. At this rate, I’m not going to fit into my bridesmaid dress next weekend.

  I swing my door open, and Courtney stands there with a paper bag in her hands and a sour look on her face.

  “It’s the radiant bride,” I say with a grin.

  “Shut up.” She walks into my apartment and I shut the door behind her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Hangover from hell. I was up all night praying to the porcelain gods for reprieve.”

  “No luck?”

  She shakes her head, and I giggle.

  “You’re not allowed to laugh at me. You didn’t even
drink.”

  I wipe the smile off my face—mostly. “Did the boys have a good time?”

  “They had a drunken time. Very drunken, apparently.”

  “Axel?” It’s the first time I’ve actually asked about him.

  “Carter said he had a few.”

  “Is he okay?”

  She shrugs. “He misses you.”

  “I miss him too.”

  “I saw what you emailed me, you sure you want me to post it?”

  “Sure, go ahead. What’s in the bag? Tell me it’s food, preferably something cheesy and carby.”

  She looks a little green at the mention of food. “It’s not.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She reaches into the bag and pulls out a box. I’m pretty sure I’m now the one turning a little green. She holds out the two-pack of pregnancy tests.

  “I hope you have to pee,” she says.

  “Thanks for getting these.” I set them on my counter. “I’ll just go ahead and take it later.”

  “No. Now.”

  “I don’t have to pee right now, Court.”

  “Then drink some water. I’m not leaving until you do it, and I might be sick again. You want me to be sick in your apartment?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  “Some friend you are,” she mutters. She picks up the box and presses it back into my hands. “Go.” She nods down my hallway toward my restroom.

  I sigh. “Fine, but just so you know, if it turns out positive, it’s on you.”

  She laughs. “Right. It’s totally my fault if you’re knocked up.”

  I giggle, too, because despite the gravity of this situation, it’s pretty ridiculous that I’m trying to blame anyone other than Axel or myself.

  I head down the hall, and she follows me. “Are you going to come in with me, too?” I ask snidely.

  “I need to make sure you’re not cheating.”

  “Oh my God. Give a girl a little privacy.”

  “Fine,” she huffs. “I’ll be right out here.”

  I close the door in her face and turn the box over in my hands. The directions seem simple enough: pee on the stick, wait three minutes, and then look in the little window on the front. If I see a minus, that’s a negative, meaning I’m not pregnant. If it’s a plus, well, that’s a positive, so I am. The stick already has a faint minus sign, so maybe that’s a sign that I’m not pregnant. Maybe it really has just been the tacos this whole time.