Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  We’re silent a minute, the sounds of dudes cheering on the baseball game are faint and distant.

  “I know that probably seems really dumb,” she continues. “He was a jerk, I guess. But I thought I was in love with him, you know? I thought he was in love with me. And if he couldn’t accept—”

  “For what it’s worth, it sounds like he was trying to make you into something you weren’t.”

  She gives a slow nod. “True. But this experience kind of just turned me into more of a klutz, you know? A ticking time bomb.” She allows a soft giggle.

  I furrow my brow again and lean back.

  “Maybe you should have killed him,” I finally say.

  She laughs with her whole body this time.

  “I know I shouldn’t have let it affect me so much—I shouldn’t still be letting it affect me five years later, but I don’t know how to stop it.”

  I reach over and give her forearm another loving little pat. “I know, girl. I know. One negative thing shouldn’t negate a million positive things, but one rotten DB does tend to spoil the whole bushel. Know what I mean?”

  She chews her bottom lip again. “I think so?”

  “But this is all good information to know. Because we definitely don’t want to be falsely advertising you or making you do things you aren’t going to be comfortable with. We just may need to get creative with you.”

  As I push my index finger into my chin to do some Very Deep Thinking, our waitress comes over with a smile plastered across her too-tan face. Two shots of some caramel-colored something or other sit atop the tray in her hand, the booze dancing in time to the rhythm of her steps.

  “These are from those guys over there.” She turns and nods toward a pair of pool players who are nothing but dimples and merriment when we look in their direction.

  One of them—the shorter one—offers a little wave, and it’s actually kind of adorable. Ansley’s whole posture changes. She takes a deep breath. And I can feel a giddiness emanate from behind her skin.

  And a terror.

  I glance their way, acknowledge them with a bob of the head, and then put up a hand to the waitress.

  “No, thanks.”

  The girl’s eyes widen. She takes a step back. Apparently she has to get hold of her mouth before she can even manage to utter half a question. “Are you—”

  I smooth on a smile. “Tell them thanks, but we don’t accept drinks from strangers.” I give the end of the tray a double pat for extra emphasis.

  She directs one more For real? look my way before she returns to the boys, her gait now not unlike she’s got a beer tap up her ass.

  Ansley’s amusement seems to have been zapped away as well, and I chuckle.

  “You’ll see.” I suck the remaining water through the straw until it makes that awful empty scraping sound.

  Her attention is on the waitress, whose night has apparently been ruined by my Difficultness. The girl gestures toward me and sends her gaze ceilingward as if I can’t see her; the guys take on wounded looks.

  But not thirty seconds go by before they’re strutting their way over.

  Ansley squeezes the circulation out of my arm under the table.

  “Told you,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

  “You did no—”

  The taller one fills out his polo shirt quite nicely, knots of pectoral muscles shifting with his little strut as he sports half a grin.

  “Excuse me, ladies. I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says as he approaches, “but we just wanted to introduce ourselves. Seeing as though you don’t—uh—accept drinks from strangers and all.” There’s a playful bounce to the end of his sentence, and I smile as I sink my chin in a palm.

  I’m listening.

  “I’m Tom,” he says. “And this is—”

  “Jerry?” I can’t help it.

  And we all snigger at my lame joke.

  Ansley’s hand is slick around my arm now.

  “Jerry” raises his eyebrows at me, a pinch of salt and pepper in his purposeful scruff. “My name’s Marco, actually.” He grins.

  “Pipe down, Jerry. So what’s in these shots?” I straighten up.

  “Oh, you’re going to do them now?”

  I can smell the Bleu de Chanel on Marco’s skin as he leans toward me.

  I shrug and look up at him through my eyelashes. “We might.”

  “It’s Fireball. Not too fancy.”

  “I like that,” I say, reaching for a shot glass and setting it in front of my petrified pal.

  “Wait wait wait.” Tom makes like he’s guarding the drinks. “You have to introduce yourselves now. We don’t drink with strangers either.” A sparkle in his eye.

  I turn to her. She’s practically gnawing off her bottom lip, and I nudge her under the table with my sneaker.

  She wrenches her mouth open. “I’m—” And then she starts a crazy coughing fit—bones desperately trying to rip their way out of the skin of her neck, her chest. It’s like a scene out of Alien.

  Tom and Jerry yank back and shield the shots from the invisible spittle she’s probably launching at them.

  She’s purple.

  Gasping.

  My college lifeguard training kicks in, and suddenly I’m beating her between the shoulders and ready to give her the Heimlich or something?—I was not a good lifeguard—but, oh my dear God!

  She bangs her head to the table, and then it stops. Just like that.

  I blink, concerned she might actually be dead? But the color—or really, lack thereof, returns to her face, and she looks less corpse bride and more typical white girl.

  “Are you all right?” Tom slides in the booth next to her and places a gentle hand on her back. His eyes are wide with what looks like genuine concern.

  I’m impressed.

  She nods, but can barely bring herself to meet his gaze. Gives her sternum a bump with one fist and clears that problematic throat of hers.

  “I’m Ansley,” she says with a small smile.

  I can’t tell if the moisture in her eyes is from her coughing fit or from trying to hold back a monsoon of emotion right here.

  Whichever it is, it seems to be working because Tom returns her sweetness with a kind smile of his own—

  And for a moment I think maybe Ansley’s not going to need to hire me after all. Tom doesn’t seem like an asshole—I mean, we’ve known him all of thirteen seconds, but that’s usually long enough for me to tell. He and his crony didn’t bail. Didn’t mock her.

  Maybe there’s hope for Ans on her own yet.

  “I definitely need that drink now.” She pats at her throat with a languid hand.

  Marco indicates the spot next to me and throws me a look like May I? and I have to say, I’m sort of dazzled by his politeness. I smile and scooch on over.

  “Blanche,” I say.

  My God. What’s happening.

  I lift the sangria pitcher and examine it from below. Certainly doesn’t look like we’ve been drugged or anything?

  “To us?” Marco raises his glass first, teeth bright behind a wide smile, and we all follow suit.

  Shrug.

  “To us,” we concur.

  And just as I’m knocking mine back, the splash of cinnamon invigorating me, clearing my sinuses, I come back up for the refreshing, breathy ahh…when the sound I emit is more a guttural AGGHH.

  Ansley has defied all logic. She’s gone to take her shot, but her aim? Not so hot. She’s pelted me with it—delicious liquid cinnamon somehow permeates the lenses of my glasses like she’s launched a flaming arrow straight at my eyeball.

  The sting!

  The burn!

  Like Tom and Jerry’s pee, more than likely.

  They’ve done nothing wrong, but I hate them again—I hate everyone—as I’m flailing all over, trying not to make too much of a scene—oh, who am I kidding?—but I can’t even really worry about that now because WILL I EVER SEE AGAIN?

  I’ve ripped off my glasses, and I�
�m feeling around for my water.

  “Are you—” It’s Marco. His tone is as tentative as the brush of his fingertips at my shoulder.

  “Just go,” I bark.

  I don’t mean to sound so bitchy, but I can’t deal with them right now, and I can’t worry about if they’re Okay or think we’re nuts or whatever.

  Ans is dabbing at my sticky face with a wet napkin, and I’ve managed to grab a piece of ice and hold it to my ruined eyeball. I press it there.

  Sweet relief!

  I can finally open the thing again juuuust a sliver in time to see two blurry figures bustle away from the table and out of the restaurant.

  So much for Tom and Jerry.

  “I’m so sorry.” Tears leak their way onto Ansley’s cheeks, which have taken on a reddish hue that I’m not sure is embarrassment or anger, or something else entirely.

  “Don’t be.” I loop my non-ice-holding arm around her. “They’re two dudes. There’s no short abundance of them. Look around. And if they scare this easily? Good riddance.” I salute with my ice.

  Still squinting with my right eye, I fumble around in my purse for the burner phone.

  “I do think we need to change one thing about your profile, though,” I say.

  “To what?” Her eyes go wide.

  “I’m no doctor, but it seems to me you’ve got some sort of relationship PTSD. This Vespa incident has given you this perceived inability to speak to members of the opposite sex without making a complete fool of yourself. I think we can fix this. This here?” I indicate my eye. “This wasn’t a huge deal. No broken bones. And you were digging on Tom—I could tell.”

  She grins, even though she appears to be blinking back more tears.

  “I think I have what I need to get cracking on this.” I tap the phone screen with a fingernail. Flick through the settings and hit Edit.

  And replace No prison tattoos with Accident prone.

  She takes it in, gives a thoughtful nod, and then: “That’s fair.”

  * * *

  I don’t think we mean to, but to recover from her latest blunder, Ansley and I stick around the restaurant and get a little bit sloppy. We’re going through Spark profiles and judging others—and it’s great! We’ve even matched with a cutie named Nate, who writes us immediately (which sends Ansley into a frenzy of having to fan herself).

  “He’s not even here!” I cackle and order another round.

  “It says in his profile his father wrote Another Day in Paradise.” Her mouth opens in what looks like awe, and she clutches the phone, stars already in her eyes.

  “Hold, please.” I snatch the device from her fingertips.

  A few seconds later, thanks to the Internet, I have to deliver the Bad News.

  “I know you’re the fact checker,” I say, “but it says here that the author of that book, Eddie Little, was survived by a daughter, not a son. What a psycho.”

  The truth hangs in the air, and I watch the sparkle fade from Ansley’s gaze as she reads the words on the phone.

  When I call the dude on this, his response is “Ok” (not even “OK”—the only way it could be worse is if it were “K”)—and I struggle through my tipsiness for the zinger.

  Another day in loneliness for you! Good luck, Pinocchio!

  I turn to Ans and curl a lip at my effort. “They can’t all be gold.”

  We swipe through a few more—all “entrepreneurs” (translation: drug dealers), dudes sporting the Jimmy Neutron look, and married couples looking to spice up their sex lives (a good way to get yourself sold into the sex slave industry, if you ask me).

  Left, left, left, left, left.

  It’s comforting to know how aligned our tastes for her are—I’m really nailing this!—when suddenly I’m jolted to a halt by a visage staring back at me.

  And just as the name and photo register—the strong jaw, the close-cropped hair, the cocky smile—the pound and a half of queso I’ve consumed this evening churns in my gut.

  “Let me see!” Ansley leans over me, eyes glowing in the phone’s light. “Henry, thirty-one. Ooh—he’s cuuute!”

  And she swipes Right before there’s One Goddamn Thing I can do about it.

  It’s an instant match. Because of course it is.

  Each of my nerve endings is activated at once. It’s not pain, but it’s not unlike pain. I don’t know what it is. It’s something else altogether, and I’m suddenly sober. That much I do know.

  I try to push down the panic.

  To figure out how the hell to Make This Go Away.

  But each photo he’s got is dreamier than the last. She’s clapped a palm to her chest; she’s aww-ed at his obligatory puppy picture: She’s not torn her gaze from the screen. She’s hooked.

  I try my hand at putting his profile down, but she’s countered each lame attempt at a no of mine with a yesyesyes.

  My protestations are weak anyway. Let’s face it: He’s kind of a Hemsworth.

  But I can’t allow it. Can’t—

  Rule Number 7—Don’t get involved with anyone you know—flashes like a beacon across my sluggish brain.

  It’s also weak, but it’s what I’ve got.

  I stand to make it seem like more of a deal.

  “I hate to tell you this, but I kinda know this guy.”

  Her eyes light. “You do?”

  “Yes, and—look—I make it a rule not to take on my friends as clients. I’m already kind of breaking that with you because I feel like we’re friends now—”

  She smiles wide. She’s missing the point.

  “Has this ever happened before where a client has matched up with someone you know?” she asks.

  “Never. And the ethical ambiguity of that—acting on your behalf, lying to them. It’s too weird. It’s messy. I don’t think—”

  She looks through his pictures again and whimpers. “What, is he a dick?”

  I frown. Consider how to answer that. “Well, not—”

  She scrunches her face. “You didn’t sleep with him or something, did you?” She scoffs like How Ridiculous, but the horror that creeps across her face makes me sure my own face has become the color of a hot chili pepper.

  This is my chance to tell her.

  I open my mouth, but I’m choked by fear for some reason.

  I just can’t do it.

  And anyway, is it such a big deal that we slept together? He certainly made a thing of telling me the other night that it wasn’t.

  We had a night together. A half hour, really.

  I think of how smug he was, sitting there telling me it was nothing.

  How condescending.

  How he knew just how to pick at the scab.

  How I know he could unravel me.

  And these thoughts make up my mind for me. I refuse to acknowledge it for one more second.

  To admit the truth to Ansley now would be to legitimize the encounter.

  To let him win.

  Eff that.

  So I clear my throat and blink through the lie. “No, I didn’t sleep with Henry.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She gives a celebratory bounce and starts playing with her hair as she peruses his profile once again.

  Mm-hm is the only utterance I can scrape together.

  And then I gesture toward our server with the last of my sangria, now too sour to force down.

  “Can we get the check?”

  Chapter 6

  After a morning of side work and other wonderful errands, I finally roll into L&L around lunchtime. The place is hopping; patrons wander through the aisles, sidle up to the new release tables, and page through this week’s Employee Picks. The smell of the books, the trace of vanilla wafting through the place, almost makes me forget what a crappy morning I’ve had. I’m almost happy.

  Until—

  “Oh my God.” Gordon’s hands sweep in front of his chiseled jawline at the sight of me, his guffaw a jackhammer to my caffeine-deprived brain. He bugs his eyes, and I question why I even came in tod
ay, but I can’t hide from work for the next three weeks.

  “I know you have a thing for Captain Jack Sparrow and all—who doesn’t—but I think this is taking it a bit too far.” He throws the comment over his shoulder as he struts his way into the back room.

  I push past him and can’t help the eye-roll that ensues, but it stings. And he’s only on the receiving end of half of it, thanks to the goddamn eye patch Dr. Ruin-My-Life issued me not an hour ago, so it loses its effect.

  “So I take it your eye appointment went well?” Still snickering, he plants himself on the edge of my desk.

  “I don’t want to hear it.” I shove him off. “It’s going to be difficult enough wearing this stupid thing, but not being able to express my annoyance with you? Torture.”

  “What did they say was wrong with your eye?” He reaches out tentatively, like my new fashion statement is that black goo from Prometheus and he knows he probably shouldn’t touch it but he just can’t help himself.

  “It’s infected. Thanks, Ansley,” I mutter.

  He clicks his tongue and looks down at me with pity in his gaze.

  “Speaking of, has You Know Who messaged her yet?”

  I can’t suppress the curl to my upper lip. “No.”

  “Well? Maybe he won’t, then. Maybe she’s not his type.” His voice goes up a note at the end, to punctuate his positivity.

  I snort. “They’ve already matched up, and—please. Whose type isn’t Ansley?”

  He squishes his face a sec and, then, a flicker in his eyes: “Mine?”

  We both crack up.

  “Any other luck for her?”

  “So far, we’ve matched with two others. There were only about five Right Swipes out of forty-maybe-fifty potentials. Slim pickins today!”

  I show him Kevin, 28, and Dominic, 30, and the nonreaction I get in return indicates these guys aren’t G’s type either.

  I’m elbow-deep in a stack of packing slips when the store phone rings. The Caller ID says Van de Kamp, and I shake my head at my pal.

  “Mr. Van de Kamp,” I answer, tucking one side of my hair behind my ear.

  “Call me Roger—call me Roger,” he says, like he always does. He doesn’t add the word “poppycock” to it, but every sentence I’ve ever heard him say sounds like he should.