That Guy

by Belle Brooks

  I tilted my head, laid my cheek into my palm, and tried hard to look cute. I fluttered my eyelashes to the point Alec was hard to see.

  “Oh, I see how you’re lookin’ my way, girl.” Alec had swagger even in the way he spoke.

  I giggled. My giggle grew out of control, then I heard a loud WHACK! The sound present before I’d even felt it.

  “Oh shit! Damn!” I could hear the humour in his tone, and then his rumbling laughter filled the diner, followed by more laughter coming from all around me.

  I lifted my head, my hair now covered in thick chocolatey liquid, only to find all Alec’s friends surrounding him, us. They laughed and pointed.

  “You’re a loser, Melinda.” Lakey, Alec’s best mate, heckled me. “She made it so easy for us, too. I guess our plan to get a picture of her dress around her head wasn’t needed after all. This was far better.”

  The sound of the camera firing had tears welling in my eyes.

  “You’re a train wreck, Melinda Grant.” Alec only brought me here to make me a laughing stock, and he succeed without having to try at all.

  “Train wreck, train wreck, train wreck,” they chanted in unison.

  “Why would you do this to me?” I was in pain and dizzy when I stood. I cried as I ran out the doors, never waiting for him to reply to my question of why. Why he would go to so much trouble just to humiliate me? That day, I vowed I’d never date again.

  “You’re not going to be deliberately embarrassed, Min-Star,” Chris says, startling me.

  “How did you know—”

  “I know you. I knew you’d be freaking out. Plus, I live inside your head. Nobody knows you better than me, and after you told me this morning you had a date tonight, I knew you’d have worked yourself up. I know you think you’re going to embarrass yourself, but you’re not. You need to be you. Be you, and Mediamogul_234, also known as Graham Semi-Good Looking Gruff, will be eating out of your hands.” Chris places his hands on each of my upper arms. “And he’ll love you, and you’ll get married and have two-point-five kids and a house with a white picket fence and a dog, because Fletcher needs to not rule this roost. You’ll be happy, and you’ll get the ‘D’ whenever you want it, and you’ll go on family holidays, and I’ll come with a new man attached to my arm each time because, let’s face it, settling down gives me the creeps.” Chris takes a gasping breath.

  “You know you can pause for air when talking, right?”

  He grins. “You know how I get when I’m on my encouragement rants, girl.”

  I nod “Okay, so what do I wear, Mr Personal Shopper for all the Rich and Hoity-Toity people?”

  “Shove over.” Chris bumps my hip with his. “Let’s see. What to wear, what to wear,” he sings.

  I can’t help but to fold my arms around his slender frame. “I love you.”

  “Girl, I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. I love you.” He kisses my hair. “Now, move. I’m going to make you dazzle.”

  “Oh, dazzle. Now dazzle I want.”

  I listen to the sound of clothing item after clothing item being shuffled along.

  “Bingo! We have a winner.” Chris removes my knee-length black halter dress, the one I bought when in the US last summer. “Definitely this. And we’ll need some black heels and a pair of gold earrings. You go and sit on the bed and let me work my magic.”

  I take three long strides backwards until the back of my legs meets the wood of the bedframe, then plonk down in a heap.

  “Not these shoes. My grandma wouldn’t be seen dead wearing those. They need to be dumped at the tip.” Chris is bent down into the bottom of the cupboard with his bum in the air, muttering loudly. “Those are … dear God, do you have taste coming out of your arse? These need to be engulfed in flames and turned to ashes.” Chris shakes his head. “Ewww. No. They’re hideous.” A shoe goes flying over his shoulder, and I duck because I’m certain it will connect with my face. “Where are the hooker heels? We need hooker heels, damn it.” Chris sounds flustered. The more he says, the more I lose hope this evening will go well at all. “Yes. These. They aren’t exactly hooker heels, but they’re a cute peep-toe. Actually …” Chris turns to face me “What’s the state of your toenails right now?”

  I tuck my toenails against the fine carpeting.

  “That bad?” Chris sighs. “I’ll paint them for you.” He stops speaking. He stares. “Please tell me you still have the nail polish kit I bought you?”

  I nod.

  Chris circles his lips in a tight ‘O’ shape and exhales a forced breath. “Right, we’re all set. Stockings. Do you have tan stockings?” He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “Your legs are too pasty white. Oh, and do you have stockings I can cut the toe part completely off because I’ll have to alter them to sit right with your shoes?”

  “Yes.” I bite my nail.

  “Stop doing that,” Chris scolds.

  What?”

  “Biting your nail. Stop being nervous, because there’s nothing to be nervous about. I’ve got you, babe. I’m always going to have your back.”

  I drop my hand into my lap. “I’ll get the stockings then.”

  “No. Stay there. Where are they?”

  “Top drawer. Bedside cupboard. Use an older pair, please.”

  “Okay.”

  As Chris circles the bed, I say a silent prayer.

  Please, God, don’t let me mess up this date. I don’t have to fall in love with this guy or get married or have two-point-five kids right away. I just want to get through one adult conversation with a man, on a date, without making a fool of myself. Capisce?

  “Bathroom cupboard for the nail polish kit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be right back.”

  As Chris shimmies past me, I take a moment to thank God for him too.

  ***

  Every stroke of bright red polish Chris applies to my now groomed toenails is made with concentration. He’s a man on a mission, and I’m under strict instructions not to move a muscle.

  “Don’t move. Your nails are drying, and while they dry, we should go over our flight plan for tonight.”

  “Flight plan?”

  “Yes. It’s the foolproof analogy for what’s about to go down.”

  “Okay. If you say so.” I drop my head to peek at my toes.

  “What part of ‘don’t move a muscle’ are you not getting, little lady?”

  “Sorry.” I grin and meet his gaze.

  “Okay. Firstly, I’ll call you ten minutes into the date. It might sound like a long time, but it’s not; this is the greeting stage, and it gives you ample time to get through the hi and bye to work out if he’s a douche canoe or not. I’ll say, ‘Hey love, what ya up to?’ If he doesn’t look like his profile picture or the photos we’ve stalked on his social media account, his eyes are yelling ‘serial killer’, and his mouth is all twitchy like he plans to stab you in the face and eat your flesh, you’ll answer with … ‘I’m out. Where are you?’ This will be my cue to call back in five minutes and give you an urgent 'your dog is dying, come home now’ emergency.”

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “I know, but he won't, and we don’t want to say your mum because if she died as a result of our lie, you’d never forgive yourself.”

  “I’m sure it will all be—”

  “Now, if you say, ‘I’m out on a date at the moment. Can I call you back later?’ This’ll be my cue to know your life isn’t in danger.”

  I nod. “Great plan.” There’s no point in saying anything else.

  “I’m no amateur. Now, after an hour, I’ll call back. I’ll say, ‘Can you tell me where you put my bottle of scotch when you came over last?’”

  “I see.”

  “And if you say ‘I drank it all’, this will mean you’re in dire need of me to get you the hell out of there. Now if you say, 'In the top cupboard above the fridge’, I’ll know you’re contented and happy.” Chris dips his head and blows over my nails. “Did you get
all that?”

  “Yes.” I smile even though his ramblings went in one ear and out the other.

  “Good. Alright, you’re all dry. Go get dressed.”

  “My stomach feels sick.”

  “It’s called nerves, and they’re normal for people like you. Embrace the nerves and get your pretty on already.”

  ***

  You’re safe. You’re in a familiar place surrounded by people you know. You’re in your happy place where you have dessert with Chris every day. Nothing bad can happen.

  My mind refuses to stop racing even though I’m chanting this stupid speech Chris gave me before I left the apartment in my head.

  “Mindy! Hey, babe.” Jersey’s red curls bounce as she rushes by me holding a tray of drinks. “I’ll be right back,” she calls as her back becomes my view.

  You’re safe. You’re in a familiar place surrounded by people you know. You’re in your happy place where you have dessert with Chris every day. Nothing bad can happen. I stand at the bar, shifting my sight between different-shaped bottles of liquor lined up like soldiers on the top shelf. I need a stiff drink, like right freaking now.

  Jersey races in front of me, this time holding an empty tray. Her hand extends towards a stool at the bar. “Sit. Chat. What are you doing here all dressed up and fancy?” Her red-stained lips purse.

  “Date,” I mumble.

  “DATE!” Her eyes light up. “Cool. Who is he? How did you meet?”

  “Well, yeah. So—” I cup my face in my palms.

  “You don’t have to tell me, babe. We’re good.”

  When I drop my arms, a silver cup goes flying in the air, causing me to jolt as it flashes past my eyes and nearly clips my nose.

  “Oh, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean for it to come so close to you. I’m having a little too much fun making cocktails tonight.” Jersey bites her lip between her teeth. “I think your date might be here.”

  “What?” My body stiffens. My heart pounds frantically in my chest. “How do you know what he even—”

  “I’m playing with you.” She taps my hand playfully. “But good lord, did your arsehole just pucker tight.”

  I sigh, leaning back, then remember the chair doesn’t have back support. I swing my arms to prevent myself from falling.

  “It’s going to be fine. Relax, okay? You look super stressed.”

  “I’m not good at this dating thing.”

  Jersey pops the lid on the silver canister she not long ago threw in the air. She pours pink liquid into a tall glass before placing a strawberry on its edge and a straw in its centre. “Honey.” She leans into me. “None of us are good at this dating thing. Just have fun with it.” She points at the glass. “I recommend you drink this down real fast to curb those nerves. Doctor’s orders.” She winks. “Gotta run. Be back soon.”

  I do just that. I tuck the straw behind my teeth and slurp the liquid, which is stronger than I thought it would be.

  “Melinda.” It’s a deep yet oddly hoarse, throaty tone.

  I swivel on my seat.

  “Hello. I’m Graham. You weren’t hard to find in the crowd. You look just like your picture.”

  I gulp hard. I stare into grass green eyes. I bite my lip to prevent myself from saying, you don’t look anything like your pictures at all.

  Graham’s partly bald even though in his photos he has a full head of thinning brown hair. He looks much older than what was described online, by at least ten years, and he has little scars all over his face, which again were absent from his photographs. He’s also much skinnier than his portrait displayed.

  “Hi.” I speak softly.

  “Hi.” He smiles revealing yellow-stained teeth, not the bright whites he has on his profile. “Would you like to go to the table or sit and have a drink here?”

  “A drink here is okay.” I breathe. I’m doing it. I’m talking to a man. Admittedly, not the man I was expecting, but still, I’m not acting a fool.

  Graham tugs at the cuffs on the long white business shirt he’s wearing when he comes to sit. He clears his throat as he twists in my direction. “This is a nice spot. I’ve never been here before.”

  “It’s lovely, and the food’s good too.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry I was a little late. I ran over a cat on the way here.”

  I place my hand on my chest. “Oh no! Is the cat okay?”

  He jerks his head back. “Who cares? I can’t stand cats. I didn’t even stop. I was late because I needed to wash its guts from my car.”

  My stomach sinks. Visions of Graham skinning me alive enter my mind in the most dramatic of ways, and I tense.

  “I’m not much of an animal lover. Bloody pests, if you ask me. We can’t all love those freaky furry critters.”

  “Hmm,” I say, shifting uncomfortably on my seat.

  “Wow!” Graham’s eyes leave mine, and without any hesitation, he rakes them over my body. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the body of Marilyn Monroe? Because damn, you do. You’re curvy and beautiful. I didn’t think you’d be this pretty. You know, photoshopped pictures and all.”

  A compliment. He’s complimenting me in the rudest of ways. I tense even more.

  “I can only imagine how good you look under that dress of yours.” He winks.

  I jerk my head to the bar where I find Jersey’s thick lashes blinking right in front of me. “What can I get you to drink?” she says mechanically. Jersey’s tone implies the same shock I’m feeling. She must have been eavesdropping.

  “I’m—”

  “I’ll have a beer, love. A light beer because I better not get myself blotto, you know.”

  I rotate my head slow, real slow, only to find him pointing at me. “I’ll be needing to keep my eyes on this prize, so she doesn’t get away.”

  I cringe. I stare gobsmacked at this stranger named Graham beside me. Who the hell is this man?

  “One beer. Not a problem. Mindy, do you want another?” Jersey’s voice sounds distant as I slowly shake my head.

  I’m in shock. “I need to go.”

  “Go? What do you mean, go? I just got here,” Graham says with a heightened pitch.

  “My dog died. My mum died too, and I drank an entire bottle of scotch, which is missing. My face. My poor faceless face.” I stand abruptly and turn in the same way. “I’m sorry. Have a good night.”

  I don’t walk towards the doors or even march. I run, but this time, I’m not fleeing from embarrassment with tears pouring from my eyes. This time, I’m fleeing because that man might kill me and boil my body parts for his supper.

  What the hell just happened?

  I wonder how many duds it will take until I meet my stud?

  Chapter Seven

  The red traffic light glows brightly against the night sky as I wait to take the exit leading to my estate. The sound of my blinker clicking to its programmed musical tune has me clacking my tongue to its beat. I wasn’t supposed to meet the cat killer who turned up tonight. I was supposed to meet a guy with a kind smile. I want a guy like that. I want a guy like Arlie.

  Who is Arlie? Why have we crossed paths twice in such a short period? Is it fate? Is he my guy?

  Loud booming laughter forces its way through my lips all the way from deep down in my stomach. Arlie looks like a god sculpted by the heavens. Arlie is not my guy. But maybe someone’s out there who has the same smile as him, only who’s more in my league.

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  I shake my head, and as the sound of ringing continues to vibrate through the car speakers, I realise I’ve been finding my way back to safety in complete silence wrapped up in thoughts of a man I’m never going to have.

  I always want things I can’t have. I’m drawn to the things I’m undeserving of receiving. I cock block myself from the get-go.

  Maybe this is why I’m so ridiculous around the opposite sex. Perhaps, it’s because I find every single man out there—well, every single decent man—out of my league. I don’t want to settle
for any guy. I want a good, decent guy.

  I reach out my hand and accept the call.

  “Hey love, what ya up to?” Chris says.

  “Driving home. Mediamogul Graham was a face-eater.”

  There’s no reply.

  “He killed a cat on the way to our date and didn’t even care, Chris. He stopped to wash the guts from his car.”

  Chris gasps in the most overdramatic way.

  “It was a bust.”

  “Are you okay?” His tone is unsteady.

  “I am, surprisingly. I did run out of there, but this time, it was different, and I know I’m ready for this to happen for me now. I need to find the right fit. He can’t be a cat killer, though.”

  “No! He can’t, because Fletcher would have no hope.”

  Fletcher would have no hope. “Where are you?” I mumble, hoping Chris can catch up for a laugh and a drink back at my apartment.

  “Don’t get mad.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why would I get mad then?”

  “Because you’re often cranky.”

  “I am not,” I scoff. “Where are you?”

  “I'm sitting on your couch stroking your furry friend while watching The Bachelor. It’s getting so juicy.”

  I laugh. Because Chris is right where I hoped he would be, and because his addiction to The Bachelor is on a level of obsessive. If that show were a sermon, Chris wouldn’t miss a single day in church.

  “Anyway, I’ll be here when you get back. Unless you want me to leave?”

  “No. Stay. I’m glad you’re there.”

  “I thought if things didn’t go well, you’d probably need a friend, and since I don’t drive, and the train takes so long to get to your place, it was better to sneak back in once you’d left.”

  “I love you.”

  “Aww! Right back at you, babe. Would you like me to make you some hot cocoa?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Why don’t you grab some Chinese on the way home? I’m famished and could go for some honey chicken.”