That Guy

by Belle Brooks

  He raises his hand in the air, rendering me speechless. “I get it. Men can be creeps. I didn’t do anything, I swear. I got you dried, covered in something I thought would be comfortable, and put you into bed.” He shifts on his feet. “I didn’t think rummaging through your belongings would be right. I didn’t want to invade your privacy.”

  “You carried me all the way up two flights of stairs? Me?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “How? I’m not a petite or slender woman. Put it this way: if I was to try out to be a cheerleader, it’s obvious my role would be the anchor at the bottom of the pyramid. There’s no way I’d be the one at the top playing the role of the bright, glittering star.”

  Arlie’s eyes narrow to slits. “Okay.” He pauses. “It wasn’t hard to carry you up here.”

  “Pffft. How’s your back after such a hike? Is it broken?”

  “Melinda, I'm serious. It wasn’t a hard task at all. I lift weights much heavier than you.” His eyes grow wide. He steps towards me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you I can lift you.” He marches and closes the gap between us, and before I can even scream out the word ‘no’, I’m cradled in his arms, and he’s walking around the room.

  “Put me down,” I yell as I twist my legs, and my body follows. Arlie stumbles, and I feel myself falling until I no longer do. I’m again held securely against his chest. I worm like a toddler in a tantrum and resume kicking my feet.

  “I’ll put you down. Stop flinging yourself around, would—” Arlie goes silent.

  I gasp and shudder before holding my breath. Shock travels through my limbs as fast as a shooting star flashes through the night sky.

  “Holy shit, I’m so sorry.” He’s apologetic and mortified as he removes what I believe to be his wayward finger that found itself entering my no-fly zone in the scuffle.

  Arlie puts me down, then jumps in the opposite direction to me. His pointer finger is held in the air like evidence he needs to dispose of.

  I leap backwards with disbelief rattling around my brain.

  “I can’t believe I did that. Why did …?” Arlie stops talking mid-sentence. His jaw drops low.

  “Oh my God!” I screech. “The first time you KFC my box is like this? What? How? Why?”

  Arlie snaps his teeth together before tilting his head slightly to the side. “KFC your box? What does that even mean?” His tone is soft, confused, and unthreatening.

  I stand there with a blank look on my face, unsure how in the heck I even answer his question because I’m not sure I truly understand the expression I’ve just used myself. KFC my box? It’s something Chris has said to me before. “Girl, every time a guy KFCs my goodies box, you know he’s not going anywhere fast, because I’m that fucking finger-licking good.”

  Slowly, I raise my arms until I face-plant my palms.

  “Melinda, I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened.”

  “It’s not your fault, it was an accident, but I’m humiliated and need a moment to think,” I mumble into my hands. I cross one leg in front of the other. Miss Priscilla got an accidental jabbing, and right now, her response is one of throbbing.

  “I understood about two words of what you’ve just said,” Arlie says in a hush.

  I drop my arms. I keep my vision to the carpet. “Can I have a moment alone please?”

  “Of course! Again, I’m truly, truly sorry that my finger slipped—”

  “Don’t say it,” I rush.

  “Okay,” he replies just as fast.

  ***

  I haven’t been able to look Arlie in the eyes since his finger stabbed my lady taco this morning in what’ll be forever known in my mind as the accidental oops-my-finger-slipped-in-your-va-jay-jay-and-I’m-not-sure-who’s-more-shocked-you-or-me incident.

  Day two, and our first complete day here on the island has been a significant bust. It’s pouring rain and has been since ten a.m. This island seems strange; one minute, the sky is the same brilliant and bright blue as it was the day prior, then in a shake of a lamb's tail, it’s a ferocious grey, eerie, and mad as hell.

  Tropical island: Equals tropical weather it seems.

  I lie on the couch with a novel between my hands. My comfortable and straightforward fire red day-dress keeps me mostly covered until the blanket I’ve thrown over my legs takes over. I need to be careful because E.T. fingers could strike at any time, be it with an innocent slip or a deliberate attack.

  Did Arlie mean to do what he did? I don’t think so. Okay, I know he didn’t, because he seemed more shocked than a nun having an encounter with a flasher’s penis. So why am I still so freaked out?

  I’ve not seen Arlie since I brought the empty tray containing the breakfast he made me back down to the kitchen. It’s probably a good thing for us.

  The kitchen: It’s the entire width and length of the inside dining area of The Quarter. Boasting three huge ovens, a massive centre island, and a breakfast bar … I couldn’t help but stand in awe.

  The three microwaves, the upright deep fryer, the two side-by-side deep freezers, and the four double-door fridges have left me wondering who in hell even needs this many appliances in one place.

  Two fully stocked wine fridges, an industrial-sized dishwasher, fourteen stove burners, and the five sinks ... Well, that seals the deal in my mind that this is not a kitchen for the rich and famous, but in fact, a facility only a chef would be accustomed to.

  Arlie looked comfortable in such a space, which had me questioning if he can even cook? Is Arlie a food artist who makes your tongue orgasm and your stomach want to light up an orgasmic cigarette after digestion? Is Arlie Blight even who he says he is?

  I turn the page even though I haven’t read a word, and I tell myself one thing: I won’t be fiddling with any of the buttons, switches, or do-be-maracas residing in the kitchen. The last thing I need is to start a fire that has Arlie carrying me out and finger banging me due to my awkward leg positioning.

  Why did I fight him as I did? Why did Arlie being able to lift me cause me such distress? These two questions I know I’m going to need to save for the shrink I hire when I arrive back home.

  Chris was right. I need some serious professional help. I’m a total Nutter Butter.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Arlie clears his throat. I turn my eyes away from the pages of Delilah and Hugh’s story, the one I’m hoping will find the two of them married and living happily ever after. I’m not holding my breath, though, because I’ve been reading all day and there are not many pages left, and Hugh is still nowhere to be found. God, that hunky, messed up, loveable man turned into a total chicken shit on the run. Hugh makes me mad.

  “Would you like some dinner, Melinda?”

  I don’t look at Arlie.

  “Would you like something to eat?” he repeats.

  “I would.” There’s an awkward and unsettling tension filling the air around Arlie and me, and there has been all day. Every time he’s come and gone, I’ve pretended I’m too engrossed in this story to notice.

  “Would you like anything to eat in particular?”

  “I’ll make a sandwich.”

  There’s a small huff like sound which has me sitting upright. “Why did you just huff?”

  “Because you're frustrating, woman.”

  “Woman? Woman? You called me woman. I don’t like it.”

  He huffs again.

  “You huffed again.”

  “Because you’re impossible. I’m trying to be nice. Make you something to eat. Make up for what happened.”

  “There’s no need. It was what it was.”

  “Yeah …” He places his hand on the back of his neck. “But I feel like I’ve violated you most horrifically.” His hand moves from his neck to the waistband of his jeans.

  I break eye contact. I don’t feel violated, do I? I take a moment to think about what Arlie said. To consider how he’s feeling. To ask myself why I’m acting like an absolute bitch to him.r />
  I can see why he’d feel like he did violate me. I’m treating him like garbage.

  I place the bookmark between the pages and snap the cover closed. “I’ll help you make dinner if you want? On one condition, though. I don’t have to touch any of those gadgets and appliances. There are a lot—too many for me.” I offer an innocent smile in the hope it’ll break this strain.

  It must work because Arlie smiles back. “Okay, I’ll work the gadgets, and you can do the slicing and dicing.”

  “Deal.”

  Arlie holds out his hand. I hesitate, then cup my palm to his.

  “We’ll need supplies. Do you want to take the golf buggy for a spin?” He helps me up from the lounge.

  I nod.

  “Do you want to go now while it’s not raining?”

  “I’ll grab my shoes—”

  “I’ll meet you out front—”

  “Okay.”

  It’s a four-seater golf buggy, white in colour with red leather seats. A few minutes later, I climb in beside Arlie, who’s sitting on the passenger’s side.

  “I’m driving?” I’m shocked because I thought men liked to play the role of driving Miss Daisy when accompanied by a lady. Well, it’s what I see in the movies anyways. Plus, my dad never lets my mum drive when they’re together.

  “I thought you’d want a bit of fun, and riding around in this is fun.”

  I return his infectious smile as I turn the key. “Okay, Daisy, which way do I go?”

  “Daisy?”

  “Just go with it.”

  “Okay. Daisy, I am.” Arlie laughs. “We need to go down the path between those coconut trees.” Arlie points in front of us. “It’s a straight drive.”

  “Hold your bootstraps because I’m about to handle this bad boy like a pro.”

  Arlie laughs again.

  I inhale deeply and sort through the different fragrances in my mind. Clean, crisp-like mountain air, but nowhere near as strong. It’s not bland, nor rich like spice, and it’s less subtle than rosemary or thyme, or any herb for that matter. The smell of the earth after rain doesn’t have a description—it just brings with it a feeling of peace.

  I drive at a moderate pace, glancing at my surroundings and listening to the ocean’s waves and the wildlife chirping and squawking above. The sky is once again a brilliant blue, no longer the colour of steel metal, no longer angry. The only evidence of the torrential downpours we experienced for a majority of the day lies in the curled white tops of the waves now folding over each other in a battle before smacking against the shoreline.

  Arlie takes a series of loud, deep breaths. I instantly smile. There’s no better air to breathe than that which follows a storm.

  “Can you smell vanilla?” He sniffs loudly.

  My smile grows.

  “We must be coming nearer to the flower gardens because what I’m smelling is sweet.”

  “Flower gardens? The tropical island has a park?”

  He nods.

  I inhale deeply. He’s right; the air is now sweet.

  Purples, reds, blues, pinks, yellows, and oranges tie together in a large open area. Flower gardens with roaming paths between become my view. “Wow! That’s crazy pretty, right?”

  Arlie grins, then causally jumps from the moving buggy.

  I stomp my foot on the brake. “What are you doing? You can’t jump …”

  “It’s fine.”

  Of course, it is.

  I don’t know what it is about Arlie that at this moment shows me I need to take more risks. I need to climb out of the bubble I’ve spent years and years shielding myself with. I want to feel as free as it appears he does.

  Arlie jogs towards the garden on my left. He bends, and I can’t help but glance at his shapely rounded arse covered by tight blue jeans.

  When he pops his head up, then twists, I spot the handful of flowers he’s plucked from the ground.

  “For you.” He smiles, handing me a brightly coloured arrangement.

  “Aww.” I gush like a love-struck teenager hopped up on hormones and soppy emotion.

  “To the convenient store. Daisy is getting hungry.” Arlie plucks a single yellow daisy from my grip and puts it between his teeth. “Let’s hunt and gather so I can eat,” he mumbles with the flower laid across his mouth and cheeks.

  I giggle, while slowly pressing my foot to the accelerator.

  ***

  Arlie wasn’t lying when he said there were stores. He also wasn’t lying when he said it was a straight drive to arrive at them.

  A long row of navy blue doors and big glass windowfronts takes over my sight. I turn the steering wheel a hard right with one hand. Arlie throws his arms and legs to the side in the most dramatic way when I do. “Crazy women drivers, am I right?”

  I clear my throat.

  He winks.

  Cheeky shit!

  There are three aisles, and from those three aisles, we select items from the shelves and place them into a shopping trolley Arlie has taken dominance over.

  This moment: Nostalgic! I’m instantly reminded of the very moment I met Arlie Blight in a supermarket back home.

  “So, what do we still need?” Arlie dips his head into the trolley. “Men’s deodorant? Yes. Condoms? I’m thinking about eight or nine packs. Toilet paper? Lots of toilet paper.” He bolts upright, shifting until he’s facing me. “Melinda, are you going to steal a cake today? Because if you are, we’ll need to grab a cake.”

  I launch out my arm and tap his chest. “Stop it. There’s probably not even toilet paper or condoms here. They’re already in the house. I saw them.”

  He laughs, a low toned sound.

  “Stop it!” I warn again.

  “Okay, I’ll stop after we select a cake.”

  A shelf is filled with a few decadent desserts, and I’m standing in front of a chocolate mud cake. I’ve not gorged on anything sweet since I’ve been here. That’s a record for me.

  “Chocolate or vanilla? What are you thinking?” Arlie interrupts my thoughts.

  “Chocolate?”

  “Agreed.” Arlie snatches the container from the shelf and rests it in the seat of the cart, just how I had the red velvet cake on the day we met. “Cream. We need whipped cream and ice cream.” Arlie pushes the trolley down the aisle towards a fridge stood against the back wall. I follow. “This can be dessert,” he mumbles, as if speaking to himself.

  ***

  There’s no checkout to line up at or conveyor belt to load our groceries on, but that doesn’t stop Arlie from pretending there is when we’re finished selecting our supplies.

  “What’s that you’ve got there? Fifty packs of condoms. Oh, and enough toilet paper to stock a public restroom. Do you live in a share house like me?” Arlie smirks.

  I roll my eyes as I grab the cake from the seat of the trolley. I hold it against my chest. I race to the doors like a criminal in escape mode.

  Arlie’s laughter drifts from behind me.

  “I’m stealing this damn cake.”

  Arlie and I get each other. We’re comfortable in one another’s presence. It seems right even though it’s likely wrong.

  Maybe Arlie Blight is my happily-ever-after guy.

  I mean, stranger things have happened, right?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Blue satin totally makes your eyes pop, babe.” It’s what Chris said when I stepped out of the dressing room in the knee-length gown with the peep-shoulder neckline now covering my skin.

  I hope I look as pretty as Chris told me I did when I purchased this dress because I’m not wearing any make-up, and I’m in a hurry to get downstairs for dinner.

  Today’s task: Arlie Blight has officially asked me out on a date, as per the instructions from inside the purple envelope I ripped open when we returned home from our shopping adventure.

  Dear Arlie and Melinda,

  Inviting another to spend time with you can lift spirits and increase confidence. Tonight is date night. One contes
tant must ask the other to be their date and provide a night to be remembered.

  Who will it be?

  That’s up to you.

  There’ll be a prize if you complete this task successfully. If unsuccessful, like the canoe challenge, you’ll receive nothing.

  Good luck, and may love be with you.

  Perfect Catch

  Every step I take has my heart throbbing and my feet unsteady even though I’m barefoot and not challenged by stilettos. I tiptoe across the tiles and head towards the dining room.

  It’s bare. What the hell?

  The table is undressed and missing a feast.

  A piquant scent wafts by my nose. “Barbecue,” I breathe. He’s cooking on a barbecue.

  I follow the smell until I reach a patio lit by candlelight. “Hello,” I say softly.

  There’s nobody here, yet two pieces of steak sizzle away on a large grill. A table for two is set in the middle of the space, and on the table rests a crystal vase with the flowers Arlie picked this afternoon.

  Do I wait? Do I sit? Do I look for Arlie? I’m not sure what the appropriate action to take is. I pull out the seat closest to the door and sit.

  “You’re here. I was just in the kitchen, and those potatoes you cut up burnt. Never fear, though; we can do without the added starch.” Arlie’s holding a basket filled with bread rolls in one hand and a gravy boat in the other. He places them both beside the vase.

  Holy mother of God.

  Tailored black suit pants. A white collared shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. How in the world am I going to be able to keep it together with him dressed so devilishly?

  When Arlie disappears, I find myself swallowing hard, then flapping my hand in front of my face. Just the vision of this man dressed in such a way has me hot, bothered, and fanning myself, and I don’t get long to lower my searing temperature before he returns with two plates full of vegetables in hand.

  “How would you like your steak cooked?” He’s dressed to impress, but incredibly casual in his demeanour, which makes him sexier than hell when he points at the open grill.

  “Medium,” I croak.

  “Perfect,” he replies before turning off the hot plate, then returning to the table with our dinner served.