Been Searching For You

by Nicole Evelina

  Normally I could stand quite contentedly for hours on the State Street Bridge and watch the people and boats go by, but not with Mia yelling at me from beneath the club’s bright blue awning. With a sigh and a smile, I gave in and joined her.

  “You look amazing,” she said, admiring my emerald-green spaghetti strap tank and skinny jeans.

  Mia didn’t compliment others easily, so I basked in the praise. “I took a page from your book and splurged on something from Michigan Avenue that I really can’t afford.”

  “That outfit will pay for itself many times over tonight. Just you wait and see.”

  I reached into my purse to pay the cover charge, but the bouncer waved us inside.

  “Honey, put that away,” Mia said, putting an arm around me. “You won’t be spending any money tonight. In fact, by the end of the night, they’ll be paying you just for the pleasure of your company.”

  “Isn’t that the definition of prostitution?” Miles quipped, appearing from the brightly colored crowd.

  Mia glared at him, but I tuned out the rest of their teasing argument, caught up in the glamour of the Jazz Age-inspired décor and the big band music piped in overhead. As Michael Bublé crooned away, I took in the crowd. Some were dressed for the room in beaded flapper dresses and feathered headbands, the men in fedoras and three-piece suits. Others had chosen a more modern approach, wearing chinos or frilly dresses and even jeans and T-shirts. But there was no shortage of variety, from lime green to the sparkling gold of Mia’s sleeveless top to the blood-red of crisply starched business shirts.

  The drink of the night appeared to be martinis. As we took a seat in one of the VIP alcoves—another perk of being with Mia—a waitress dressed like an old-time cigarette girl came by, balancing a tray full of clear gin and vodka martinis in addition to flavored varieties in stoplight shades. I took a pink Cosmopolitan while Mia chose a green appletini and Miles opted for the traditional gin.

  Miles held up his glass. “To Annabeth, our lonely writer who will be single no more after tonight.”

  We clinked glasses and drank. We passed the time people-watching and enjoying our drinks, which magically refilled as we laughed and made snarky comments about our fellow revelers. By the time the dance floor was really filling up, I excused myself to visit the loo, and I was a little more unsteady than I’d expected. I tried to recall how many drinks I had consumed and failed. Who could count with the attentive cigarette girls exchanging one glass for another?

  While I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror, inspecting my makeup, which was a little worse for the wear than when I’d applied it. But at least I didn’t look like Tammy Faye. Yet. That usually came toward the end of the night.

  As I was reapplying powder, Mia flounced out of one of the stalls. “Having fun?”

  “Yeah, surprisingly, I am.”

  “Told you,” she crowed. Her ears perked up at the first beat of a new song, and she practically shoved me out the door. “Get out there. You’ll enjoy this.”

  I stumbled out to find the red, yellow, and green partiers divided up into six roughly parallel lines on the dance floor. Not knowing what to expect, I hurried over to the green section.

  From some hidden sound booth came a booming voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, guys and dolls, welcome to Mockingbird’s spring fling traffic light party.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Now, partiers of all ages, I’d like to remind you of the few rules of this evening. These folks dressed in red are not to be approached. Red means stop. They are either taken or otherwise not interested. If you harass them, you will be ejected. But they’re still here to have fun, so let’s give them a big Mockingbird welcome!”

  Those dressed in red took turns dancing down the center of their line, like members of a bridal party being introduced at a reception. Miles took full advantage of the song—“Highway to the Danger Zone” from the Top Gun soundtrack—to show off his best moves. His freestyle was a little jazz, a little tap, slides, and footwork as smooth as silk. In the middle, he spun around once before finishing his time in the spotlight with the moonwalk.

  I yelled my appreciation while Mia let out an ear-piercing wolf-whistle.

  When the reds were done, the lines shifted, the yellow group taking its place in the center.

  “Now, let’s hear it for our yellow team,” the DJ boomed. “I’m not going to try to guess your situations because they could be anything. What all of you out there in dating land need to know is be careful with the yellows. Yellow means proceed with caution. They’re some kind of trouble, but you’ll never know what if you don’t say hello. Just don’t hold me responsible for any black eyes or slaps. Yellow, strut your stuff.”

  Men and women in shades from cheerful lemon to tacky gold lamé did the Hustle, the Electric Slide, and all manner of silly dances to Coldplay’s aptly titled song, “Yellow.” Mia waited until last, when she could have the spotlight all to herself, to show off her belly dancing skills, earning more than a few hoots and hollers.

  Finally, it was my group’s turn. The DJ must have been waiting for this because he took no small pleasure in harassing us.

  “Now, this is the group you all came to see. We all know green means go, right?”

  The crowd cheered again.

  “Anything goes with this group, so take a look around. Scope each other out because these are the people who will be filling your dance card the remainder of the night.”

  He paused, giving us a chance to peek at our fellow green shirts. We were all grinning at each other self-consciously.

  “All right, let’s see if what they say about the green M&Ms holds true for those who wear the color.”

  John Legend’s “Green Light” blared. I didn’t like the lyrics to that song, but I was grateful we didn’t have to dance to Kermit the Frog. The couple at the head of the line took a few beats to find their rhythm before starting the dance.

  My heart rate increased with each step toward the front of the line. I had always had trouble walking and dancing at the same time. I was more of a twirl-my-hips kind of dancer, so I decided to go with what I was good at.

  I took two bouncing steps to the middle of the group, set my hips spinning in a backward figure eight, and dropped down to the floor before popping up again. On the next beat of music, I paused, looked back over my shoulder, and shrugged it down in a burlesque-style trombone slide. I kicked up one heel and waved to the crowd before prancing back into line.

  After the dance was over, Miles called as I neared the table, “Damn! Where did that come from?”

  I smiled coyly as I sat beside Mia.

  “Seriously, if you can do that, there is no reason for you not to be to fending men off with a stick,” Mia said, still picking her jaw up off the floor.

  “Don’t look now, but I think you have an admirer.” Miles gestured surreptitiously with one of the fingers he had wrapped around his glass.

  Of course, my first instinct was to turn around. Luckily, Mia chose that moment to get up, and I was able to use the excuse of asking her to get me a glass of water to turn in the direction Miles indicated.

  I was greeted by a pair of startlingly blue eyes looking at me from a face the color of luxurious hazelnut chocolate. Hello there, handsome. I smiled. His pillowy lips turned up at the corners, and he ran a self-conscious hand through his bushy black hair, which stuck out like dandelion fluff.

  “Greens and yellows, can I have you back on the dance floor, please?” the DJ called. “All greens and yellows to the dance floor. We’re going to play a little game.”

  We gathered in an uncertain mass on the dance floor, the waitresses corralling us into two groups, one on either side of the room.

  “I need a volunteer,” the announcer boomed.

  Hands shot up all over the room. He picked a tall blonde to demonstrate. “How many of your remember the game Red Light, Green Light from when you were kids?” A smattering of applause and quite a few squeals answered the q
uestion. “Well, here’s how we play it at Mockingbird. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  The blonde answered, but I couldn’t hear her.

  “Janice here is the stoplight. She’ll give you directions by saying either ‘red light’ or ‘green light.’ When she says ‘green light,’ anyone interested in her should move forward. But don’t go too fast, because if she says ‘red light,’ you have to stop. Anyone who doesn’t immediately stop moving will be disqualified, even if you only stumble. All of you standing around will be the referees. Now, there’s one more catch. If she wants to try to throw you off, she can also say ‘yellow light.’ That means you have to move in slow motion. If you tag the stoplight, you get to talk to her. Whenever she’s got her share of admirers, she’ll end her turn by declaring a blackout. Got it? Good. Take it away, Janice.” He handed her the microphone, returned to his booth, and cranked up the dance music.

  “Green light!” she yelled, and the game began.

  Mia was third in line and took the game up a notch by holding up a silk scarf procured from her décolletage. Standing in the spotlight in her leather capris and gold sequined top, she could have stepped out of a 1950s film. She brought the scarf down dramatically, as if she was signaling a drag race, and called for her admirers to come forward.

  Soon, we were fighting to form a coherent line, and as the alcohol kept flowing, chaos ensued as people forgot what red and green meant or the stoplight confused him or herself. On a few occasions, disqualified suitors jumped back into the game, and once, security had to be called when an overzealous guy picked up the stoplight and walked off with her against her will.

  By the time it was my turn, the vodka had kicked in, and I was feeling saucy. Turning in a circle, I scoped out the men in the crowd, finding my admirer among them.

  “Green light,” I declared.

  Having seen enough people disqualified, they moved forward at the pace of lions stalking prey.

  “Red light.” I paused, watching my suitors closely. “Red light.”

  Two guys weren’t paying attention and took a step forward, disqualifying themselves.

  I kept my eyes glued on my blue-eyed admirer, willing him to make it to me. He was dressed more simply than most people here, in jeans and a plain green T-shirt, but the laid-back look fit him.

  “Green light.”

  They came forward again.

  When I had men on both sides of me just out of arm’s reach, I called, “Red light.” I was teasing them, and they knew it. Then a rapid succession of, “Red light, green light, red light, green light,” narrowed the field down to just three—my admirer among them—who all tagged me before I called “Blackout.”

  I spent the next two hours surrounded by them at the bar, having to insist they buy me water instead of alcohol so I didn’t puke on their shoes. It became clear pretty quickly that one of them really just wanted to go home with me, so I pointed him in Mia’s direction, grateful for the chance to get to know the other two without him as a distraction.

  After a bit of conversation, I figured out the shorter one and I had nothing in common—he was very outdoorsy, into camping and hunting and other things I’d never do—so I politely told him I didn’t think it was going to work. He made a half-hearted attempt to save his ego by saying he was thinking the same thing, but the slump of his shoulders as he disappeared into the crowd said he felt otherwise.

  Now it was just my admirer and me, who, by this time, I had discovered was named Victor. He was a contractor by day and artist by night who lived not far from me, in Logan Square, where rents were a little lower but he still had easy access to the heart of the city.

  “Finally. I thought I’d never get you alone,” Victor said, shaking his head.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “That didn’t come out right, did it?”

  “Probably not the way you intended.” After a pause, I added, “So you said you paint. Is that the only medium you work in?”

  “No, I sculpt too.”

  “You’re not going to try to seduce me by asking me to model for you, are you?” I batted my eyelashes at him and sipped my water through the tiny straw in what I hoped was a seductive way.

  He feigned outrage. “Not on the first date. What do you take me for? Besides”—he stood, taking my hand—“I prefer other methods.”

  I pretended not to know what he was doing. “Such as?”

  “Such as asking a lady to dance.”

  I gave him a slight nod and followed him to the dance floor. By now, the DJ had switched from the Great American Songbook to the usual club fare, heavy on the bass and perfect for hip shaking.

  I cocked an eyebrow at Victor, daring him to keep up with me as I rolled my hips suggestively and shimmied my shoulders to the beat. He wrapped a muscular arm around my shoulders, his other hand resting lightly on my hips until he found the pace I’d set. Once he had matched it, his grip tightened, and we were off, grinding against each other under the flashing lights.

  The DJ was announcing last call when Miles finally peeled us apart. “As much as I hate to break this up—and it really pains me to do it—I promised Annabeth that I’d walk her home.”

  My arms still around Victor’s neck, I stuck out my lower lip in a pout. “But I’m having so much fun.”

  “I’m sure you are, but a deal’s a deal. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  “I can walk her home,” Victor said.

  Miles skewered him with a look. “No, you can’t. For all we know, you’re an ax murder.”

  “A really hot one with an amazing ass,” Mia interjected as she leaned over to better admire it.

  Miles ignored her. “But an unknown all the same. It takes more than a few games, five minutes of conversation, and an hour of sweaty dancing for me to let Annabeth out of my sight.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I glowered at him.

  “Five minutes,” was all he said before ducking out the front door.

  I turned back to Victor. “He means well.”

  “Hey, no harm done. We should all be fortunate enough to have friends like that. So any chance I can get your number?”

  I pretended to think. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I put out my hand, and when he had unlocked his phone, I tapped in my digits.

  We stood for a moment in awkward silence, not knowing how to bring the night to a close.

  Victor put a tentative arm around me. “So I guess this is goodnight then?”

  I wanted to kiss him, but I wasn’t good at being the aggressor. Actually, I couldn’t recall the last time I had been the one to initiate a kiss. But I found myself leaning into him and whispering, “Not quite yet,” before pressing my lips against his.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  June

  “Miles!” I bounced up to his desk and perched on the edge. “You will never believe the email I got this morning.”

  “I doubt I will.”

  “Remember that essay I wrote as part of my online dating profile? Well, one of the guys who was matched with me liked it and asked if he could share it on his blog as an example of a modern woman’s manifesto. It was pretty popular. I had people praising me as the next Gloria Steinem and others deriding me as a dried-up, bratty shrew—gotta love the Internet. Anyway, today I got an email from an editor at the Huffington Post. They want to run it as part of an article but have me expand on it a little. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Miles folded me into his arms. “That’s incredible! Congratulations.”

  “It’s due Monday, so I’m going to have to cancel on you for the game on Saturday. I promised Victor I’d be at his showing that night, and if I don’t get this thing written, I’ll be a nervous wreck—”

  “Say no more,” Miles interrupted. “I get it. Work and the boy toy trump the best friend.”

  Laini poked her head into our shared cube. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear that last part, but I’m glad you’re discussing work.” She pointed at me with her notepad.
“Jenna is out sick today, and she was supposed to meet with Professor Grantham to discuss plans for the event series. I need you to take this one.” She handed me a manila folder. “This is what I could find on her desk. Good luck.” Before I could respond, she raced off, sipping her coffee as she disappeared into a conference room.

  When I looked up, Miles was doing his best Cheshire cat impression. “When it rains, it pours. First a handsome construction worker who wants to be an artist and now a one-on-one with your dream man. Try to keep at least one foot on the ground today, will ya? I’ve got some comps to discuss with you.”

  I whacked him with the folder before turning toward my own desk. The meeting was at noon. That meant I had three hours to discuss design with Miles, do my own work, and get caught up on Jenna’s progress before hopping the Metra to the university. I opened the folder to find her notes were a mess, scribbled this way and that on both sides of the page as though she’d written down only what she pleased. Jenna, why do you have to be as flighty as you look?

  The Rockefeller Memorial Chapel bell tower was just striking noon when I approached Alex’s office. I would have been early, but I’d made several wrong turns before finally finding my way through the maze of Gothic buildings and bustling students. With the flowers and trees in full bloom, I had to fight the urge to stop and look around at every turn.

  With its gabled roof and cross-like spires, Walker Hall looked more like a manor house or the dormitory of a seminary than a university building. But the similarities to one of Poe’s haunted mansions stopped at the ornate façade. Across the threshold, the building was as utilitarian as any other school, with plain linoleum floors, a blue area rug, and boring beige walls set off by cork boards jammed with brightly colored flyers advertising jobs, roommates, and study abroad opportunities. Only the spiraling stone staircase gave a hint as to the age of the building, its treads worn in the middle from the shuffling of countless feet. Each step echoed like something out of a horror movie as I slowly ascended to the third floor. Beneath my palm, the wooden banister was worn smooth with age and discolored from the oil of thousands of sweaty palms.