by Amy Vansant
Emily’s gaze fell to their shared cheese plate. She’d already eaten her portion of the bleu cheese, but Tessa let her half rot. It made Emily crazy. Tessa possessed otherworldly willpower, in addition to the fact she couldn’t gain weight if she beer-bonged lard milkshakes. Occasionally, Tessa pointed to the tiny roll of skin hanging over her size negative jeans and moaned, “Look at this, what do I do about this?” and Emily fought not to choke her.
Emily considered herself a normal-sized person, but standing next to Tessa, she looked like she could eat her fun-sized buddy.
Emily glanced at her watch. How long since Tessa’s last bite of cheese? Ten minutes? Twenty? Emily felt confident “polite-time” had expired. Now it was cheese-for-all.
“Just eat it,” said Tessa, staring at Emily.
“What?”
“If you stare any harder at the bleu cheese it’s going to burst into bleu flames. Just eat it.”
“Was I staring?” Emily asked, scooping the moldy goodness onto a cracker before Tessa changed her mind.
Emily studied the cheese plate. Bleu cheese gone; only the sharp cheddar remained between them.
Patience.
“Green Giant progeny aside,” Emily said, attempting to distract herself from the cheese, “I called you here to discuss my tendency to stalk boys. I mean, men. I need you to talk me off the wall. You know I have a tendency to do these unladylike things.”
“Nooo. When I look up demure in the dictionary I always find your photo staring back at me.”
Emily scowled.
“And weren’t you the one who made a doll out of that freak Daniel’s hair in high school?”
An approaching waitress overheard Tessa’s comment and shot Emily a look.
Emily smiled at the server, whose gaze fell to the nearly empty cheese plate. Emily instinctively covered the edge of the cheeseboard with her fingers, ready to wrestle it from the server’s grasp should she lunge for it.
“Did you just growl?” asked Tessa.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I did not make a hair doll,” Emily hissed at Tessa. “You always say that and it makes me sound like a lunatic. What I did was romantic. I took some of his hair and just sort of...bunched it together.”
“Like a doll.”
“Not like a doll. It was a loop of hair. Sometimes a loop can look like a head, that’s all. It wasn’t like I built a shrine with burning candles and chicken bones.”
“As far as I know. How long did you end up dating that guy anyway?”
Emily sighed. “Eight years; which is like twenty-five in emotional rollercoaster years. I had to buy him a ticket to California to get him away from me long enough to find the strength to break up with him.”
“I still haven’t decided if you’re an idiot or a genius with that move.”
“It’s a fine line.”
“Who did you stalk after that?”
“No one, remember? Brad stalked me. And I was so flattered I nearly married him even though he bored the hell out of me.”
“That killed three years?”
“Close to four. It broke my heart to break his heart.”
“You’re terrible at this. Maybe you should just take a vow of chastity. Stalking people gets you in trouble; being stalked gets you in trouble... It’s a classic ‘damned if you do’ situation.”
“You’re married and retired from romance. You forget the hair-doll days were the good old days. I miss infatuation. I haven’t been inspired to stalk someone in a very long time. I miss the game. The intrigue...”
“Is it really that you haven’t been inspired? Or that you’ve been court-ordered to stay thirty yards from all men?”
“Very funny. I’m serious I—”
Tessa’s phone rang and she held up a finger to put Emily on pause. Tessa leaned sideways to rummage the purse at her feet and Emily took that opportunity to pop the remaining chunk of sharp cheddar into her mouth.
Emily had a problem with cheese. Cheese and wine. And chocolate. And bacon. And vodka.
My god, I am riddled with problems.
Tessa sat up, glanced at her phone and then set it down on the table. Her eyes fell on the empty cheese board. She raised her right brow and took another sip of wine.
“You work out of your home,” said Tessa. “It isn’t a mystery why you can’t meet anyone. Who are you going to stalk? The UPS guy?”
“Piece of cake. I’d just keep ordering things online.”
“You need to get out more. I guess if following this Sebastian dude will get you out of the house...”
Emily’s eyes popped.
“So I have your permission to stalk him?”
“That’s not exactly what I meant. But I guess you could stalk him a little...for the greater good.”
Emily squealed and clapped like a hyperactive rabbit.
“But no hair dolls,” added Tessa, pointing at Emily. “And I don’t want to be called to your restraining order hearing.”
“Deal.”
Emily grinned. Everything felt better with Tessa’s blessing. She intended to stalk Sebastian regardless, but now, if it didn’t work out, she could tell Tessa it was all her fault.
“So, my problems are solved. What’s new with you?”
“Ooh! I forgot to tell you,” said Tessa. “I joined a running group! I’m going to do a marathon!”
Emily’s face fell.
“Ok, now you’re just being an asshole.”
Chapter Seven
Two days after dart night, Emily returned to the Irish Rover at the crack of happy hour to find the bar area empty, but for two people: a giant, bespectacled man and Sebastian.
Emily nearly fainted with happiness. Finally, she would meet Sebastian. Was it luck? Fate? Stalker intuition? Something had brought them back together. The God of Vodka, perhaps.
Sebastian and Four-eyes sat at the front snug bar. It seemed pushy to plant herself on the stool between the two of them, so Emily roosted at the tall bar table flush against the snug’s front window, directly across from the boys. Nervous to shoot in such a small space and in front of a captive audience, Emily unzipped her case, intending to sharpen her brand new points on her brand new sharpening stone. They might be dull from languishing in Bullseye’s display case.
Emily slid the darts from her nylon case, feeling very legit. Real dart players had cases, and hers was sleek, yet large enough to carry darts, her license, credit card, compact and a lipstick. It was perfect. Emily took a deep, cleansing breath.
Be cool.
Emily drew her lipstick from its special pocket, and faced toward the window to reapply. She’d bought a new color specifically for the case. She’d searched for a lipstick called “Bullseye Red,” but settled upon “Coral Reef.” The color was bold for daytime, but as Emily had sat at her kitchen table, glancing back and forth between the case, the clock on the wall, and the late afternoon sun streaming through her window, she realized “dark” happened much too late at night. She couldn’t wait that long to go to the Rover.
Emily slid the lipstick back into its pocket and noticed a price tag on the table beside her case. She tried to pick it up, only to find it attached to her pack.
Emily was horrified. How had she not noticed the tag on her dart pack as she lovingly filled it with accessories? She couldn’t look more like an amateur if she’d strutted in wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with “Dart Players Do It With a Point.” She was officially the biggest dork ever to enter the Irish Rover. They would sing songs about her:
She played darts once then bought the whole kit,
The stuff was brand new but she still played like shit
And a hydie diedy deedle doodle...
Emily shot a glance towards the snug bar. The boys had their backs to her. No one had seen her shame.
Hope sprung eternal.
Emily yanked the tag, but the clear cord holding the ticket in place resisted breakage like military-grade fiber; possibly alien in origin. S
he looped in her finger and pulled as hard as she could, grunting with the strain. She cleared her throat to cover the grunt.
The loop refused to snap. Emily’s finger, lashed by an angry red indentation, throbbed.
Emily raised the case to her mouth, tapping it against her chin as if deep in thought. Her eyes made a second sweep of the room.
No one was looking.
Emily turned to the window and shoved the plastic into her mouth, positioning the cord between her eyetooth and lower canine. She gnawed; lips pulled tight and thin across her teeth, nibbling at the loop like a rabid squirrel.
“What can I get you?” said a voice.
Startled, Emily jumped, the dart case shooting from her grasp like a freshly caught fish determined to return to the sea. She bobbled the pack from hand to hand, finally slapping it to the ground with a loud thud. Spiking the case to the floor seemed like the only logical way to end her horror. She almost immediately regretted the decision.
Emily froze, staring at the case at the foot of her stool.
“You never told me you could juggle.”
Emily recognized Sebastian’s voice. Slowly, she lifted her head; her dry upper lip still stuck to her gums, her teeth bared in a frozen snarl.
“Gaaah!” spat the big man at the bar.
Emily met gazes with each of the three people gawking at her: the big guy, who had already spit his drink in horror, Sebastian, sporting a barely perceptible smirk of amusement and Giant Wendy the Bartender, hands on her hips, awaiting an answer to her question.
Emily licked and relaxed her upper lip.
“Whoops,” she said.
Emily hopped from her stool and retrieved the case, maneuvering the tag so it remained unnoticeable to the group. As she watched the big man wipe his cocktail from his chin, she had to question whether the errant price tag remained her number one concern. Spiking her case to the ground was climbing the Dork Hot 100 Chart. Impersonating a beaver was number one with a bullet.
“Dropped my case.” She held it in the air like a small nylon trophy. “Got it.”
Emily placed the case back on the table and smiled at Wendy.
“What can I get you?” repeated the giantess.
“To drink?” Emily asked, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. She tossed her head, a move she thought would appear both sexy and casual. The hair she’d secured fell back across her face, so she pushed it behind her ear and offered a second sexy head-toss, dislodging the lock afresh.
This happened several more times.
“Yes,” said Wendy. “What can I get you to drink.”
Emily fixed the hair one last time and resisted the urge to head-toss. Composed, she opened her mouth to answer, and then fell dumb, unable to think of a drink. Any drink. Did drinks even have names? She searched Wendy’s face for assistance, but the woman’s expression telegraphed nothing but a strange cocktail of annoyance and pity. Emily felt like a rodent staring into the eyes of a cobra; trapped.
“Yes?”
Emily swallowed. “I...uh...”
“Get her a Chicken Club,” said a voice.
“Chicken?” echoed Emily.
“Chicken Club.”
The voice wasn’t Sebastian’s, so it had to belong to his bespectacled bar buddy.
Emily focused on the man. She guessed his height at six foot four, his body built like a linebacker’s, several years out of training. Though physically imposing, his thinning hair and round, wire-rimmed spectacles softened his appearance.
“I’m not really hungry,” she said.
“It’s not a sandwich, it’s a drink. Vodka and soda with a splash of cranberry.”
“Oh!” Emily said, nodding her head like a paint mixer. “That’ll work.”
Wendy disappeared behind the partition separating the snug from the rest of the bar.
“You, uh...” The big guy pointed to his own mouth and made a circling motion around his lips. “You got a thing going on there.”
Emily covered her mouth with her hand. She turned to her table, zipped open her case and retrieved her compact. Flipping it open, she peered into the mirror to find her freshly applied lipstick smeared far beyond the boundaries of her lips. The area where the plastic tag loop pierced her nylon case also sported a fresh coat of lipstick. Emily made a mental note that ladies should always shove their dart cases in their mouths before touching up their lipstick.
Emily wiped at her mouth until she looked a little less like a four-year-old playing with mommy’s makeup, cleaned her case as best she could, and ripped the paper price tag off the case. She left the plastic ring attached until she could find metal shears or a blowtorch.
Maintenance completed, Emily turned to find the two men at the bar had politely returned to their drinks rather than watch her piece her face back together. She saw both had pale pink drinks in pint glasses.
Emily cleared her throat, but the men seemed unfamiliar with the international gesture for catching someone’s attention and did not turn.
“Is that what you’re drinking?” Emily asked the backs of the men’s heads. “Those manly pink drinks you have there are Chicken Clubs?”
The men’s heads swiveled to face her. They stared, their faces blank as wax figures. During their deep silence, Emily reconsidered her last comment.
“Just kidding,” she added. “About the manly part. I mean, about inferring that you aren’t manly...”
Oh my god why can’t I shut up? Why don’t I just point at their penises, laugh, and call it a day?
Emily thrust her hand toward the cuddly linebacker.
“I’m Emily, by the way.” She noticed a smear of lipstick on her thumb and quickly wiped it away with her other hand.
“Benny,” said the adorable goon, shaking her hand once she had replaced her original offering with a cleaner version. “This is Sebastian.”
Sebastian nodded and extended his hand. Emily shook it, her gaze immediately darting from his eyes to the floor.
She mentally groaned as she released Sebastian’s long-fingered paw. Unless Sebastian was from a land with no women, he had to know she found him attractive after playing touch tag with his eyeballs.
“So, why do you call them Chicken Clubs?” she asked, turning back to Benny.
Emily could feel every molecule in her being screaming, “Help me, Benny. Please make the awkward go away.”
“On a business trip I bumped into some guys at a bar who called them that,” said Benny. “The bar there had it so ‘Chicken Club’ printed out on their receipts, so the guys who drank there could write their drinks off as a business expense.”
“Ah. Very clever.”
‘Very clever?’ Who am I, Sherlock Holmes?
“Unless their boss starts wondering why they ate six chicken club sandwiches for lunch,” mumbled Sebastian.
Emily turned to Sebastian, who stared at his pink drink.
“I think I saw you playing darts the other night,” she said. By which she meant, “I stared holes through you while you were playing darts the other night,” but she avoided wording it that way, demonstrating a surprising show of restraint. Baby steps.
“Me?” asked Sebastian.
Emily nodded.
“Oh, right.” He squinted at her. “You were at the bar.”
“Right! You were getting a martini and you forgot to ask for olive juice...”
Emily trailed off, choking back a flood of unnecessary details to avoid sounding like a stalker. Oh, and a lock of your hair had just fallen across your forehead, and I remember your shirt had a small cranberry-colored stain on the sleeve and...
“Sebastian is really good,” said Benny. “I mean, not as good as me, but...”
Sebastian rolled his eyes.
“You were there at the end, weren’t you?” Emily said, gently prodding Sebastian to speak. He had a nice voice; no discernible accent of any kind; manly, but not gruff.
“I mean, you almost won, didn’t you?” added Emily. �
��I think I saw you in the finals...was that you? If that’s what you call them...finals? Are they called something else in darts? I mean, did you win?”
Wow, thought Emily. Is there some sort of Pulitzer Prize for speaking? I am the Siren of Subtle today. Hey, as long as we’re sharing, Sebastian, here are some photos I took of you. And here’s a Ken doll; you can see I cut off his face and pasted a picture of your face in its place. Hope that’s cool...could I have a few of your fingernail clippings? What blood type are you?
“We came in second,” said Sebastian.
Emily took a deep breath and exhaled for what seemed like an hour. Oh Sebastian. You poor, insanely attractive thing. You have no idea what is going on in my head or you would have leapt from the bar stool and sprinted down the street on your long, sexy legs ten minutes ago.
Sebastian swiveled his knees toward Emily and rested his back on the partition that split the snug from the rest of the bar. Emily moved behind Benny and set up shop at the end of the bar, facing Sebastian. Wendy brought her Chicken Club, and just like that, Emily had joined the boys at the bar. She was like a bumbling explorer stumbling onto the very tribe she’d hoped to study.
“So what do you guys do?” she asked, remembering what normal people said in situations like these.
“Lawyer,” said Benny.
“I thought you looked shifty.”
Benny’s smile morphed into a grimace. Clearly, she wasn’t the first person to throw a “lawyers suck” joke his way.
Emily turned her focus to Sebastian and started chanting in her head as if she was playing craps. Come on...novelist/Internet mogul! Millionaire-entrepreneur-who-single- handedly-saved-all-the-stray-puppies-in-Thailand! Seven come eleven!
No. No, he couldn’t say those things, she decided; too braggy. He would say he tinkers with stuff, but by that, he’d mean he invented the iPhone. Or, he’d say he’s a philanthropist, or he’d say—
“I’m a manager,” said Sebastian.
Manager?
“Oh, like an office?” she asked.
“No, like a store. Retail. At the Cove Center.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Maybe not Internet mogul cool, but that was fine. Emily had never dated anyone for money or fame before; no reason to start now. And who knew? Maybe he still saved puppies on weekends.