by Julie Dill
“So I want to know more.” Nate reaches for the radio volume knob, and turns the music down just a tad.
“More?” I ask.
“Yeah. More . . . about you. Like your job. Where you live. Your hobbies. Your family . . . You know, more about you.”
I pause.
Hobbies. I can do hobbies.
“Well, I don’t really have time for many hobbies. I watch cooking shows sometimes. I like to cook.”
“A hot chick who likes to cook? Must be my lucky day.”
I leave out the part that I could lie on the couch and watch Bobby Flay smoke salmon all day, but a grilled cheese and bowl of cereal are basically the only things on my menu.
He’s intrigued.
“What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
“Hmmm.” Think. Think.
Think.
“My favorite thing to cook . . . Hmmm . . .” I try to think of something impressive that I can pronounce correctly, and the inside of our refrigerator makes an appearance in my head. Milk. Cheese. Juice and butter. “I like to cook fish a lot. Salmon, tuna, trout.” (Tuna, as in canned, but we’ll leave out that little detail as well.)
“Impressive.” He says, then moves onto the next subject. “So what do you do at the tag office?”
Tag office? What is he talking about?
I scrunch my eyebrows and continue looking forward.
“Didn’t you say you worked at a tag agency or something?”
I’m going to have to start writing this stuff down.
“Oh, yeah. I thought you said rag office, and I was like, what?” I reach for a piece of gum in my purse. “I just do tag stuff. You know, car tags and boat tags and stuff like that. Pretty boring, actually.”
I make a mental note that I grill tuna steaks and hate my pretend full-time job.
“So where are we going?”
Off the highway there’s a beautiful sunset on a small lake with sailboats. Never in my life did I know that a single sailboat existed in Oklahoma. “Are we on Northside?” I ask.
He laughs, “Yep, we’ve been traveling north. You know, Lake Hefner. Haven’t you been here before?”
Um, no.
“Well, yes.” Of course, all twenty-somethings have been to Lake Hefner, and that would include me.
Nate pulls off the highway and crosses an overpass to navigate his way into a parking lot. There are a few restaurants, nice restaurants, and the parking lot is full. I feel like we’re out of town in a faraway place, but it was only a twenty-minute car ride. There’s an outdoor band setting up on a big lawn area, and I can’t believe this place is twenty minutes from where I live.
“I love it out here,” I say, “it’s so beautiful.” We get out of the car and I wonder if we’re headed toward the gourmet Mexican food restaurant or the steakhouse.
Nate grabs my hand, and we walk in silence through the parking lot. Then, he starts walking toward the boat dock, and I think we’re going to go sit on the park bench for a little while before dinner. How romantic.
When we get to the end of the boat dock he looks down at my boots.
“Those are cool boots. And you’re smokin’ hot in them and all, but you’ll probably want to slip them off.”
Two thoughts on this:
1. He thinks I’m smokin’ hot in my boots.
2. Why am I taking them off?
He waits, and I just give him a blank stare . . .
Water sloshes up on the sailboat we’re standing next to, and he nods toward it.
“What?” I ask.
“Take your boots off, and let’s go.”
“Oh my gosh. This is yours?”
He smiles and nods toward my boots. “Yes, it’s all mine. Now let’s go.”
Is this a dream? I’m standing here in designer boots about to board a sailboat with a twenty-two-year-old pit boss. Basically the complete opposite of my real life. I wait for a purple dragon to drop from the sky to confirm this is definitely a dream as I start to take off my boots.
It’s embarrassing because as cute as my boots are, they are an absolute pain to get off. It usually takes me at least five minutes to get them off. There’s no way to make this graceful or attractive. I sit on my butt, and Nate reaches down to help.
We begin the struggle.
“This is so embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. Personally, I kinda like it,” Nate laughs as he acts like he’s looking up my dress.
I pull on my dress to make sure I stay covered as we wrangle around. It’s a full-fledged tug-o-war before both boots come off. I’m glad we’re outside in the open air so hopefully the stinky boot-sock smell doesn’t reach his nose. He helps me onto the boat, and off we go.
It’s straight out of a Jennifer Aniston romcom. Nate pushes off the dock, rolls up the sleeves on his shirt, then grabs the oars. The sun is setting, the water makes perfect lapping noises against the boat, and Nate’s muscles flex every time he rows. For a good while, we don’t even speak. He just rows away from the noise of live music and couples eating on patios. I look around at the beautiful scenery and get a better understanding of what it means when people use the word “surreal.”
He stops rowing for just a moment so he can point at two ducks. “Ha! Look. They’re on a date too.”
“They are! How cute,” I laugh. The fact that Nate observes two ducks on a date makes me melt.
“I wonder if he’s nervous.”
I cock my head and watch them for a while.
“No, he’s not. She’s a nervous wreck, though. Look at her.” We watch the ducks swimming around. I love that this conversation is so senseless. I love that for the first time, in a really long time, there’s a part of my life that seems easy.
“I bet she needed a night on the town, what with the eight kids and all,” he adds.
“Nope. I bet it’s their first date. He’s wondering about first base.”
Nate cocks a smile at me then looks away. He rows toward the center of the lake until the noise becomes faint. A breeze begins to blow my hair around, and Nate lets go of an oar and brushes a strand behind my ear. He rubs his hand over his own shaved head.
“Sorry, my hair’s getting all messed up.”
I laugh. I laugh at everything he says. I couldn’t dream up a more romantic, fun date if I tried. It’s perfect. Everything about Nate is perfect, and when it all comes to an end for the night, we make it to first base. Okay. Second. Rounding second.
That night, before I fall asleep, I decide two things:
1. It would be really easy to fall in love with Nate.
2. I don’t have time for cheer.
Chapter 25
On Monday I drive to school thirty minutes earlier than usual. There’s a low fog, and everything seems wet. I’m sure the teachers are already at school, standing around swapping stories and waking up with their coffee, preparing for a whole new day in the glory of educating teenagers.
Miss Mound isn’t in her room when I get there, so I sit down in a chair and try to look miserable. I sit in silence for a few minutes until she walks in.
“Oh no! What happened?!” She places her bags and coffee on a student desk in the back.
I force my eyes to get teary.
“I was carrying a box to my car and lost my footing stepping off the porch. I’m so sorry.” I pick my crutches up off the floor to make sure she sees them. “The doctor said it’s not broken, but I have to stay in this boot for six to eight weeks.”
“Six to eight weeks?” She comes around to get a closer look.
“Yeah.”
“Well, hmm. Nothing you can do about that.” She puts her hands on her hips and stares at the boot.
A tear drops down my cheek.
Cassidy sees me hobbling to my first class, and I tell her be
fore she has a chance to ask.
“Tripped off the porch.”
Her eyebrows scrunch.
“Sheesh. Are you kidding me?!”
“I was carrying a box and misjudged where the step was.”
She looks like she’s stepped out of a magazine. Dressy high-heel boots, leggings, and a cute chunky sweater. She swings a new, giant Michael Kors bag onto her shoulder.
“Do you need help?”
“Nah, I got it.” My canvas bag hangs from my wrist so my hands are able to wrap around the crutches’ handles. “Oh, I’ll have your money soon. Probably the first of next week, if that’s okay.”
She stares at me without words. She knows me too well, and this isn’t a good thing at the time.
“Chelsea, keep the money. I don’t care about that. I’m just worried about you. You’ve been so non-existent; you’ve completely separated yourself from everything and everyone. And now this?” She points to my boot.
“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”
“What’d Miss Mound say?” “I told her with the injury that there’s not much I can do. She said that’s fine, just bring her a doctor’s note.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“What do you mean how am I going to do that?”
‘The doctor’s note?”
“I’m going to bring her a doctor’s note.” I say firmly.
“So you’re really hurt?”
I roll my eyes and walk away.
__________
After school I pull to the back of a dry cleaner’s parking lot and shift my car to park. I keep the engine running as I remove the boot and grab my crutches. I get out—thanking God that that’s over for the day—and pop the trunk. I’d always thought crutches were so cool when I was little, but now my opinion is quite different after a day of underarm pain.
When I drive home, Dad’s sitting on the porch waiting for me.
He never does this.
Chapter 26
He doesn’t take his eyes off me as I park and walk to the door.
Shit. He knows. He knows something.
Nate.
The gambling.
Electric bill cut-off notice.
He clasps his hands, brings them under his chin, and says nothing.
Shit. What is it?
It’s the D in Spanish.
Quitting the squad.
It’s the injury. He knows I’ve faked an injury.
The date?
Me drinking?
I smile the “I’m-confused” smile and say, “Hello?”
“Hi honey.”
Something is so off.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t move. He just sits for a while.
It’s the gambling. He knows.
It has to be the gambling.
He takes a deep breath and extends his legs.
“Honey.” He pauses. I’m busted. It’s a for sure, definite bust. He crosses his legs at the ankles and leans back onto his elbows. “I don’t want you to worry, but I quit my job last night. Things may start to get a little tight.”
I’m relieved, mad, and shocked all at once.
“Dad? You quit your job? What!”
He can’t look at me.
“I just can’t do it anymore. It’s the same ol’ thing day-in and day-out, and I’m just ready for a change. Things will look up and get better for us eventually, I promise. But I was thinking if I sell your car and some things around the house it will get us through a month or two, and by then I’ll have an even better job making more money. You can use my pick-up to get to school, and I’ll job hunt in the evenings and on the weekends.” Tears fill my eyes so I turn away where he can’t see me.
“We’ll be okay, Dad. We’ll make it work somehow,” I say as I walk through the door.
Chapter 27
I start with fifty-two dollars. I’m limited on time—with Dad not working and all—he’ll be home to check up on me. So, I go straight after school. Dad thinks I’m at practice. Technically I’m not lying about it, it’s just that I haven’t got around to telling him that I quit.
Nate’s off on Wednesdays, and I’m glad about that because I need to stay focused. I’m standing at the check-in counter for less than ten minutes when he sends me a text (first one ever!) that says, “Hi. You’re playin’ tonight?”
I read it, then start to look around. Where is he? How does he know this?
I text back. “Are you here?”
He responds, “No.”
I keep looking around.
“Um, then how do you know I’m here?”
After a slight delay, he responds, “I have eyes all over that casino.”
I look up at the cameras in the ceiling. I look around at the other employees. Who is watching me? And what’s more, who has Nate told about me? I start to bite the skin around my thumbnail.
I’m standing right there in front of the guy who pulls the microphone over and says, “Chandra, your no limit table is ready . . . Chan-dra, come on down.” He gets immense pleasure out of pretending he’s on The Price is Right. I raise my pointer finger to signal that, Hel-lo guy, I’m Chandra. Remember me from just ten minutes ago?
“Table six, Chandra.” He makes that clicking sound to go along with his wink. “Good luck.”
I breathe in. I breathe out. Once again, it’s good to be home.
When I sit down and place my three twenties on the table I request single dollar chips. I hate it when they chip me in fives because the stack seems so small. There are two regulars at the table, and they all smile and acknowledge me entering the game. The dealer, a familiar face too, reaches for my twenties. I keep my phone in my lap. She tucks my twenties into her tray then readjusts a bobby pin holding her blond, short hair behind her ear.
It’s my third hand that doubles my stack.
But I need more.
I stare back at the screen displaying table games, and I become curious about what it takes to play on a higher-stakes table. After a few smaller wins, I get up the nerve to ask the dealer. I’m glad to be sitting right next to her, and I keep my voice low.
“So how much do you need to start with to play on the 5-10 table?”
She leans toward me as she continues to deal the cards, multitasking being a prerequisite to poker dealing.
“Eh, the pots can get pretty big over there. It just depends what kind of player you are. The key is to double-up fast because you just have more power with a big stack.”
I shake my head and look at the cards I’ve been dealt. “Could you start with a couple hundred dollars?” She turns over the community cards.
“Mmm, yeah. But I wouldn’t start with any less than that.”
I’m holding a pair with a pair on the board; the bet makes its way to me.
“I’m all in.” I push $120—give or take—to the middle.
People toss in their cards without even waiting their turn. All but one, a young kid with curly hair and ear buds. He’s staring at his hold cards, tapping them up and down, and bobbing his head to whatever music it is he’s listening to. He knows it’s his move, but he can’t get a read on me. I start playing with my phone in my lap.
The dealer, in a whisper, says, “No phones during a hand,” so I quickly stick it in my purse. She taps her fingers on his side of the table and says, “We need a call or a fold,” and he pulls out one ear bud. She repeats, “We need a call or a fold.” He starts to count out his chips, and the dealer confirms its $118 for the call. He counts them out, separates them from his stack, but chooses to sit there a bit longer to ponder his hand.
Players get antsy. One speaks up.
“Come on already.”
He’s not intimidated by the player’s comment, and at this point I begin to worry about
his hand. There’s no way he’d be agonizing if it was all that good. No way.
He cocks his head like why-the-hell-am-I-doing-this and pushes the pre-counted stack toward the middle.
I toss my cards down—two pair—and I hear a regular say, “She went all in with that?!”
My opponent looks at my cards, really studies them, and chooses not to reveal his own. He puts his ear bud back in and leans on the table to rest his chin in the palm of his hand.
“Good hand,” my neighbor says. Then the players chatter and there’s nine kinds of speculation and assessment over what it was he had and why he stayed.
I get up to get a tray.
And get my name back on the list.
Chapter 28
I’m standing by a slot machine waiting for my table when I come close to having a heart attack.
“Boo,” he says and scares me. I jump, turn toward him, and my instant reaction is to cover my chip tray with my hand.
He laughs.
“I’m not stealing your chips, Beautiful.” It’s Nate. He’s in blue jeans and a ball cap. The cutest ball cap I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Okay. The cutest guy wearing a ball cap that I’ve ever seen in my whole life.
“What are you doing here?” It’s obvious he’s not working since he’s in street clothes.
“Oh, just out and about. Thought it’d be a perfect time to pick up my check since I heard my favorite player was here. Are you waiting for a table?”
“Yeah, I’m just switching tables.”
“Switching?” He nods toward my chips. “It looks like you’re doing pretty good to me.”
“Oh, I’m not switching to shake off some bad mojo. I’m going to try a 5-10 table.”
“Ooooo. A 5-10 table, huh? She’s big-time now.” He speaks of me in third person.
I decide to do the same.
“Do you think she’s stupid?”
Nate puts his hand on my back and kisses my cheek.
“I think she can play anything she wants to.”
I look up at the cameras behind tinted glass in the ceilings and I can’t believe he just did that. He kissed me at his work. Who saw that? He kissed me at his work! I tingle, to say the least, like jumping in a cold swimming pool.