by Hall, S. E.
“Well…” she toys with her lip nervously, “there’s something I’m really into, if you want to try it.”
In the spirit of encouraging her to be herself, like I’d just preached to her, I agree, even though every instinct in my body bet the whole enchilada that I shouldn’t have.
***
Amy’s apartment is…interesting. I’m very happy to report that I’m not allergic to cats since I count five from where I’m standing, and I’m praying to God the glowing eyes underneath her TV stand belong to the sixth. And I’m also suddenly fond of the smell of smoke, seeing as how its stench is a welcome mask to the odor of cat piss.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she coos, which must be a joke, “I’ll go get my stuff.”
There’s no way in hell I’m gonna be comfortable until I’m home, but I try to navigate my way to the couch, in the dark. Amy is blatantly fond of red light bulbs instead of, you know, normal ones, and I can’t see shit. Silly me, running out without my infrared night vision goggles and all.
“You ready?” She sits down beside me, a black bag in her lap.
“For?” My voice shakes, understandably.
“Well…” She starts pulling stuff out of the bag, arranging it on the coffee table in front of us. “This is what I’m really in to. So first,” she turns to face me, “give me your palm.”
I let her pick up my hand and she hunches over it, tracing the lines with one finger. How she can see anything is beyond me. I mean literally, not just the hocus pocus.
“Hmmm, very interesting. Okay, I need more. Here,” she hands me a deck of oversized cards, “shuffle these three times then cut them twice with your left hand.”
For shits and giggles, I shuffle and cut the cards as she instructed, then watch as she starts flipping them over and laying them on the coffee table in a big square.
“Oohhh,” she groans, covering her mouth with one hand.
“What?”
She looks at me, worry lines creeping out from her spider eyes, then turns back to point at the cards. The middle one depicts some grim reaper looking dude, the one in the corner…I think it’s a man head with a horse body. None of them look good; I must be doomed.
“Evan, what’s your sign?”
“Right about now, I’m thinking Proceed with Caution.”
I’m not kidding.
“No,” she scoffs, “your astrological sign. Like Pisces, Aries.”
“Oh, the Virgo one I think.”
“Uh huh, just as I thought. Evan,” she huffs, her shoulders dropping, “we can’t see each other again, I’m sorry.”
Well, of course we can’t. Perfectly logical. And honestly, at the rate I’ve been going, I should have seen the creepy man-horse and the kiss of death coming, really.
I pretty much tune out after that. She may have said something about my house, which I don’t have a house, or her moon, or barren harvesting…not even sure, but I’ll recover.
“Sounds about right. I’ll see ya.” I stand and risk my way to the door, making sure not to “feel” my way, which would require touching things.
“Evan, wait!”
I turn back, ready for her to turn on the damn lights, change the litter boxes, and tell me she’s kidding, but instead she sprinkles a circle of some white dust around me and wishes me luck with “my chosen one.”
Chosen by who?
Nope, not gonna ask…keep walking, Evan.
CHAPTER 21
Crazy
***Evan***
“Dude, give it up, you’re never gonna be as big as me.” Sawyer grins and kisses his bicep.
“I’m pretty sure only the football team’s allowed in here.” I put down the weights and move to the leg machine. He’s right, my arms will never be as big as his, even though I work out non-stop these days, but I know I’ve got him in leg strength, so I’m gonna work those while he’s here; kinda an ego thing.
“Nobody else will be down here at ten o’clock on a Friday, Evan. They have lives. Pretty sure it’s safe.”
“I have a life.”
“No man, you don’t. Your first year of college is gonna be over before you know it and what do you have to show for it?”
“A 3.6?”
He whistles. “And what else?”
“A football jersey.”
“You know what I mean. You don’t go out, you don’t hang with the Crew, and you even quit coming to the softball games. You don’t date, no one ever sees you. What gives?”
“Nothing.” I press out twenty-five reps before going on, trying to quell some of the aggression his accusatory words are building up in me. “I go home on the weekends to help Parker, class during the week, football stuff; just been busy.”
“So how about tomorrow night? I got a double date lined up for us.”
“No.”
“Wait a second, hear me out.”
“No.”
“Come on, you’ll have fun, I swear!”
“Sawyer,” I stand and wipe my face with a towel, “I’ve decided there are no normal girls on this campus. I can’t even imagine what would be wrong with the next one. I have had my fortune told by the crypt keeper, fed another man’s fetus and I’m pretty sure I went out with a dude! I said no!”
“I’m sorry.” He covers his face and turns his head, trying to hide his laughter.
“You done?”
“Sorry,” he turns, under control now, “one more try, come on. You let Zach and Avery set you up, give me a chance. Listen, if there’s anything super wrong with this girl, I’ll let you kick my ass.”
“Have you met the girl?”
He nods. “Many times.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Have you slept with her?”
“Not even close.”
“Do you know anything you’re not telling me? Like she’s transsexual, pregnant, into voodoo, drinks blood, is married, has three nipples or anything else that might strike you as odd?”
“Nothing like that.” He clutches his side as he loses the fight to keep a straight face. “Seriously though, totally normal. And hot.”
“You had me at normal. I’m not kidding though, Sawyer, one weird thing and I’ll stand up and walk out, then take you up on kicking your ass.”
“Deal.” He sticks out his hand for a shake. “Allister’s at seven, cool?”
“I’m not picking her up?”
“Nah, they’ll meet us there.”
***
Date #4
Conspirator—Sawyer
Girl—Jenee
Stats—Sawyer and details? All he can positively attest to is that “she’s normal” and he hasn’t slept with her.
Problems- Nothing will phase me
“Why do you keep checking your phone for the time? Sawyer, I swear to God, if these are by the hour girls—”
“Relax, man, I don’t have to pay for hookers. Neither do you, fool.”
“So are they hookers?”
I think my paranoia is totally justified, considering.
“No, and shut up, mine just walked in.” He stands and pushes his chair back, walking over to greet a voluptuous bottled-blonde. Everything about her and her cheetah print pants screams “Sawyer.” He pulls out her chair, then something catches his eye briefly before he looks at me and smiles. “You’re welcome. Turn around.”
On pins and needles, I slowly stand and turn, ready to greet my next tragic date and grip the back of my chair to steady myself. My date is beautiful—long brown hair, dark, catlike eyes and a sexy but subtle outfit.
“Hi, I’m Evan.” I offer my hand.
“Jenee,” she says, just says. She doesn’t giggle it, or say it with invitation dripping off it, and her handshake is just firm enough to let me know she’s there.
I pull out her chair and awkwardly say, “You know Sawyer,” because I don’t know if he told me his date’s name or not, and I absolutely don’t want to chance a guess.
“Hey, J, this is Hailey,” Sawyer introduc
es his date who either needs to sneeze or doesn’t return Jenee’s greeting very nicely. I don’t try to guess that either, but when no sneeze comes, I think she might not like Sawyer knowing Jenee. Have fun with that one, buddy!
We settle in, just some light small talk and me arranging my silverware nervously, giving Jenee a smile every so often when good ol’ Hailey goes and breaks awkward all out of its case by pouring herself into Sawyer’s lap. This restaurant seems too nice for lap sitting; I mean, they provide high-backed, cushioned chairs, enough for everyone to have their own, but she doesn’t seem to care. She does seem to think Sawyer needs his tonsils checked, which she is currently doing a very good job of…you know, in a restaurant.
“So…” I clear my throat loudly, trying to ignore the spectacle across from me. “Jenee, do you go to Southern?”
“I did.” She tries to smile, her eyes flicking from me to them on their accord.
I understand, really. It’s like a car wreck; you don’t like looking at it, you know you’re probably gonna see something gruesome, and yet…your eyes are drawn like bugs to a light.
“You go there, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, I transferred this semester from UGA.”
“I heard that too. And you play football?”
I nod, taking a sip of my water as our waitress approaches.
“S-sir,” she stammers, but a quick glance confirms she isn’t speaking to me. “Sir,” she insists, louder this time, tapping Sawyer on the shoulder.
Jenee and I sit silently, watching the whole tacky-but-hilarious scene unfold. Another sharp tap to the shoulder and Sawyer finally breaks free to acknowledge the waitress.
“Oh, hey.” He throws her his best smile. “Take a seat, darlin’,” he encourages Hailey, moving her to her own chair.
“What are you guys having?” he asks us, just as normal as can be.
“I’ll have a glass of house red please,” Jenee addresses the waitress politely.
I wait for Hailey to order her drink, but she’s busy with a mirror and replacing the lip gloss she’d lost to Sawyer’s face, so I go ahead. “I’ll just have a Coke, please.”
Once she collects the other drink orders, a beer and a Pink Squirrel, our waitress leaves.
Hailey is now sufficiently primped and ready to participate in conversation. “So, Jenny, how do you know Sawyer?”
Here we go.
“It’s Jenee, and from work. You?”
“Me what?” Hailey pops her gum loudly.
I’m just shocked she came away with her gum.
“How do you know Sawyer?” Jenee’s voice is polite, but screams “keep up.”
“Here and there.” She snickers, leaning over to bury her face in his neck, one hand disappearing under the tablecloth.
By the grace of God, our drinks arrive and we place our orders while Sawyer mauls the basket of bread just delivered. Jenee pushes back her chair, excusing herself to the ladies’ room, so I stand to help her. As I do, I see her.
Across the restaurant, looking like a vision in a light pink (of course) top, her hair down around her shoulders, is Whitley. Sitting across from her, looking like a goon, is some preppy little worm in a suit. A suit.
“I’ll be right back,” Jenee says, jerking my attention back to her.
“R-right, okay,” I stammer, consumed by my thoughts.
When Jenee has turned the corner, I look to Sawyer. “Hey, I see Whitley over there. I’m gonna go say hi real quick.”
I’m off before he can give me shit about it, which he undoubtedly would. She looks up as I approach, quickly forcing her shocked face into a grin. “Evan, hi, what are you doing here?”
“Same as you,” I shrug, “eating. I saw you, thought I’d come say hi.”
“I’m glad you did. Evan, this is Thad Conner. Thad, Evan Allen,” she introduces us.
Thad? That’s not a real name.
He stands, placing his napkin that he had in his lap, need I say more, on the table. He offers me his hand with a “Thad Conner.”
She just told me that, dumbass, I know your name.
“Evan Allen, still.” I raise one brow as I squeeze the shit out of his hand. “Well,” I focus on Whitley, “I better let you two get back to your date. See ya later, Whit.”
She starts to say something but I walk away, not at all happy, and not at all sure that my face won’t give away that fact if I stay any longer. Here I am, on a pretty decent date, mad that Whitley’s on one too? Nothing like painting yourself into a corner…forcing yourself to date everyone but the girl who you don’t like seeing date anyone but you. The whole “having your cake and eating it too” adage comes to mind, but that makes me think of cake; shortcake, in particular, with strawberries, that Whitley made me.
Not helping.
Jenee’s already back in her seat when I arrive at our table, so I apologize, explaining I saw a friend and wanted to say a quick hello. I don’t mention the friend is a tiny blonde who hums and digs worms and makes me cake and needs a real man who doesn’t own a fucking tie to swoop her up…no, I just say friend. She dismisses it easily, not bothered, much to my relief.
For 2.3 seconds. Until Sawyer speaks.
He smirks. “Who’s Whitley here with?”
“Her date,” I grind out, offering Jenee an apologetic smile, ready to kill Sawyer for having the biggest damn mouth in Georgia. I grab a roll, amazed there’s one left with “Mouth of the South” sitting across from me and all, and begin to butter it, welcoming anything else to concentrate on.
Music blares out of nowhere, a song I’ve never heard, thankfully, ‘cause it’s terrible, and Jenee scrambles to fish her phone from her purse. “Sorry, I have to take this,” she barely offers before excusing herself again.
Offended? Not a bit…this looks like a big ol’ opportunity to me. I whip out my own phone, firing off the first shot.
Evan: Do you need me to come rescue you? I owe you one.
Answer, come on, time’s a wastin’.
Whitley: No, I’m fine. Are you on a date? Texting me in front of her would not be okay.
Evan: She had a phone call.
Shit. See what she did there? Got me to admit I’m on a date. Tricky female.
Evan: Thad is not a real name. I looked it up.
Whitley: Stop it.
Evan: You know what needs to stop? His ears growing. WAY too big for his beanie head.
I hear her laughter across the restaurant, like a siren’s call. Above the noise, dishes clanging in the back, all else, I hear her laugh.
Evan: Funny AND true.
Whitley: Maybe a little.
“Here she comes, man, put that away. Work with me, dammit,” Sawyer warns in a low voice.
I shove my phone in my pocket and stand just as Jenee approaches. I pull out her chair for her, leaning way back to catch a peek at Whitley, who’s giving me a thumb’s up. I chuckle; Whitley’s being kind, approving of Jenee when it’s her that’s clearly the most radiant girl in the place.
“Everything all right?” I ask as I push her up to the table.
“Oh yes, fine. My roommate had a bad night, needed a little talking off the ledge. I’m sorry about that.”
“No worries, that’s nice she has you.”
And I text bombed the lovely lass across the way the whole time you were gone.
“Thank God! My stomach was eating itself.” Sawyer’s boisterous announcement earns an eye roll from our waitress as she settles the stand and tray, serving our dinners.
Jenee and I barely speak through the meal, but talk about the other side of the pendulum…Hailey is feeding Sawyer off her fork and wiping his mouth after each bite. Oh, and let’s not forget the kiss after every swipe of the napkin. It’s so nauseating I can barely choke down a mouthful and Jenee is fidgeting so much she’s either as uncomfortable as I am or she has worms.
“Sawyer!” I finally bark. “Enough! You know how to use a fork, I’ve seen you do it.”
“You te
sty fucker, you need to get laid,” he mocks me with a snarky wink. “You heard him, sweet thang, eat your own dinner and I’ll eat mine,” he directs his doting date.
“Thank you,” Jenee says under her breath.
Hailey takes turns between pouting and glaring at me, Sawyer biting back a smirk at my obvious discomfort to her scrutiny. He and I are gonna have to have a talk soon about the difference between a little PDA and all out porno previews.
“I thought I’d come by and say goodnight.” Whitley’s voice comes from beside me and I look up to find her blue eyes zoned in on Jenee.
“Hey, Whit.” Sawyer gets up and gives her a hug, eyeing Thad. “Sawyer Beckett, and you are?”
“Th-Thad Conner.” I can see his hand shaking from here as he offers it.
Sawyer gives him a brisk, and I’m sure painful, shake and then introduces them both to our dates. I say nothing because I’ve already played nice with the fagbag one too many times; my angry glare only leaves him long enough to return to Whitley, hers still zoned in on my date.
“Do you two want to join us?” Jenee asks politely, almost as polished as Whitley would have done.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid we can’t. I have a plane to catch.” Thad straightens his tie as he speaks.
“That’s right, well let’s go then. Bye, Ev, Sawyer. Nice to meet you both.” Whitley gives a small wave and turns to go with him.
“Bye, Whit,” I respond, my aggravation evident.
My head turns of its own volition and watches her walk out, gray skirt swishing with each flick of her hips until she’s completely gone from view. A plane to catch? Is he some out of town secret? Someone she dated back home? How long was he here? Is he what she had planned when she couldn’t hang with me the other night?
There it is—that familiar pain in my chest telling me I’ve blown it—again. If ever there was a guy better at complete lack of timing or finesse with making a big move at the exact moment she needs you to make it, I’d love to meet his ass and gladly hand over the title that hangs around my neck like a noose.