Clichéd Love: A Satirical Romance

by Lynn Galli

  I swallowed hard at the intense and almost worshipful look Iris was giving me. “Can’t move bodies without wearing gloves.”

  Her look softened into a more familiar grin. “Probably shouldn’t admit that to a former police detective.”

  I raised my hands. “Speaking of helping, does Lane need another set of hands back there?”

  Iris had been drifting behind the bar to help pour drafts all night. Helen and her former sous chef, who was now the head chef here, were running the kitchen for this busy night. It freed up Lane and two others to make the more complicated drinks while the servers worked the table orders. I’d been bussing tables occasionally and keeping the crowd flow below capacity.

  “You just don’t want to dance with me,” Iris joked, making her way back behind the bar.

  I swallowed again. Dancing wasn’t my thing. Never had been. But for a second, I’d been tempted.

  23 | Marty & Tate

  If these two used the word “adorable” one more time, I might have to shove their faces into the fryer in the back. It wouldn’t be on; I wasn’t a monster. But I couldn’t help thinking that adorable belonged to puppies and babies. Adorable did not fit a thirty-something woman who looked like she’d been around the block so many times she couldn’t remember which house was hers anymore.

  “I just melted, you know?” Marty sighed, shooting a gooey look at her wife.

  Oh, yes, and the melting. Let’s not forget the melting. They’d used that word almost as often. Along with drowning in her eyes, forgot to breathe, and needing to break off kisses for oxygen. They tossed out every overused line in a romance novel. Aside from the constant eye rolling moments, they had a pretty nice story.

  They were waiting for me to react to what they’d said. The melting at the proposal. Tate used the jumbo screen at a baseball game—not an actual live shot of her presenting the ring—just a notice that read: Marty, will you marry me? I shuddered at how much that must have cost for the ten second notice and how impersonal it was and what if Marty’d been in the bathroom at the time and why anyone would decide that between the fifth and sixth innings at a ballgame was the opportune time to propose marriage. Not that I’d spent a lot of time thinking about proposing to anyone, but I’d rather it be more personal and in a place where someone wouldn’t slosh beer on me as they slapped my back and pointed at a two hundred foot wide screen.

  “You were melting?” I prompted, barely managing not to gag when I said the word. If adorable slipped from my lips, I’d probably staple my tongue to the roof of my mouth as punishment.

  “I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It was so romantic.”

  Yes, romantic to have 45,000 people read a marriage proposal with you.

  “Our entire section went crazy.” Marty flipped her dark brown hair over her shoulder in a practiced move.

  “She was so adorable.” Tate gave her wife the gooey eyes thing.

  My teeth clenched, but I kept my hands in my lap rather than reaching across the table to haul her into the kitchen where a surprised Lane and her chef would likely try to keep me from committing homicide. “Did everyone in your group know?” I’d spoken to four couples from the season ticket holders group so far. All mentioned the ballpark big screen proposal.

  “For sure. They had to help me keep her in her seat and looking at the screen so we didn’t miss the message.”

  The message that lasted maybe ten seconds among probably two other marriage proposals and a dozen birthday messages.

  “This place is nice. I was in here years ago and got the wrong vibe from it.” Marty’s eyes scanned the remodeled interior.

  “New owner. She put a lot of work into it.”

  Tate looked over to Lane behind the bar. “That’s Iris’s friend, right? Yeah, I heard about her. Glad she has this now.”

  What a curious thing to say. It was too similar to Riley’s comment at the grand opening about Lane being closed off. People seemed to know Iris but not Lane, and yet Iris and Lane were best friends. People should know both.

  “How’s everything going here?” The very Lane we’d been talking about placed a palm on my shoulder and leaned slightly toward Marty and Tate. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Somehow she always knew when I was wrapping things up. Perhaps she gauged when I stopped making copious notes to know I was ready to end interviews. When she’d been the bartender, she rarely came out from behind the bar. As the owner, she was taking on that role a lot more.

  “I had my eye on those sliders I saw go by a couple of times.” Tate patted her slight belly.

  “We only planned to meet Vega here for a drink, but Tate’s right. The food looks scrumptious. We’ll have to try it out.”

  “You’re in for a treat. Our chef has brought pub food to a new level.” Lane tapped their order onto her mini tablet and raised her brow at me.

  “I’m good, thanks, Lane. Just wrapping up, but I’m sure Deb will turn these two into regulars with one bite.”

  The look of relief and pride was a permanent fixture on her face these days. With the help of Deb, who’d left Helen’s kitchen with her blessing, Lane could concentrate on bartending, managing her staff, and keeping her customers happy. Deb relished having more responsibility and full-time hours here. She handled everything in the kitchen and came up with a tasty menu consisting of lighter fare, varied appetizers, and modernized bar food. I’d tasted everything and had a bunch of favorites. If it weren’t for the lighter fare, eating here almost every day would have wreaked havoc on my waistline.

  “Thanks for the story, ladies. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”

  “So, we’re in?” Tate asked, hope apparent in her eyes. “We read your first article and loved it. Had to get two logins so we could each vote. We disagreed on which couple was which. Can’t believe we didn’t know.”

  That made me feel good. As did the number of people who voted in the online poll. My editor was the hero of the day. The paper had no problem offering the wedding package now. They even upped the number of articles they’d be publishing. More pressure for me, but I had plenty of articles banked thanks to my non-procrastinating ways.

  “Glad you liked it.” I tried to keep pride from making me look like an arrogant fool.

  “Does that mean we’re going to make the series?” Marty asked, holding her breath because she’d probably forgotten to breathe again. I’ll be lucky to leave without her calling me adorable.

  “Read and see.” I winked and headed up to the bar.

  “They’re adorable, aren’t they?” Iris spoke into my ear.

  I nearly jumped at her sneak attack and stifled a fit of giggles. Never before had I needed to stifle a giggle fit. One giggle, maybe, but a fit? Never. Sporty andros didn’t giggle. “So adorable they melt on a regular basis.”

  Iris snickered and turned away to keep from laughing outright. With Tate and Marty still occasionally looking our way, it wouldn’t do to show how rude I could be at times. “You aren’t the type to believe in the public messaging system at ballgames?”

  “Not my choice for communication, no.”

  She brushed an invisible piece of lint off her dark jeans. “You don’t think anyone would wish you a happy birthday or congratulations on the big screen?”

  The idea amused me. “I’d be more likely to have a friend put up a message like, ‘Vega, someone might miss you if you died.’ That’s about the extent of the affection I’d get from people I know.”

  She laughed and gave me a look that said she didn’t believe it. “I could come up with a better message.”

  “But then I’d just want to die.”

  Her hands came up in surrender. “A journalist who doesn’t want to make news. Interesting bird.”

  “That’s me.”

  24 | Lorraine & Simon

  Long fingers stroked the outside of the martini glass in a sensual rhythm. My eyes kept returning to the motion. Slender fingers attached to a remarkable beauty mesmer
ized far more than her love story. The husband was anything but remarkable. One glimpse at the wedding photo she had on her phone told me he’d been a looker once. When he didn’t have a beer gut, back hair, and two separate bald spots slowly reaching toward each other. Two years younger than I was, he really had no excuse for letting himself go or not trying to groom some of that visible hair beneath the sleeveless t-shirt he was wearing. Get some clippers, dude. Fifteen bucks at Target. Splurge a little. Your wife is a hottie; make an effort.

  “Can’t say I was too thrilled to be here after reading your last two articles,” Simon spoke up. He’d been civil throughout, but something had been hanging over the table since he sat down.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, wondering why he’d kept the appointment if he wasn’t “thrilled” about it.

  “I was under the impression you were writing a series of personal interest stories on nice couples. Imagine my surprise when I read those articles and see you’re plotting two couples against each other and letting people mistake some for gay.”

  Wow. That’s what he’d gotten out of the articles? “I think you’re missing the point of the series, Simon.”

  “What? Too politically incorrect of me to say I don’t want to have people reading our story and putting us in the gay column?”

  Wow again. Seattle was pretty progressive. None of the other straight couples had made outright homophobic statements and many had no problem sticking around for Lane’s opening night even when they figured out it was mostly gay couples crowding the place. Oh, well. Every city needed its quota of phobic idiots.

  “Babe,” Lorraine practically growled at him. She’d been cringing at several of his comments throughout the hour. Clearly their fifteen-year marriage was at one of those push-through-it points that all marriages endure. Her wandering eye didn’t want to cooperate, though. She’d given me a hungry sweep on no less than four occasions. Perhaps their fifteen-year marriage was at the point where one of them decides to find something new and exciting to help spice up her own rut.

  “What?” he growled back. “I said it wasn’t politically correct, but I’m sick of people tiptoeing around the gays. Everyone’s always so sensitive about their kind.”

  I clenched my teeth and released a pent up breath. “The point of the articles is to show people who think there’s a difference between your kind and my kind that a love story is a love story, no matter the kind.”

  “Your kind?” He shoved his chair back.

  “Hi, I’m Vega and I’m gay.” I shot him a disarming smile. I’d never hidden my sexuality. Comments on my social media pages made it very clear that I was a lesbian. I never added it to my articles because I didn’t insert myself into them. If he’d done his homework, he’d have known.

  “No wonder,” he mumbled when his wife gripped his arm in a deathlike vice to keep him from leaving. His eyes roamed the bar again, looking for boogeymen in the form of rampaging homosexuals who’d force him to watch them drink a cocktail or eat a meal. As if on cue, Riley and Adrian walked in the front door, smooching and laughing as they made their way up to the bar. I had to turn away to keep from laughing at how uncomfortable Simon now looked.

  “Are we in a gay bar?”

  “You’re in a pub that doesn’t discriminate,” I clarified.

  “Babe,” Lorraine growled again, clearly used to being embarrassed by some of the things he said. She wanted the notoriety of being included in a publication that had millions of daily readers. Her eyes danced slowly over me again. Even knowing she was married didn’t stop my heart from skipping a little. She was too hot not to be excited by the prospect that she might find me attractive, even as a straight married lady.

  “Whatever,” he sighed. “Are we done?”

  Not really, but I’d had enough. They met in an internship program after college and had two kids. He was a boring exec somewhere, and she was head of the PTA and worked part-time somewhere else. Cute, quaint, and downright precious. As stories went, blah, but I needed more straight couples to balance out the number of gay stories I had from before I came up with the competition angle.

  “Thanks for your time.” I stood abruptly, surprising Simon enough to slide back in his chair again. Perhaps he thought I’d rub off on him if I got too close, which was pretty much the universal fear of all homophobes.

  Up at the bar, I slid my empty cocktail glass toward Lane. She shot me an exasperated look, letting me know I didn’t need to bus my own empties. I couldn’t help it. I took pride in this place now. I’d run back and get Simon and Lorraine’s glasses as soon as they collected all their crap and left. With the amount of stuff they had, jackets, sunglasses, phones, keys, purses—plural, he had a murse, which I’m sure he called a satchel or something less feminine, but he was walking around with a man-purse—and hats, they’d be there for a while.

  “Waste of a woman right there,” Iris said as she took the stool beside me. Her eyes grazed over Lorraine gathering her belongings.

  “He was quite the looker back in college when they met.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “Heard some of what he was saying as I passed by a couple times. Doesn’t matter if he was movie star gorgeous, he had some stupid-ass things to say.”

  “Very true.”

  “She was loving some of that Vega view she kept taking.”

  My hand reached out and smacked her shoulder. “Stop.”

  “What? She was eye-guzzling you all interview.” Both she and Lane laughed at that comment.

  “She’s straight and married.”

  “And you’re hot and single.”

  Hot? Hmm. Something was going on here. She must be setting me up for something. She complimented Lane often and certainly said nice things about my writing skills, but this was the first mention of my appearance.

  “I’m just saying the chick looked like she was not only ready to jump ship but switch oceans.”

  “Good metaphor. Might have to steal that one.” Speaking of eye-guzzling. Iris wore a suit that lengthened and sharpened her appearance. I liked her better in jeans and cowboy boots, but this new look added dimensions. “What’s up with the suit, sexy lady?”

  Her eyes flicked away as her chin tucked against her chest, embarrassed. “Just back from court.”

  My eyebrows rose. Lane’s did as well. She finished the two drinks she was making and turned to Derrick, the other bartender. Without a word, he took over delivering her drinks, allowing Lane to give Iris her full attention.

  “You know the guy we followed from Pacific Place to the restaurant?” She waited for my nod. “He was held over without bail today.”

  “Thanks to your testimony?” I asked.

  “To the overwhelming amount of evidence we had and a few words from me and the investigating detective.”

  “Congratulations, Iris. Well done.” I patted her back.

  Lane leaned over and hugged her. “I know how much this means to you. It’s been eating away at you.”

  “One more down, a few more to go.” They both looked too serious for a celebration. Whenever they did this, my reporter instincts kicked in. I wanted to know why they could look so solemn at times and communicate volumes without speaking.

  “Dinner on me. C’mon, I hear this place has great food.” I watched their solemn looks morph into smiles.

  “Sure does. I’ll get your orders in and bring them out to you.”

  “No, no.” I waved her off. “It’s a celebration, which means we’re all having dinner. You’re taking a break and eating with us. Derrick can handle the bar.”

  Lane wanted to protest, but one glance at Iris’s hopeful face and she relented. She keyed in our order and joined us at the table Simon and Lorraine had finally vacated after packing up every possession they owned.

  “Iris, congratulations on the win in court today. It must be a big relief.” I tipped my glass at her and turned to Lane. “Lane, congratulations on achieving your dream. It’s a great bar.�
�

  “And Vega, congrats on the success of the articles so far. More than three million votes online already. The paper must be going crazy.” Iris clinked her glass against mine and did the same with Lane. “I’m so winning that contest. I know I got the first four couples right.”

  I laughed and gripped her shoulder. “Sorry to break it to you, Iris, but as my friend, you’re not eligible to enter the contest.” Her face fell, which shouldn’t have made me snicker, but it did. “What would you do with a hundred thousand dollar wedding, anyway?”

  “I could get married.” She tried to look affronted.

  “For a hundred grand?”

  She shrugged and laughed. “Well, no, but I could pay Lane eighty-five to fake cater it and use the other fifteen to order wedding crap that I’d return so I could take a wicked good honeymoon.”

  “Yes, please.” Lane perked up at the idea.

  Now I was laughing. “Again, hate to dash your hopes, but I’ll be there to cover the wedding for the paper. They’re milking this thing dry. It’s going to have to be a swanky affair and, most importantly, real.”

  Her eyes caught mine again. “So you’re saying that you’ll be at my wedding?”

  I snickered at her playfulness. “You’re not eligible to win. Especially since you already know half the damn stories I’ll be publishing. You’d be considered a ringer.”

  “You’ll still be at the wedding,” she said with a cockiness only she could pull off without seeming cocky.

  It felt good to sit among close friends. I’d had some in the past, but knowing how transient my life had been, following stories or stints with papers, none had really gotten under my skin. Keeping in touch wasn’t as easy as we’d thought it would be. Deciding to make this my home base for a while, perhaps for a seriously long time, I knew these two would be friends I wouldn’t let drift away, no matter the circumstance.