Rolling for Love

by Kate Messick

  Joe: Hey, want to do dinner again?

  Sandy: We already flushed out your game system. Do we need to look at it again?

  Joe: No, we don’t NEED to do anything ^_~ But I had fun, and I would like to do it again. Joe: We could call it a date.

  I look at my phone like it has sprouted ears, my memories of Joe’s slip-up in the hall and my body’s heated response to his commanding words rush to the front of my mind.

  Before I can respond, the door to the pod bounces open and closed, making me glance toward it. Amorino and Devon come in, mid-sentence. Amorino nods to me before going to his desk and opening his laptop. He and Devon continue talking. I put down my phone and try to look busy. I have a few notes for him from this morning, but there isn’t a lot for me to do until the next phase in building. Unless they find something fun, or decide to dig into the forbidden basement.

  I put the eraser side of the pencil in my mouth and study Amorino, Joe’s text already forgotten. Casual friend sex is fine, but I do want more and I am ready to be open about it. Amorino is my best friend, we have so much history. No matter what life has thrown at me, he’s stuck with me, and me with him. I had never been happier when he’d asked me out. I could be happy like that again. It was years ago that he cheated on me. Amorino wouldn’t hurt me a second time … maybe he was just coming to terms with his emotions, too.

  Amorino’s eyes meet mine and he bites his bottom lip. I look forward to continuing my argument with him about the deep basement in a more private setting. The door bounces open again. I look up as a stunning woman lets herself into the pod. She pauses for a moment to take off her oversized sunglasses. Her skin is a light bronze. Her dark brown hair falls in big banana curls down her back. Her long, flawless face is done up to perfection.

  “Sweetie, you aren’t answering your phone,” she says in a lovely, light voice.

  I expect Devon to answer and I look down at my papers so she can’t see me staring in surprise. She’s young and quite hot for our mid-fifties Irishman.

  “I don’t answer personal calls at work darling.” Amorino’s voice is smooth and low.

  I can’t stop from looking up from my papers as he stands, eyes only for the woman who walked in the door.

  “Missus Bianchi, it’s always lovely to see you,” Devon says.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she responds, obviously not actually sure who she’s talking to.

  I don’t turn to look at her. I try to meet Amorino’s eyes, but I might as well not exist.

  “Should we leave?” Devon asks Amorino.

  At least someone remembers I’m in the room. I turn my chair so I can see both the new arrival and Amorino. At the word “we”, Missus Bianchi turns to me with a tight smile. I smile back, trying to still my heart. I have to have missed something.

  “We haven’t met,” she says.

  I stand. Everyone else is, so now I feel uncomfortable. That has to be the reason I feel uncomfortable. “I’m Sandy Yuhi.”

  “Good to meet you,” she greets. I don’t have a clue who this woman is, but her eyes register familiarity. She looks me over like she’s confirming something she already knows. “And what do you do for my husband?”

  “She’s our blueprints manager and one of the site inspectors,” Amorino says very quickly.

  His wife turns to him and away from me. I feel sick. I wipe my forehead on my sleeve and swallow thickly.

  “My name is Aurora. It’s nice to meet you.” She looks back and gives me a quick, tight smile. Her light-heeled steps ring oddly on the plastic floor meant for boots and tools.

  Amorino comes around his desk to meet her and Devon walks to me. He quickly picks up the report I had been working on and begins reading, blocking my view and giving the couple some privacy. I sit down and cross my legs. There is a stack of diagrams nearby. I pull them to the center of the desk and study them without seeing.

  “Sweetie, you left your wedding ring in the bathroom,” Aurora says chastises. “Third day in a row. I know work has been stressful, with your late nights. I just wanted to bring it to you and tell you how much I love you.”

  I hear the sound of kissing, and equal parts of jealousy and anger fight for control of my queasy stomach. I swallow reflexively.

  “I don’t like it when you come to my work,” Amorino responds quietly, his voice full of love. “You are so delicate and lovely. Look, there is even mud on your nice shoes. I appreciate the visit, but I have a lot to get done. I love you too much to spoil you with the literal and figurative dirt of my work.”

  The weight of my muddy steel-toed boots is suddenly on my mind. I uncross my legs so both feet are flat on the floor. I wiggle my toes and turn to a new diagram.

  “I’m sorry, I just miss you and love you so much.” Aurora pouts a little. But her pouts are cut off by Amorino’s lips, I assume, as the sounds of kissing resume.

  “I will have Devon walk you to your car,” Amorino says. “I need to review our site inspection.”

  “I haven’t quite finished my notes yet,” I blurt too quickly. I don’t know why I said it. Wasn’t I supposed to be pretending not to eavesdrop? “Walk your wife to her car. She came all the way out here. I will have them finished by the time you get back.”

  My stomach drops with guilt at the grateful look Aurora gives me as she intertwines her fingers with Amorino’s. He spares me the barest of nods and the two walk out together. I can feel panic begin to claw at my chest.

  “Amorino did well there.” Devon whistles lowly as the door bounces behind them.

  I pull my notes out of his hands and read them over without comprehending. I’m supposed to stay on site the entire day, but I can’t stay here. Amorino cheated on me, and now I’m helping him cheat on his wife. I feel sick. I can’t believe I had ever considered sex with Amorino. Simple. Anything with Amorino … simple. A spike of pain shoots through my chest and I press my hand to the spot right above my heart.

  “I just realized I Ieft the oven on,” I say.

  “What?” Devon asks, eyeing me.

  “The oven, it’s on,” I repeat. I close the folder of my inspection and leave it on Amorino’s desk. I write down my cell phone number on the back of one of his business cards and hand it to Devon. “This is my cell number. I only live 15 minutes away. If I’m needed, give me a call.”

  “How long does it take to turn off an oven?” Devon asks, bemused.

  “I don’t know,” I almost yell as the door bounces shut behind me. I don’t see Amorino and his wife as I take the long way to the parking lot. My heart, brain, and stomach argue violently about my emotions. Am I angry, hurt, sick? All of it at once? I’m an idiot. When did he get married? How did I not know?

  I’m an idiot that hurt another woman. And hurt myself. Again, with the same man. I need a drink. I need many drinks. “And then what?” I ask myself. Keep just living to be happy in the moment? Mostly just winging my way through every day? Look how well that turned out this time. Fucking married.

  Our site parking lot is just mud and slush that is quickly drying into dips and pitfalls, just waiting for someone to trip in it. I slow down. All I need now is a face full of mud on my way out. I’m such a fool.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Reality, Dark Pony Bar

  The first and only bar directly off Highway 36, The Dark Pony, has somehow managed to survive time without changing much. The TVs are now flat-screens. There is always one local beer on tap, though never two. It’s one of those lost places, its attraction mysterious to all. Or it could be right next to the university dorms and lose on its carding policy. Take it or leave it.

  Dillon Dempsy

  I don’t consider myself a moody man. But when Sandy sent me the text canceling our dinner, it really put me off the rest of my day.

  “I can’t make it anymore. Things came up,” I read to Blake.

  “Things come up,” Blake smiles, trying to reassure me.

  “We have been emailing back and forth
since Saturday. She’s really starting to think of Nozomi as a person. What could have come up?” I fume and then stop. I sound like I’m in high school again.

  “There is no hope for you,” Blake offers with a shrug. He finally stops trying to cheer me up.

  I text her back saying that I hope it all works out and if she needs anything to let me know, but I don’t get a response. The rest of the day drags on, my focus shattered.

  I’m home with a frozen dinner in the microwave and a movie cued up when Sandy’s text message notification sounds. Yes, I’m that guy. In my defense, all the important people in my life have their own sound.

  Sandy: The person this phone belongs to is really drunk at the Dark Pony in Boulder. Please come pick her up.

  I call her back immediately. “Sandy?”

  “No, sorry dude. You were just the last text message on her phone. Are you anywhere near the Dark Pony off 36?”

  “What are you doing with Sandy’s phone?”

  “I’m one of the bartenders here. She needs someone to pick her up.”

  “Is she ok?”

  “Look, man, I could have Security just throw her out. She’s really drunk,” the voice explains, clearly done with the conversation.

  “Really? At 5:30?” I exclaim and then take a breath. “Sorry, sorry. I will be there as soon as I can.”

  The Dark Pony is about 45 minutes by bus, across town from me, with rush hour traffic. By the time I get there, Sandy has been moved to a booth on the top floor where she’s mostly conscious with a glass of water in front of her. I sit down across from her and thank the bartender, handing him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asks as he hands me her phone.

  I shake my head.

  Sandy’s hair is disheveled, strands falling from the long braid going down her back. She’s wearing a black tank top and has a pile of sweaters placed next to her. Her pants are muddy and match the chunky, well-worn work boots on her feet. I realize that I don’t really know anything about Sandy. I never would have guessed construction work. Her eyes are half-lidded.

  “Di-illon?”

  “In the flesh,” I answer. I hope my voice sounds even. I have no idea what to do.

  “Wast you do ’ere?” Sandy asks.

  “The bartender called.”

  Sandy blinks a few times and reaches for her water. It sloshes over her hand, but she gets some of it into her mouth.

  “I doodn't want tio think or feeils.”

  “Are you ok?” I ask worriedly. Probably a stupid question, but I can’t take it back. I don’t know why she doesn’t want to think or feel, but I want to make it better. I suddenly realize that I don’t know how to do that. I have been out drunk with my friends, but we always stumbled home and passed out. I came here to help, but I don’t know if I should even touch her. I’m good with emotions, but drunk is just drunk. What am I doing?

  “I will-ll be fine, everything s-is f-fine.” She closes her eyes and passes out on the table.

  I jump as her phone rings in my hand. A picture of a dragon appears with the name Joe. I send it to voicemail. Before I can even turn off the screen, the phone rings again. Again, I send it to voicemail.

  A few minutes later, the bartender comes over with the bar’s phone. “It’s someone for Sandy,” he says and hands it to me.

  “Who’s this?” Joe’s voice is full of worry and anger.

  “It’s me, Dillon,” I reply. I can hear the sounds of driving and deep breaths being taken.

  “I got a text message saying that Sandy is very drunk and needs help.”

  “I got the same text,” I say. “It didn’t occur to me that the bartender texted multiple people.”

  “How is she?” His voice is softer.

  “Blitzed out of her mind. And in and out of consciousness.”

  “Does she need to go to a hospital?” Joe asks uneasily.

  “I don’t know,” I answer.

  Sandy’s head flops to one side as she wakes up and giggles. Why didn’t it occur to me that that was even an option?

  “I will be there in ten minutes,” Joe says.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell him. I hope my own unease doesn’t come through on the phone. I want to be her savior tonight. I hear the phone line go dead and I put it down.

  “I’m-m a ‘diot.” She giggles again.

  “I want to get you home,” I tell her. “Do you know your address?”

  She giggles yet again and sloshes more water on her shirt, but some goes in her mouth. As much as I don’t want Joe to be here, I also don’t know what to do.

  “I wanna danz.” Sandy’s arms go up and flail in the air … in time to music only she can hear.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reality, Dark Pony Bar

  The essence of the gods, that magical substance that is liquor. Too much and ones reality becomes whatever one’s unconscious brain can come up with.

  Joe Smartin

  I race up the stairs to the third floor of the Dark Pony. The bar is not crowded and I easily spot Sandy and Dillon in a booth.

  Sandy has her arms in the air. Her cheeks are beyond flushed and she’s struggling to stay balanced just sitting. Dillon looks lost, his hands ready to catch her or her water if either take a spill. I quickly get to the table and pick up the piles of sweaters next to Sandy and move them next to Dillon.

  “Hey Sandy,” I say, sliding into the seat next to her. I nod at Dillon, who can’t hide the look of relief on his face.

  “Joe, is ith DQ … uh, D … time?” she immediately asks me.

  “It’s D&D time.” I give her my biggest reassuring smile. “But we need to get you home to get your character sheet.”

  “Fi … live in Gunba … Gunbarrel … pewww,” Sandy mumbles, making shooting motions with her fingers.

  I pick up her half drank water. “Drink this for me, sweetie,” I say. I hand her the water and keep a hand on the bottom to keep the glass steady.

  “She isn’t a little kid.” Dillon finally says something to me.

  “Drunks are all little kids,” I answer.

  Dillon doesn’t say anything.

  “Let’s get you home,” I tell Sandy after she finishes the water.

  Her eyes are still half-lidded, but her smile is less sloppy. “I wanth to go home wizth you,” Sandy says and wraps her hands around my torso.

  “You want to go home with anything that moves,” I laugh and possessively put my arm around her waist.

  Dillon looks at me with murder in his eyes as Sandy snuggles in.

  “She’s drunk. Don’t look at me like that,” I tell Dillon. “She probably won’t remember any of this come morning. Do you know where she lives?”

  “No idea,” Dillon answers angrily. He takes a deep breath and folds his hands in front of him. “I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad that once I got here, I didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s ok,” I say. “My father was a drunk. I have a lot of practice.”

  “I didn’t know.” Dillon looks at me, surprised.

  “I don’t talk about it,” I say.

  “I’m interested in Sandy,” Dillon confides.

  “She’s something special. Can we be friends … even though we like the same woman?”

  Dillon’s eyes narrow slightly and his mouth twitches to one side. He seems to wrestle with something before he speaks. “I would like that.” His voice is resigned but honest. He sticks out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm and confident. He picks up Sandy’s phone and tries to unlock it. How did the bartender get it open?

  “So, is Gunbarrel a place?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Dillon confirms. “It’s about a ten-minute drive outside Boulder.”

  “Sandy, we’re going to do this one more time.” I put two fingers under Sandy’s chin. “What’s your address?”

  “1494 Duck … um … Dick Ave, Longs, South Africa, 90210,” Sandy says. She lets go of my waist and tries to stand. “D’
am feels again, I ne-eed anoth.”

  “That’s the one thing you most definitely don’t need,” I say. “But I’m glad to hear you come up with such a creative address. It means you’re sobering up.”

  “Here,” Dillon says. He has gotten into her phone and brings up her home address on Google maps. Gotta love Google letting you save those things for the world to find. The two of us get her down the stairs and to the parking lot.

  “I don’t have a car,” Dillon admits a little miserably. I can tell he wants to take her home, but also doesn’t. I have to stop myself from telling him that life is hard. For all we know, Sandy is an alcoholic and this is a usual thing.

  “I will let you know when she’s home safely,” I say. “And give you an update in the morning.”

  “In the morning?” Dillon asks with a furrowed brow. “You would take advantage of a drunk woman?”

  “Chill,” I say as we get to my car. “When,” – and I stress the word – “Sandy and I get together, it will be sober, consensual and amazing. But the stages of this drunk go happy, delirious, unconscious, violently ill and then alternate between wishing you were dead and puking up things you ate in a past life. Do you want to join us for this adventure?”

  “I want to be there for her,” Dillon mumbles.

  “Then be there for her tomorrow when she calls you, livid that I invaded her privacy and broke her trust,” I say.

  “She won’t say that,” Dillon shakes his head.

  “One hundred bucks says you’re wrong.”

  “You’re on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Reality, Sandy’s Studio Apartment