My body sways toward his, but instead of the kiss I’m expecting, his hand wraps around my ponytail andtugs. My eyes snap open to see his chocolate brown irises dancing with mirth. “My special interest is your hair,” he whispers.
Then all of a sudden, he’s gone. My body is cold in his absence, but my stomach is on fire.
“Have fun on your date tonight, Red,” Ben calls over his shoulder, not once looking back as he heads up the street toward Louie’s.
I, in fact, do not have fun on my date. Garrett takes me to Louie’s, so of course all I think about is how Ben could walk in at any moment. Louie’s is also known for its karaoke nights.
I fucking hate karaoke.
Excusing myself from the table, I make my way over to the bar simply so I can have a break from Garrett’s incessant droning about which All American Rejects song he wants to sing. He was debating between “Swing, Swing” and “Dirty Little Secret.” When he suggested the latter, he gave an exaggerated wink and elbowed me awkwardly in the side.
That is when I excused myself.
Louie and another young bartender are serving drinks to the mostly college-aged crowd. When Louie spots me, he waves me over to his end of the bar, already pouring me a glass of red wine by the time I get there.
“You are a saint,” I yell over the noise. It’s so, so loud in here, my skin has started crawling.
Taking a sip of my wine, I try to recenter myself, but I’m failing miserably. “Louie! Can I get an ice cube?”
He wraps one in a paper towel before handing it to me. I place it on my wrist in an attempt to ground myself. “Who is that guy you’re with?” Louie asks, leaning forward on the bar so he’s not having to yell. “He looks…”
A chuckle escapes as I watch Louie search for the appropriate word to describe Garrett. He’s tall but all pale, gangly skin and bone. It appears as if his hair has been straightened and there’s enough product in it to create another hole in the ozone.
“That’s not what his picture looked like,” I say in defense. “Listen, I really don’t want to stay in here—no offense—so can I pay for our tab and sneak out?”
I don’t think I can stomach listening to Garrett sing. There’s absolutely no way I will be able to pretend that it’s good.
Louie waves me off. “It’s on the house! Get out of here.”
This is not the first time Louie has, lovingly, kicked me out of his establishment, and I’m even more grateful for it tonight. “Thank you,” I mouth, draining my glass.
When I finally make it out onto the quiet street, I’m so relieved I could cry. I lean against the wall outside of Louie’s, taking a few deep breaths. I feel the smallest inkling of guilt until it’s quickly washed away by two things happening simultaneously.
First: The opening chords of “Dirty Little Secret” drift out from behind the door to Louie’s.
Second: A door on the other side of me swings open, revealing Benoit Bardot.
“You!” I point my finger at a confused looking Ben. “You ruined my date.”
“Me?” His reply is indignant. “I’ve been in my apartment all night. How could I have possibly ruined your date?”
“It was the—the hair thing!”
Ben doesn’t feign confusion. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. “The hair thing?” He saunters toward me, so much more muscular than Garrett—taking up so muchspace.
“Yes! The hair thing!” I’m mad that I liked it so much. I’m mad that I can’t find someone who makes me feel the things that Ben makes me feel. I wave toward my ponytail in emphasis. “The hair thing!” I repeat.
“I heard you, Red. You liked the hair thing. Where’s your date? Is it over?”
“It is for me,” I reply. The wind leaves my sails, and I slump back against the exterior wall. Ben misreads my frustration with myself as something else because his demeanor immediately changes.
“Did he do something to make you uncomfortable?” His voice is low, serious.
“Does bringing me to karaoke count?”
“I’m serious, Colette. What happened?”
I wave him off. “Nothing, Benjamin. I’m just overstimulated. That’s why I left. I was not expecting to run intoyouout here.”
