Never the Bride (6 page)

“Okay…um, would you be opposed to painting an entire room pink?”

“I’m color blind.”

“Wow. Sorry to hear that. I’m really into the study of color and mood.”

“Maybe that’s why I have a mood disorder.” I can hardly say this without laughing. Newton’s face twitches as he tries to hold his expression.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, almost convincingly.

“Are you pitying me?”

Now his eyes are wide, like he’s afraid he might’ve just crossed a mood-disorder line. I’m having way too much fun here.

“No…no, not at all. I think it’s, um, courageous that you can even mention it—talk about it, I mean, to a total stranger.”

“Total stranger? You mean you don’t remember me?”

Newton is saved by the bell. He practically dives out of his chair. I am cracking myself up. That is, until I see the next guy. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Mr. Miata.

“Hi. Greg.” He holds out his hand and smiles. It’s obvious he doesn’t recognize me from the parking incident.

“Jessie.” Firm handshake. Nice ears. I’m trying to find something that will keep me from—“I’m the one you stole the parking space from.” Too late. Must be the lipstick.

He carefully takes his seat. “Sorry? What?”

“This evening. I was going to take that spot you whipped into.”

He frowns. “You waved me in.”

“Actually you pointed to the spot, and I thought you were being a gentleman and offering it to me. I was waving to say thank you.”

Now, this can go either way. He can get defensive and make an excuse, or—

“I’m sorry.” He smiles gently. “I really am. Why wouldn’t I let a woman have that spot, right?”

I let a little of the tension go. “It’s all right. I’m not really that mad. I mean, I was peeved at the time, but it’s really just because I hate walking long distances by myself.”

He truly looks mortified. “I wasn’t thinking. I just knew I was running late, and I thought I’d had a stroke of good luck.” He pauses. “And here I am with you…another stroke of good luck.”

I giggle all breathy-like. I’m shameless as I decide his ears aren’t his only good quality.

“So, I suppose you’re looking for the kind of man that would think to give a woman the parking spot.”

I nod a little. “I guess I am.”

“What about a guy that usually thinks that way but had a weak moment?”

I smile. “I’m a big believer in forgiveness.”

“Maybe it’s the car,” he says. “I just got that little Miata, and to tell you the truth, I feel a little silly in it.”

I’m starting to think that this guy can steal my parking space anytime.

“It was one of those moments, you know, when you do something foolish because you think life is passing you by and you just want something great to happen. So you think a car is going to solve your problems. Do you know what I mean?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“So besides a parking space, what are you looking for in a guy, Jessie?”

It is striking me completely ironic that the guy that made me cry on a dark street seems to be connecting with my soul. I choose my words carefully.

“I’m looking for the kind of guy that can apologize for taking a parking space.”

He leans back into his chair, not like he’s leaning away from the conversation, but like he’s getting comfortable.

Like he wants to stay awhile. A long while.

After Greg’s eight minutes are up, I slip into some bad habits with the other fellows. I ask a few questions about their feelings on psychological compatibility testing and ask two men—and only two—to rate on a scale from one to twelve their fear of commitment. And yes, I’m perfectly aware I’m two shades of pink away from being Newton when I ask these guys how they might propose.

But hey, I let them ask a few questions too.

The evening ends with Ed, who sells used cars and keeps using my name like we’re on the lot and I’m eying the sportier one I can’t afford, but he’s nice enough.

I watch Bob and Heather walk out, hand in hand. I slip into the bathroom to finally get this lipstick off my mouth and take a breather. But really what I’m doing is lingering.

As I leave the bathroom, the crowd has cleared out and Laurel is busy picking up her table and organizing the cards.

“Hey.” She smiles. “How’d it go?”

I hand her my card. She eyes it, then me. “Last time you only checked two.”

I shrug. “I’m giving these men the benefit of all my doubts. And there are many. Doubts.” I bite my lip. “Look, Laurel, I know you’re not supposed to, but can you check now? Please? I’m just very optimistic tonight, you know? I have a feeling.”

“Let’s see what we got.”

She grabs the cards from my age group and flips through the men’s. Then she flips through them again.

“What? Five?”

“Not exactly.”

“Three?”

“No. Not three. I’m afraid no one picked you.”

“Oh.” I’m bleeding the color of my lipstick but I smile. “Oh, okay.” I start to walk away, then turn back. “Can you check Greg’s card again?”

She flips through and shakes her head. “No, sorry, hon. He’s got five, but you’re not one of them.”

Tears sting my eyes. I’m hoping it’s giving me the glassy look of aloofness. I bet not, though, judging by the way Laurel is tilting her head to the side. “If I didn’t know better,” she says with a sad smile, “I’d say it’s gonna take a miracle of God to help you, honey. I mean, you’re beautiful. And likable. I don’t get it.”

“Yeah? Well, when has God ever shown up to help me?” I turn on my chunky heel, push the door open, and storm out. I’m stomping and I don’t care. I stomp harder.

“Hello, there.”

Gasping, I turn. A man is standing near the wall outside of the bar, leaning, his arms crossed. He’s staring, piercing me with—what is that, scrutiny? No, not scrutiny. Something else. I don’t know. I don’t care. I keep walking.

“Jessie.”

I whip around, my hands on my hips. “How did you—” I glance down. I’ve still got my nametag on. I rip it off and throw it to the ground. But because I’m very much against littering, I stoop and pick it back up. The man is still watching me. I take a deep breath. I mean, this guy is cute. Looks a little familiar. Was he just inside? I don’t know. But the air is out of my proverbial tire, as it goes, and I’m not feeling very chatty. Or charming. Or pretty.

I offer a small smile, then turn and walk toward my dark street, daring somebody to mess with me.

He takes the dare and scurries after me. “I want to talk to you.” I keep walking. Who is this guy? Someone who hangs outside the bar, waiting for the pour souls who don’t get picked? Championing for the strays? Good grief. “Trust me. Just for a minute.” I can still hear his footsteps behind me. I turn and march right up to his…his…handsome self.

“Look,” I say, trying so darn hard to seem polite, “I’m not in a good place right now. The last thing I want to do is…” I might as well be frank. “Is trust one of you.”

“One of me?”

“Man. Males. Men.” I step away from him. He does not look like a serial killer. In fact, he looks completely harmless, and had he been at my table tonight, I probably would’ve found him quite adorable.
But not now. Now he represents everything I despise. I don’t say another word. Instead, I pull out my jewel-studded Mace and wave it in the air. It’s the universal “you may be crazy but I’m crazier” sign.

He doesn’t seem intimidated, even though I lurch forward a little. Instead, he simply stands there looking amused. Great. Glad I could entertain someone tonight. I walk backward a few steps and then turn down the street where I parked. I glance behind me, relieved he is not following.

As I head home, I dial Blake. Predictably it goes to voice mail, because he actually has a life and probably has a Valentine’s date with Ms. Steele. “Blake, I hate you guy types. I never want to talk to you again! Just wanted to you to know.” I feel better already. “Hey, when you get home from whatever you’re doing, call me or hop online. By the way, I’m officially being stalked.”

I cry as I drive. I don’t heave-cry where it’s best to pull over, but tears are trickling down my face. I regret asking Laurel to sneak a peak. I would’ve rather just found out by e-mail like everyone else. Now I see why that rule is in place. And this is what happens when I break the rules. Other people break rules and live to brag about it. I break rules and live to be humiliated. I park on the curb outside the condo and dry my tears. The drive was good. It let me get some things out. I step out of the car to breathe in the coolness of the night. It feels safe out here. I suck in more air and try to remember there is a good reason that I am alive.

Then I spot him. I can’t believe what I am seeing, and it nearly backs me into my car. My stalker is sitting on the small wall of the porch at the top of the stairs of my condo. Something deflates inside
me. I have no energy for stalker or Prince Charming. Perhaps it’s the irony that I can’t get a date but strange men are following me home. Normally I would cower back into my car, but I decide not to. I decide, truly against my better judgment, to take this freak on.

He stands as I approach the steps of my condo. “Do you really believe I’ve never done anything to help you, Jessie?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

He continues speaking in a pleasant voice that doesn’t fit my stereotype of freaky stalkers. “You can’t accuse me of something like that and expect me to not show up and defend myself. Come on.”

I stare straight into his eyes. “I’m not a big fan of men I don’t know following me home. Would you get out of my way?”

To my surprise, he actually does. Then he takes a gallant bow and gestures toward the door. “As you wish.” Terrific. Chivalry from a stalker. See? This is how my life goes.

I hold out my key, eying him. One startling move and I’m going to scream bloody murder. “How did you know where I live?”

“I’ve always known where you live. In San Diego, it was Carter Street until you were eight. Moved here when your dad was transferred. You inherited this place on behalf of yourself and your little sister.”

My hand plunges into my purse and emerges with the cell phone. “Okay, freak. Time for the police.” I accidentally dial 411 and have to start over, but he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere fast, which is part of the problem. “What? Did you look me up on the Internet? That’s really original.”

With my other hand, I finally jiggle the lock enough and the door opens. I step inside, the phone still to my ear, and lock the screen door.

Stalker Dude sits back down on the wall. “They’ll send Officer Garrety” he says. “He’s got a great sense of humor. I love that about him.”

“911. What is your emergency?”

“There is a stalker outside my door.”

“A stalker, ma’am?”

“Yes. He followed me home from a bar. I mean, yes, okay, it was a bar. I wasn’t there drinking or picking up men, though. Okay, I was picking up men—trying to—but it wasn’t…um, well, it was speed dating.”

“Speed dating?”

“Eight minutes, bell dings, change tables. That whole scene. Anyway, he’s followed me home.”

“Is this a guy you met there?”

“No. He was outside, like he was waiting for me.”

“Sounds like a successful night.”

“No, no. No. I left him at the bar. And now he’s at my house. He, like, followed me home or something. And he knows where I lived when I was eight. Can you please just send someone?”

“Are you safe right now?”

“Yes. I’m in my house, watching him. He’s not going anywhere, even when I threatened to call the cops.”

“Okay, sweetie. Just stay put. I’ll get someone over there.”

“Thank you.”

“It won’t be long. Garrety is just around the corner,” Stalker says.

“What are you, psychic?”

“Omniscient, actually.”

Just then I see the patrol car. The lights aren’t even on until he
pulls to the curb, and then they flash. Two heavyset men emerge, lumbering toward my condo. The stalker, to my surprise, has somehow moved down the steps and is sitting on the hood of my car. When did that happen? During a blink? I open the screen door and step outside as the two officers pass right by him.

“Ma’am? I’m Officer Garrety. This is Officer Lakeland. How can we assist you?”

I point to my car. “He followed me home from speed dating. Please don’t judge me. It’s humiliating enough. But now he won’t leave.”

“Ma’am, who won’t leave?” Officer Garrety asks.

I point again. “Him! And he should not be sitting on the hood of my car. He’ll scratch the paint.”

“How much ya been on the juice tonight?”

“Huh? None. Why?”

The chubbier of the two officers, Lakeland, pitches his thumb over his right shoulder. “There’s no one sitting on that car of yours.”

“What are you talking about?” I gesture toward the stalker, who hops off my hood. “He’s right there!” He is now sauntering, literally sauntering toward me. “There! Look! He’s coming…up…the…” Steps. Slowly. One step at a time. Then he hops up and sits on the small wall again, swinging his legs like he’s nine. “See?” I point to him. The officers don’t even look.

Garrety says, “I didn’t know women your age still had imaginary friends.”

“I haven’t had one of those since I was six.”

“Try nine,” Stalker whispers. How does he know
that
?

Lakeland laughs. “Look, lady, whatever it is you’re drinking
tonight, you might want to try something a little less strong next time, okay?”

“I’m not drinking! What is this, some sort of horrible joke?”

Officer Garrety stops chuckling. “Okay look, miss, normally for false alarms we can bring you in. But I have a sense of humor, and I’m willing to bet you’re not having a good Valentine’s Day, now are ya?”

I grind my teeth. “Oh no. It’s terrific. It’s getting better by the second.”

Stalker steps right next to Lakeland and leans in toward me. “They can’t see me. Only you can. Bet you wish I’d told you that earlier, huh?”

It’s an odd thought, I know, but I seriously wonder if I’m being Punk’d, and am about to mention it to the officers/actors when Stalker turns and walks through my screen door. And by through, I mean like Casper. I feel lightheaded. I actually think my eyes roll back in my head. I’m not sure, but everything seems fuzzy.