Chapter Seven

The red traffic light glows brightly against the night sky as I wait to take the exit leading to my estate. The sound of my blinker clicking to its programmed musical tune has me clacking my tongue to its beat. I wasn’t supposed to meet the cat killer who turned up tonight. I was supposed to meet a guy with a kind smile. I want a guy like that. I want a guy like Arlie.

Who is Arlie? Why have we crossed paths twice in such a short period? Is it fate? Is he my guy?

Loud booming laughter forces its way through my lips all the way from deep down in my stomach. Arlie looks like a god sculpted by the heavens. Arlie is not my guy. But maybe someone’s out there who has the same smile as him, only who’s more in my league.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

I shake my head, and as the sound of ringing continues to vibrate through the car speakers, I realise I’ve been finding my way back to safety in complete silence wrapped up in thoughts of a man I’m never going to have.

I always want things I can’t have. I’m drawn to the things I’m undeserving of receiving. I cock block myself from the get-go.

Maybe this is why I’m so ridiculous around the opposite sex. Perhaps, it’s because I find every single man out there—well, every single decent man—out of my league. I don’t want to settle for any guy. I want a good, decent guy.

I reach out my hand and accept the call.

“Hey love, what ya up to?” Chris says.

“Driving home. Mediamogul Graham was a face-eater.”

There’s no reply.

“He killed a cat on the way to our date and didn’t even care, Chris. He stopped to wash the guts from his car.”

Chris gasps in the most overdramatic way.

“It was a bust.”

“Are you okay?” His tone is unsteady.

“I am, surprisingly. I did run out of there, but this time, it was different, and I know I’m ready for this to happen for me now. I need to find the right fit. He can’t be a cat killer, though.”

“No! He can’t, because Fletcher would have no hope.”

Fletcher would have no hope. “Where are you?” I mumble, hoping Chris can catch up for a laugh and a drink back at my apartment.

“Don’t get mad.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Why would I get mad then?”

“Because you’re often cranky.”

“I am not,” I scoff. “Where are you?”

“I'm sitting on your couch stroking your furry friend while watching The Bachelor. It’s getting so juicy.”

I laugh. Because Chris is right where I hoped he would be, and because his addiction to The Bachelor is on a level of obsessive. If that show were a sermon, Chris wouldn’t miss a single day in church.

“Anyway, I’ll be here when you get back. Unless you want me to leave?”

“No. Stay. I’m glad you’re there.”

“I thought if things didn’t go well, you’d probably need a friend, and since I don’t drive, and the train takes so long to get to your place, it was better to sneak back in once you’d left.”

“I love you.”

“Aww! Right back at you, babe. Would you like me to make you some hot cocoa?”

“Yes, please.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Why don’t you grab some Chinese on the way home? I’m famished and could go for some honey chicken.”

“Could you now?”

“Pleeease. My stomach is growling. It’s crying, ‘feed me’.”

“Okay. I’ll turn around and get you some dinner.”

“Thank you, pretty lady,” Chris says in a Southern accent.

“Why, you’re welcome, bestie.” I attempt the same accent back.

“Don’t ever do that again. Appalling. Like, were you going for American-Irish-Scottish? If so, you nailed it.”

“Shut up.”

“Drive safe and I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead as the traffic light turns green. I don’t hesitate in completing an illegal U-turn and head in the direction I travelled from.

Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman” booms through the speakers as I end my second illegal U-turn for the evening and reverse park right into the only vacant spot outside the Chinese shop.

Before hopping out, I take a moment to dance in my seat, belting out the remaining lyrics of a song which has always made me feel empowered. Singing like I’m on stage at Australia’s Got Talent—loud, proud, and in control—makes me feel free. When I was a teenager, my mum always told me the best way to relieve any frustrating or unsettling situation or emotion was to sing. To sing loud and proud until your throat burned and you were exhausted of all feelings. It truly helps me when trying to work through moments of utter shit in my life.

I turn the volume control down before the next song on the CD plays, then open the car door, being careful not to scrape the metal at the bottom of the door against the heightened footpath. I brush my hand over my arse on a very awkward exit to ensure my dress is where it’s supposed to be. For some reason, my clothing likes to tuck itself up, and as a result, my arse plays peek-a-boo with unsuspecting bystanders. Not tonight, arse. Not tonight.

“Do you feel like a woman? Really like a woman? Because I promise you, you look like one tonight. Damn!”

“What the hell, man?” I say, whipping my body in the direction of the deep voice behind me.

“Hi.” Arlie’s smiling while wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

“Oh … it’s … hi.”

“How loud do you play your music? Your car was jumping on its wheels.”

I gently secure my tongue between my teeth to prevent myself from saying anything stupid.

“You’re quite the little groover, too. You do a much better job singing and dancing than you do shopping. Oh, and hiding under tables.”

My face fills with warmth. My heart kicks into a faster rhythm.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I find you endearing, slightly insane, and incredibly funny.”

Arlie finds me funny. Nobody finds me funny because I’m not funny. Hang on, did he also say insane? I think he said insane. What a bitch.

“Are you stalking me?” I blurt this out like verbal diarrhoea.

He deadpans. “Stalking is a severe crime. It’s not something to be joked about.”

My mouth forms a flawless ‘O’. Way to blow that, Mindy.

“I’m joking.” His big white teeth are on display.

Without thought, I smack my hand against his chest, only to leave it to rest against his pale green T-shirt for much too long.

He clears his throat.

I snatch my hand back.

“It’s you who’s stalking me.” He cocks his thick dark eyebrows.

I giggle loudly, much too loudly, and then I realise this is the part where I’m supposed to put my elbow on the table, rest my head into my palm, and flutter my eyelashes. Only there’s no table in front of me.

What am I doing? Abort. Abort, Mindy.

I drop my arms to my sides and become stiff as a board. Did he see that? Of course, he saw it; he’s not blind.

Do not joke about blindness. Do not ask him if he’s blind.

“So you wouldn’t happen to be blind, would you?” Why? Why did I say what I told myself not too?

Arlie throws his head back and laughs.

I’m frozen to the spot, unable to move, horrified. Yep, he’s right. I’m fucking insane.

“I’m not blind, but I assure you I didn’t see anything. I didn’t see you do some bizarre thing with your arm and face.”

“Okay! So … I gotta … you know … go now. It was nice bumping into you again.”

“You too. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Melinda.”

“It seems I will. It appears I’m hell-bent on humiliating myself in front of you.”

I turn on my heel and slowly walk towards a wooden door with a red sign. The word OPEN is written in big white lettering hung inside the small glass panels of the door.

Don’t fall. Walk like a lady. He’s probably still watching you, waiting for the big finale to your train wreck life.

“Have a good night then,” he calls out.

He’s still there. Maybe I should turn around and ask for his number. Ask him if he’s hungry. Something. Anything. Perhaps I’m supposed to get to know Arlie. Maybe the universe wants us to be friends.

Without another thought, I turn sharply. My cheek smashes against a hard, muscular surface. My body fills with warmth. My hands and feet tingle when I hear a heart beating against my ear. Strong arms hold me in an embrace. Either I’ve hit an invisible brick wall, I’ve died and angels are holding me, or I’m being held by a man who smells like a mixture of sweat and ginger biscuits; a man who makes me feel safe, secure, and like I’m coming home for the very first time in a long time.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

I tilt my chin and turn my sight upwards only to find familiar eyes looking back at me. “You smell like ginger. Why do you smell like ginger?”

The warmth from his body disappears, as do his eyes. He steps away from me. The bright streetlight takes my vision until I shift my eyes to again find Arlie. I want so badly to skirt my fingertips over his beautiful face. He’s gorgeous to look at, and I’d love to wake up next to him every day, that’s for sure.

“Are you, okay? I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that,” he says again.

“I should have looked before I turned. I didn’t realise you were getting Chinese too.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Do I really smell like ginger?”

I nod.

“I was making gingerbread cookies with my niece earlier.”

“Oh.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

I haven’t answered his previous question. If I had, I would’ve responded with ‘sure’, but the truth would have been I’m not okay because he no longer has his arms around me, and his heart’s no longer beating against my ear, and those things made me feel more than okay. They made me feel wonderful.

“Melinda?”

“Sure,” I say abruptly. “I’m fine. I can be a tad clumsy.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, after you.” I gesture for him to take the lead and enter the establishment.

He follows my outstretched hand but stops once he’s opened the door and steps backwards. “After you. I’m a gentleman, you know.”

“Thank you.”

The wait in line is more than awkward because I have a tall, dark, and handsome stallion standing behind me, one whose breath I swear I can feel rushing over the back of my neck. I shudder from the goosebumps riding the length of my spine, and then I find myself shifting from one foot to the other. Relax, I tell myself, which only makes me move faster.

“Do you come here often?” Arlie says over my shoulder. This guy has no boundaries when it comes to personal space. If his head were to drop an inch, his chin would rest on my shoulder.

“Not very. You?” I say, slowly rotating my body as he backs away, giving me some space.

“I do. It’s the best Chinese takeout in town.”

“You actually eat takeout?” I cock my eyebrows. Is he really here for the food? Or is this where he comes to hit on and stand too close to women?

“Why wouldn’t I eat takeout?”

“Have you seen yourself? Like, do you own a mirror? You’re in shape, dude. Like, really in shape.” I use my hands to demonstrate the extent of his physique.

“Do you think people who work out don’t eat Chinese, takeaway, and rubbish food? That’s very single-minded. Are you single-minded, Melinda?”

I take a moment to think about his question. No, I’m not.

Holy shit.

I am.

“No,” I groan, feeling even more uncomfortable than before. I swiftly turn until I’m facing forwards, only to clap eyes on a butterfly tattoo on the neck of the lady standing in front of me. 'No regrets' is inscribed below it. No regrets. I need to face life never thinking of the future regrets I’ll have because of my actions.

I hesitate in turning back to apologise to Arlie for my stereotypical comment, but I eventually do, and when I peek over my shoulder, I spy a smile much too broad for his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” I say.

“All good.” His smile fades rapidly, like a nearing sunset. “I’m just feeling a little—you know, today I’ve felt …” He stops speaking.

“You felt?”

“Never mind. It was nothing.”

Do men really feel, though? Do they have feelings?

There I go again. Why do I think like this? What the hell is wrong with me?

“I’m good.” Arlie closes his eyes briefly.

“Hey. Do you want to like, you know, dine in here with me? Like, at a table over there, and talk about things?” I point in the direction of the attached restaurant. “Instead of doing the takeout thing?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on your evening.”

“You wouldn’t be,” I rush in saying.

“Your boyfriend isn’t waiting on you.”

Oh shit! Boyfriend. I forgot about that. “Um. No. Not tonight. I’m eating alone.”

“Okay, sure. I’d like to.”

Butterflies flutter in my gut. My heart races as if I've run for the first time in a long time. Arlie wants to have dinner with me. What about Chris? He’s waiting for me and his dinner. Would Chris be okay with me ditching him for a meal with Arlie?

Maybe I should make this eating out thing for another time. Chris needs me, and I should get home.