I didn’t want to appear too desperate, so I waited three days before dialing her work number. As expected, it went straight to voicemail, and I didn’t leave a message. I considered visiting Cally at Bar None, the upscale bar and grill she worked at, one of many owned by Paul Rayner. I could visit during the lunch or dinner rush hour, get a quiet table in the corner, and just watch her in her natural habitat, like an anthropologist keen on documenting a new tribe. Cally was different from other women, no doubt about it. I’d been wrong to pin her down as an airhead—she was bubbly but intelligent, open but also guarded. A paradox. And despite telling myself that she was my enemy, I found myself eager to unravel her, to unwrap her like a shiny present on Christmas morning.

Without meaning to, I found myself drifting into Bar None on a Wednesday afternoon and greeted by a hostess with Amazonian features and stature. She towered over my 6’1” frame in her five-inch stilettos, and I wondered if her heels were cracked from wearing those painful shoes all day long. Her name tag read Mila, but I only glimpsed that briefly before my gaze rested on her low-cut blouse, which showcased her ample cleavage. Bar None was essentially a classier Hooters. Mila glided through the lounge area and showed me to a corner booth, where I was offered maximum privacy, as requested. Later, my server, a cute Latina named Mercedes, who was equally beautiful, brought me a glass of ice water and a leather-bound menu. Bar None’s staff members were ethnically diverse, but all shared a common denominator: extraordinary beauty. Each one of them could be supermodels in their own right, and walking into this restaurant made any hot-blooded man feel a surge of unwanted desire between their legs.

My playboy days were over, I reminded myself. I wasn’t a hormonal seventeen-year-old anymore. I was thirty-nine. High time I stopped checking out eighteen, nineteen-year-old college co-eds with their narrow waists and surgically-enhanced breasts. Men my age didn’t want Barbies, we wanted a mother figure to bear us children and raise them well. Men my age were getting married, buying houses, and saving for retirement. But I couldn’t do any of those things…I may never do any of those things.

I tore my gaze away from the taut calves of the young, uniformed servers and searched for the woman I came to see. The one who outshone the rest. But after five disappointing minutes and asking Mercedes for a couple more minutes with the menu, I was certain Cally wasn’t working that day.

“Ready to order?” Mercedes chirped by my ear. Her full fuchsia lips should’ve looked tacky, but somehow, it suited her. She leaned forward and rested both palms on her knees until her full tits and deep cleavage rested eye-level with my hungry gaze. “What’ll you have?” She was a dime, no doubt about it, but she wasn’t the one I came for.

“I—uh—I think I’ll have the fish and chips with a Coke,” I said. Then I added, before she could disappear, “Is Cally working today?”

Mercedes’ bright smile faltered. “Yeah, she’s in her office making schedules for next week. Do you want me to get her?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.” I shot Mercedes a fox-like smile, and she returned it with a curt nod. I missed flirty Mercedes.

“Sure thing. Your name?”

“It’s Ryder.”

“Great. I’ll let Ms. Rayner know you’re here.”

Fifteen minutes later, while I swirled my heavily-battered cod in the creamy tartar sauce and waited for Cally to show up, I scouted out her workplace. I’d passed Bar None several times before, but never found a reason to enter. The food and drinks were overpriced (four bucks for a glass of Coke?) and the ambiance overhyped. Huge, spherical lights dangled from the high ceilings like oversized dandelion puffs. The miscellaneous framed decor were abstract, as if they’d come straight from an upscale art gallery. But if I wanted to get closer to Cally, I had to mix in her circles. Learn to thrive in this type of environment. And Bar None was her second home. What did that say about her? Had she helped design this restaurant? Fifteen more minutes passed, and I wondered if she was avoiding me. Maybe her offer had been an invitation she never expected me to answer. Dining at a place like this, dressed the way I was (ripped, thrift store jeans and a wrinkled tee), seemed wrong. It was clear I didn’t belong here. If I were her, one look at me from afar would send me slinking back to the office. The manager shouldn’t—

“Hey Ryder, nice to see you here.” That voice. Something about it always captured my full attention. I wondered if she could sing and what that would sound like. Cally stood beside me wearing a lilac blouse, a black blazer, and a pencil skirt. How did she manage to sneak up on me?

I smiled. “Cally. I hope I’m not intruding. I know you’re busy.”

“I was just finishing up some paperwork. How are you?”

“Great. My lunch tastes great, too.” I held up my half-eaten cod and took a large bite.

“Glad to hear it. I’ve already told Mercedes that your meal will be on the house.”

I widened my grin. “I really appreciate that.” Even more so because there was no way I could’ve afforded the thirty-dollar meal. “Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush. You probably know why I came here. I want to take you out. You did make me wait half an hour.”

“And you couldn’t have waited till after work to spring this on me?” Cally asked, arching her brow. Her lips curled up in amusement, and I sighed.

“Do you want me to embarrass myself by admitting that I can’t stop thinking about you?” Before I met her in person, I couldn’t stop thinking of ways to use her. But this past week, I found other thoughts drifting into my mind too. Thoughts about where I might take her for a nice meal, if I had the money. What she did for fun in her free time. What kind of music she liked or books she read. Nonsense thoughts.

“Are you always so cheesy? A walking cliché? Or do you have something that makes you stand out from the six other guys who clamored for my number last weekend?”

Who shoved a stick up her sweet ass? I wasn’t like the others. I did have something that made me stand out. But I would never tell her the truth. Not in a million years.

“C’mon, Cally, give a guy a break.”

Cally took a step back and leaned against the booth divider. She seemed to contemplate my words. Then she said with a sigh, “I work seventy hours a week, Ryder. I barely have time to see my friends, let alone date.”

“You letting me down easy?”

Cally chewed her bottom lip. “I’m trying to explain my situation. That’s all.”

“A simple yes or no is all I’m looking for.”

“I’m sorry, Ryder. It’s a no. I’m not looking to date anyone right now. I’m sorry if anything I’ve said or done has given you the wrong impression.” Cally turned to leave. “Now I’ve got to get back to work.”

Before I could eke out another syllable, she was gone. Just like that, I was shot down. And I needed to come up with a new plan, fast.

Mercedes came back, asking if I wanted a refill. I scribbled my number down on a napkin instead and handed it to her. I needed to get Cally out of my system. What better way than to fuck her co-worker? “Maybe we can grab a drink sometime.”

To my surprise, she balled up the napkin and tossed it in the trash. “Move on, loser. I’m not interested in Cally’s leftovers.”

Two rejections in a row. I was losing my touch.

* * *

After I left Bar None, I made the thirty-minute walk down to Natwick Health Center. My weekly sessions with Janine were honest-to-God the worst ninety minutes of each week. I hated my former shrink, Margo, even more, but at least Margo hadn’t pretended to hide her disdain. Janine, Janine was the type of woman who hid her true feelings behind a mask of professionalism. Everything about her was neutral, from her gray outfits to her gray hair and gray eyes. The way she spoke to us always felt rehearsed, never genuine. As if someone had coached her to say those things and react in those ways. She doled out cookie-cutter, probably state-approved answers to our rambling questions. Stayed completely dogmatic about everything, and often answered our frustrations with even more frustrating questions. Fuck Janine.

How do you feel today, Ryder?

Shitty, as usual.

Why do you feel this way?

Because I’m unemployed, broke, and homeless. And apparently, that’s a huge turn-off for the ladies.

Why do you think they’re turned off by that?

Because who would get turned on by that?

The six other people who attended group therapy with me were a bunch of depressed addicts or social rejects with nervous tics. Four of them were older than fifty. The other two were women whose psyches and appearances were so marred you couldn’t quite tell how old they were. They were so frail they barely existed at all, like dandelion seeds, one gust away from disappearing in the wind.

Janine always asked the dumbest fucking questions. She’d look down at her dorky clipboard, look up at the room full of angst-filled faces, and purse her lips. Sometimes she made us do group exercises or trust-building activities. Except most of us were probably thinking about something else. Most of us were somewhere else, at least inside our heads. And none of us wanted to be there, that was for damn sure. Unfortunately, if we didn’t pay a visit to Janine every week, she’d rat on us, and that would result in a one-way ticket back to hell.

So I went to her sessions, slouched against the hard plastic chairs, and poured out feelings I didn’t have and memories that were about as real as Janine’s double D’s. Because that’s what it took to prove to Uncle Sam that I was a good boy. And I needed to be a good boy. At least, on paper.

After last week’s session, Harriet, one of the two ageless women who attended group with me, tried to bum a cigarette off me. When I told her I didn’t smoke, she flipped me the bird and strutted off into the back alley, towards someone whose face was shrouded in smoke. Later, I learned that she got shanked in that alley and almost died of internal bleeding. Word was, her misdemeanor majorly ticked off God, and a group of religious crazies cornered her, beat her within an inch of her life, and ended the whole thing by sticking a knife in her belly.

No one was safe. Harriet wasn’t the only one persecuted by religious fanatics. Julian and Michael had had encounters with them as well. All of this led me to believe that I probably had a target on my back, and sooner or later, I’d wake up from my park bench and find a knife in my back.

I stared back at the ‘trained professional’ sitting across from me. Janine was spouting something about cognitive-behavioral therapy now. Did she even believe in the efficacy of these so called “treatments”? If she was so smart, couldn’t she just read my mind and figure out that I was lying about everything? Couldn’t she tell how much I dreaded these sessions? Maybe she knew, but didn’t care, as long as she got paid to sit around yapping.

Fuck my life. I couldn’t believe what my existence had been boiled down to. In the eyes of the law, I was just like them. Just like the other lunatics surrounding me. Maybe they weren’t even lunatics. Maybe they were innocent, like me.

One thing was for sure: Justice and equality were common myths. The law didn’t give two shits about common nobodies like us.