I walk into the bar, seeing the typical Tuesday night crowd. Dressed in my normal ripped at the knee jeans and a Punk tank top with a sweet iron on face of Pee-wee Herman that reads I know you are but what am I, I walk past the bar of familiar faces and smile. I missed this place.
“Beller!” The loud calling of my name draws my attention to Dex at the end of the bar.
I lift my hand, but his less than happy face causes my model wave to die and fall back at my waist. Geez, what’s his problem?
“What’s up, Dex? Thought you’d be happier to see me—”
“In my office. Now.” He tosses the towel on the bar and walks ahead of me. The last time I felt this way was in high school when I was being led out of my class by the principal because Suzanne, the cunt, Miller told on me for accidently setting the toilet paper roll on fire in the girls’ bathroom.
I follow Dex into the back office and…
“Shut the door.”
Yes, sir.
He sits behind his worn desk, and I take a seat on the other end, plopping my Converse on top.
“What can I help you with? You know last time you demanded I come to your office, we, ya know?” I wink, poking fun at our past little work fling. He doesn’t look happy, so I quickly decide I’ll poke fun another time. “Okay, what’s up? Why are you so grouchy? You still mad you had to cover my shifts?”
He tosses a book at me from across the desk, and it doesn’t take too long to recognize the cover.
Awkward.
“Why, Dex, I didn’t know you knew how to read.” I smile, playing it off.
“Cut the shit, Kat. When were you gonna tell me about this?”
“Uh, never. Why? I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Katie, you wrote a book that’s now a NYT best seller.”
“Ehhh, I mean, it’s not like people are really reading it. What’s the big deal?” I give him the universal “pfft” hand gesture, re-crossing my legs.
Pressing his elbows against his desk, Dex sighs heavily, leaning forward. “Why would you hide this from me? I thought we were solid.”
I lock eyes with him and his eyes… They kind of look hurt. Does he actually feel offended I hid this from him?
“Dex, it’s not that big of a deal. I just didn’t want anyone to know. I had no idea which direction the book would go. What if it failed and I told everyone, and then we had picketers outside the bar every night trying to stab me for giving bad advice?”
He looks at me in that way he does sometimes when he doesn’t realize I’m watching. “I would protect you. But that’s not the fucking point. There are already lines of people looking for you.”
Oh shit. “Wait, what? Like violent people?” I knew it. People just can’t handle the truth.
“No, babe, people who want to meet you, autographs, photos, that shit. You’re like a goddamn staple to begin with in this bar and now you come out that you’re some famous writer holding the leading torch on fucking love and shit.”
I laugh. I mean, I did play with a lot of fire when I was younger. KTP, they would call me, Katie the Pyro. Not the point.
“Oh, come on. I’m sure you’re just exaggerating.”
“Kat, knowing you’re back tonight, I had to hire an extra set of bouncers. It’s been like a madhouse. Thanks for the extra business, not that the regulars are happy about it, but you need to stay low. Maybe just feel it out. If it gets too much tonight, tell me. I’ll cover you.”
What? Dude, no way. I’m working tonight. I’ve missed serving booze like people miss those Housewives shows. It’s what I do and love. “No, it’s cool, I’m gonna work.”
Dex gets up, walking around the desk. Sitting on top, he leans over, grabbing my thigh.
“You sure? I’ll cover you. Just don’t want to stab a motherfucker for touching my girl tonight.”
Seriously what’s wrong with this guy tonight?
“Awe, Dexy poo, are you getting all sappy on me tonight?”
He squeezes my thigh, and I yelp, throwing my legs off his desk. “Fuck no. But it’s either you be careful or I just fire your ass.” Back to the Dex I know and love. We both stand.
“Got it, captain.” I salute him, and he spanks me on the ass, causing me to jump and squeak as we walk out of his office laughing.
“Belcher! I heard you’re famous!” Freddy yells from seven seats down as I walk behind the bar.
“Only in the book of world records, Fred,” I tell him as I fire up the cash register. Working in a bar, you tend to not pick up the best habits. Mine was being able to belch the longest and loudest. It’s just a talent very few are born with. And since I was one of the blessed, I chose to share it often. You don’t get your last name changed from Beller to Belcher for any mediocre reason.
“I saw your picture on that Friendsbook site. You sure are a pretty thing in a dress, Belcher,” Fred replies, gulping down his draft beer.
So needless to say, not too many people ever see me in anything but my jeans and tank tops. One year at Halloween I dressed up like a cheerleader, which forced me into a miniskirt, but I also added my own little touch to it, which made me a serial killer cheerleader. I looked bloody. And awesome.
“Oh boy, the secret’s out. I own a dress. Better call my publicist and have her burn down the Internet before anyone sees!” I joke, counting the singles in the drawer.
“So, then it is true!” Randy yells from the end of the bar, dropping her purse under the counter. I sigh.
Oops.
“I mean, define true? I could just be the decoy. No one would ever know.” I shrug my shoulders, sliding the ones back in and pulling out the fives.
“Oh, bull. You wrote that shit. I read it. Like in one sitting and I don’t read anything but Cosmo and porn. That story was bomb, girl.” She walks up to me and hugs me from the back. “I loved it. It was so you. I could hear your voice the entire story.”
“Does she mention me at all in the book?”
We both turn to Fred, who now has beer foam hanging off his beard. We both laugh, as Randy pulls away from me.
“Oh, she might have. She does meet this handsome man. His scruffy beard used to make her pretty little privates tingle while he suctions his mouth to her lippity lips.” She ends on a pop. I roll my eyes, while she bursts into laughter, all while Fred spits out his beer.
“Hey, you are not getting a free round for that, so don’t blame the choking on the bar.”
Fred gives me a look. One that says how dare you accuse me of trying to get free drinks, and then well, can I just get half of my cup filled?
Out of nowhere Dex is behind me, his chest brushing against my back. “You okay?” he asks softly.
I turn my head and smile. “Yeah, all good. I’ve been out here five minutes and I’m still alive.”
He backs up and walks away, yelling at the beer runner to finish filling the coolers.
Randy and I catch eyes and she gives me the “what was that all about” look as I shrug my shoulders, replying with a silent, who the fuck knows.
The night picks up really fast. Dex wasn’t lying when he said the bar had a whole new crowd. It was absolutely insane. I had all the normal Tuesday regulars yelling in my ear, “why didn’t you tell us?” “Is it true?” “Are they going to make a movie?” I was slipped a total of seventeen numbers, and that’s just the number before I stopped counting. I don’t know what all of a sudden made me more appealing. It’s not like I got a makeover or won the lottery. Yeah, I have a few more bucks in the bank, but that money is going to something special. Like a bird kingdom for Gerdie. But it’s like people who never saw me before are seeing me now. It’s actually really fucking annoying.
“Hey, Katie, saw your photo on Facebook. You looked great.”
I lay four bud lights on the bar and turn to my right to see Paul, a semi-regular, offering me a weird smile.
“Yep, thanks, what can I get ya, Paul?”
“Anything. Surprise me. And get two shots. One for you.”
I know where this is going, he’s going to ask me for my number. But I’ll break it to him after I take his free shot. I pour him a whiskey neat, because even though he wants me to surprise him, I know that’s what he drinks every single damn time. I pour us two chilled shots of tequila, and when I place them on the bar, he makes his move. Grabbing for my hand and holding it, all while he offers me that weird ass smile again. “You really look great, Katie, maybe after work—”
“Paul, get your fucking hands off her. You’re dating someone. I know it and I’m sure your new lady friend wouldn’t find it cute if you’re asking another girl out.”
Shame washes over Paul’s face, as I try not to laugh. Dex picks up the two tequila shots, handing me one.
“Thanks for the shots, though, Paul,” he says and clinks his glass with mine, and we both throw our heads back and swallow.
Seriously. This has been my night.
When it’s not Paul, it’s someone else. When it’s not a male, it’s a female. “How did Abby know in the end it would work out?” “How did she learn to create all those profiles?” “Is Abby you?” The amount of times I had to explain that I’ve never myself catfished anyone was insane. I don’t even use Facebook, people!
Okay, so how did I know so much about it then? You can’t write a whole book about a girl who creates fake profiles to find love and not use social media. Well, yes, the fuck you can. You don’t need to use the devil’s device to get it. People talk about it day and night. Well, actually they don’t talk, they tweet. They post. They comment with smiley faces, sad faces, and hearts. Don’t even get me started on those poop emojis.
But that’s how we communicate today. And that’s what’s so fucking wrong with us. People come in this bar and they come to meet people and drink, but seventy-five percent of the time they have their noses stuck in their phones. They tell the person next to them how their crazy friend from high school is getting married, their neighbors are out to dinner at this new Asian place, and their oh so cute coworker’s stepsister’s adopted niece had a baby, got married, farted, died! Who needs to fucking talk to anyone anymore when you have a site that ruins it for everyone!
I refuse to be that victim to social media. I enjoy an old-fashioned conversation. Hence, why I love the bar. I get to talk to people all night long. Face to face. And the drunker they get, the better the stories I receive. That’s the real ‘social.’
I know. I can go on.
Back to the bar.
It definitely was a smart plan that Dex hired more staff. Once it passed midnight the bar got a little rowdy. Not that it doesn’t normally, but nothing we normally can’t handle. The extra heads at the bar had us one in, one out, and Randy and I could barely keep up with orders. That and every single person who wanted to stop me and have a life chat.
When it was finally closing time, I wanted to crawl on top of the sticky bar and take a nap. I had a few more shots in me than the approved amount, and from the scowl Dex kept giving me all night, I’m sure I’ll hear about it later. But hey, those are free shots for me, and money for the bar. I consider that a win-win for everyone.
Once all is squeaky-clean I grab my purse from under the register and wave goodbye to everyone.
“Hey,” Dex calls out, trying to catch up to me while I leave.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“You want me to walk you home?”
I give him the crazy eye. Walk me home? “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“You sure? It’s been a long night and you look wiped.”
“Yeah, because it was a mad house. What’s up with you?”
He’s been acting off the whole night. Dex and I had our fling, which lasted almost a year. But that’s all it ever amounted to. We tried to do the whole feelings bullshit, but it just wasn’t working. We were both broken in some sort of poetic way and decided that if we wanted to keep the great friendship part that we had, maybe we had to wave the white flag on the relationship part. It was mutual and from that moment forward we’ve been friends. Close friends. Possibly with a little slip into the back office here and there. But tonight, he seems off.
“Nothing, just want to make sure you get home okay. You’re a celebrity now. Don’t want my best bartender getting snatched.” He puts his hands in his pockets, his big form stepping from foot to foot.
“Awe, well, aren’t you sweet.” I go and lightly punch him in the chest. “But, I’m good. For real. I’m sure I look scary enough after tonight that I’ll frighten people more than I’ll appeal to them.”
“I doubt that, Beller.”
Okay, weirdo Dex. I think he’s the one who’s wiped out. Leave for two weeks and my hard-ass boss gets all soft on me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, giving him my model wave and head toward my apartment. As I walk home, I do the one thing I’ve been trying to hold off on doing, which was easy since we were swamped, and that’s to check my phone. I will be totally okay if he didn’t message me. It’s actually not even a big deal. No sweat.
I pull my phone out of my purse and slide on the screen. I don’t have one message. I have seven. My heart summersaults in my chest. Speed punching in my password and fucking it up three times, I go and lock myself out of my phone.
“FUCK! You have to be kidding me!” Of all the times! I’ve never had anxiety. Because why would I? I’m an easygoing, go with the flow kinda chick. But right now? I have just diagnosed myself with the worst case. My heart is no longer doing summersaults, it’s banging on my chest. Seven messages! What could he say in seven messages?
Get a hold of yourself man.
It’s five minutes.
I take a deep breath and continue walking home. It’ll go by fast. I’ll be reading his love/hate texts in no time. A few more minutes and I look back at my phone. “Oh, come on!” It hasn’t even been a full minute! The universe is against me. It’s mad because I’m putting a stop to hookups. I’m being punished.
I complain the whole way home, and by the time I make it to my building the five minutes have passed and I’m entering in my password and bingo. I’m in.
I start with the first one that looks like it came through around eight o’clock tonight. It’s a photo of Ellie. The message reads:
Bates Motel: Ellie wants to know what Gerdie is up to. She’s horny.
I laugh to myself as I slide my key in my door. I scroll to the next text that came at just before nine. It’s another picture of Ellie who seems to be sleeping on her pink flower pillow. The message reads:
Bates Motel: She decided she had a headache and went to bed.
At a quarter to eleven, I received a photo of a slice of pizza, the message reading:
Bates Motel: Wish you were here.
The next two to follow are pictures of the disappearing pizza. The sixth one is of Chase’s finger pointing to his bare chest reading:
Bates Motel: Full belly.
I roll my eyes with a smile at the fact that his hand is pointing to his abs and not his actual belly. The last one, which came in about ten minutes ago, is of him reading my book. The message reads:
Bates Motel: It’s okay. I’ll just help Ellie figure out a way to find a companion. I know a girl who wrote a book about it.
It makes me smile that he has a copy of my book. By the time I get through all the messages, I’m in my apartment, have discarded my purse, and am lying on my bed. I decide to be bold, and instead of texting back, I call.
The phone rings twice before he answers.
“Katie Beller.” His voice is deep and hoarse. Like he’s been sleeping. Shit! I totally forgot what time it is.
“Oh, I’m sorry I woke you. I forgot what time it is. I’ll let you go.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Katie Beller.”
Summersaults.
“I just got all your texts. How’s Ellie doing?” I ask, kicking off my shoes.
“She’s not great. Really wanted to talk to Gerdie. Missed him. At one point she thought to maybe stalk his Facebook page hoping for an update. But he doesn’t seem to have one.”
I laugh. “Gerdie doesn’t believe in social media. It’s killing the world of real conversations.”
“Ahh, yes. Social media is ruining the world, one love story at a time. Abby proves it in chapter ten when she experiments with her fake date, Henry.”
I still can’t believe he’s read my book.
“I’m still not sure how you read that. Did you have your fan club read it out loud for you, during a model shoot?” I tease, but then want to claw the image out of my head of him and his fan club.
“Nope, I read it all by myself while taking a shit every morning after leaving your room. I didn’t want you to know I pooped, so I always waited.”
“Oh my God! Okay, TMI, Green.”
I hear him yawning into the phone.
I look at my clock glowing on the nightstand, and it’s almost three in the morning. “Seriously, sorry, I forgot how late it is. I’ll let you go.”
“Please. Don’t. I want to talk to you.”
More summersaults.
My heart is soon on its way to the Olympics if he keeps this up.
I kick my socks off, getting comfortable. “Okay, so what would you like to talk about?”
“You. Anything you,” he responds.
I’m not sure what he wants to know. My life is about as exciting as watching paint dry. I keep it basic. Little details about the bar. My favorite color.
I make him fork up some information as well, and I’m shocked at how willing he is to open up to me more on his personal life. I learn he has two younger sisters, which he seems to love deeply. His parents, who sounded like the perfect family, both live in Duluth, Minnesota, which is twenty minutes away from his place. He still attends Sunday brunch when he’s in town and his mom still sometimes does his laundry.
He explains in more detail about his hockey career. He’s played hockey his whole life. And it’s his passion. Since they just wrapped up pre-season training, the team is heading on tour for promos soon and he’s going to be traveling right up until he breaks for the next signing tour. Listening to him talk about the sport, I can sense the change in his voice. His excitement for it. Passion. I get the feeling the modeling gig isn’t as glorious as it seems. I guess being man-handled by women all over the universe can get old.
We both go back and forth sharing stories of Ellie and Gerdie. When the clock hits five in the morning we decide to call it quits. “Well, make sure to get some sleep so you don’t zombie out and get whipped in the face by a puck at practice,” I joke, now yawning myself.
“I will. Make sure to give Gerdie a long, wet kiss for Ellie. She misses him, you know.”
“Well, I think Gerdie might miss her too.” We’re both met with silence, the sound of our soft breathing humming through the phone.
“Well, good night, Katie Beller.”
“Nighty night, Chase Green like the color.”
Fucking summersaults.
Fucking Chase Green.
Fuck.