Page 23 of Ask for Andrea

They talked until nearly closing. He told her all about his ridiculous roommate—“Steve.” About his job, which he sort of alluded might be related to government security. I scoffed unheard in the booth beside her, studying his hands. Waiting for him to reach for the Tic Tac container. I wasn’t a technical person, but after watching him work in his basement for the last week I could confidently tell you that he was managing the website of a multi-level marketing company selling energy drinks.

I thought about April and Kimmie and Emma, who were probably finishing the puzzle before bedtime. Or playing with whatever magical plastic surprise they’d gotten in their McDonald’s Happy Meals. The anger began to percolate, a white-hot slow drip. I pushed it down. Not yet.

He told Nicole stories he’d told me while she listened and nodded and laughed and stroked his ego. Just like I had. Because he was charming and handsome and he asked her about her life, too. And when she told him about it, he listened with a kind of intensity I’d mistaken for generous attention.

I knew now that it was the kind of rapt attention that a cat paid a mouse before it struck. I’d seen that look before, in Frank’s eyes before he pounced on the feather toy. In Oscar’s eyes when he stalked a fly through the house a few days earlier while April and the girls watched in delight.

Nicole’s first drink was almost empty. It was a Moscow Mule, in one of those pretty copper cups. She kept one hand lightly on the handle, taking a tiny sip every few minutes. She’d been nursing that drink for more than an hour now; from the sign on the door, the bar would be closing soon. “You’re doing amazing,” I told her. “Don’t get another drink.”

When the waitress appeared at the table to ask about refills, he quickly said, “I’ll have another. I’m not ready to go quite yet, are you?” He turned to Nicole with a 1,000-watt smile.

She faltered a little and glanced at her drink. I wondered if maybe she was a lightweight, like I had been. If maybe she was feeling tipsy enough already and didn’t want to risk looking silly on a first date.

Whatever it took.

I leaned in close to her ear. As close as I could get. “Do not get another drink.” I repeated it again. And again.

I heard her say, “Um, sure. I’ll have another too, I guess.”

While the waitress disappeared with the drink order, Nicole excused herself to the restroom.

I watched her walk away. So did he. When he saw the restroom door close, he pulled the Tic Tacs from his pocket. Casually. He didn’t look around the room. Or try to hide the container. He just popped it open and shook it until three capsules fell into his hand. There were two oblong Tic Tacs—and one round pill.

The panic and rage bubbled up, and I frantically grabbed at the emotion. I focused all of it on him and on the objects in his hand. The way I had with the computer.

The light above us flickered wildly.

He glanced at it, unworried. Then closed the lid, popped the two real Tic Tacs into his mouth, and palmed the Rohypnol.

I watched in horror as the waitress appeared, striding across the bar with the two drinks in her hand.

Nicole wasn’t back yet.

The waitress placed both drinks in the middle of the table. “Enjoy!” Her smile faded as she squinted at the light, which was still flickering. “Sorry about that. I can get another bulb.”

He returned her smile and waved her off. “It’s no big deal.”

As the waitress walked away, he reached first for his drink, then Nicole’s, deftly slipping the white pill over the edge of the copper cup as he slid it toward her side of the table.

I watched numbly as the little white circle dissolved. I hadn’t been able to do anything. It was done. When Nicole returned to the table a few minutes later, she was wearing fresh lipstick. The pill had dissolved. All that remained was a tiny white speck.

The clock on the wall showed 10:15. The bar would close in forty-five minutes. He took a long pull of his drink and flashed her a smile. “You know, I think you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. When I first saw you on MatchStrike, I thought maybe it was a fake account. Nobody has eyes like that in real life.”

Her pale skin turned a deep shade of pink, and she sipped at the drink. “I kind of wondered the same thing about you.”

“You should,” I muttered angrily, scooting closer to her in the booth. “He just roofied your drink.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Online dating is such a mess. I bet you’ve got some stories to share.”

She giggled, but didn’t take another sip of the copper mug. In fact, she nudged the drink back just a little and moved her water glass forward. His eyes flicked between the drinks. She didn’t notice, and instead started telling a story about the last guy she’d gone out with on MatchStrike, who wasn’t even divorced yet despite listing himself as single. He’d even brought one of his kids on the date as a “chaperone” when he couldn’t find a sitter.

He laughed at the story in all the right places. But his eyes kept flicking to her drink, which sat mostly full on the table in front of her. Then over to the clock on the wall. Closing in twenty minutes.

“Okay, that was a doozy, but I know you have more,” he teased. “Maybe the kind of stories that unlock when you take a few more sips of that Moscow Mule?” He nodded toward her drink while taking a sip of his own. “I’m dying to hear them, so you’d better drink up. The night’s young, pretty girl.”

Nicole’s cheeks flared red once again, and she leaned forward to take another sip of her drink.

I leaned in with her, pressing my ghost lips closer and closer until I was pretty sure I was actually inside her ear canal. “Listen to me, okay? Do not keep drinking. You’re not safe. This drink isn’t safe. He isn’t safe.”

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