Page 5 of Check Me Out

“Coolness. Well, Sir Isaac, now that that’s settled, I get off at six.” The corner of his mouth quirked as if to challenge me to parry with a getting-off quip of my own.

The sheer notion of even attempting flirty repartee left me mortified. No wonder my last date ended in the world’s most tedious recount of a chess match.

As I stood there groping for a reply, Angus’s grin faltered. But he rallied enough to lean over the card reader and confide, “This is the part where either we make plans, or you tell me to get lost because you’re spoken for...or straight.”

“I’m single,” I managed. “And I’m definitely not straight.”

His grin returned, full-force, as he subjected me to a leisurely scrutiny. I felt it as a tangible thing, this approval he was lavishing on me, this inexplicableattraction. And I knew I was entirely out of my depth. Every fiber of my being was begging me to run out that door and never look back. And then a dangerous thought fleeted past:what if I saw it through?

Still ogling me, Angus swiped the orange barcode across the scanner and the 99¢ price appeared on the display.

I pulled out my dollar—my pathetic single dollar—and my heart sank. I wasn’t even capable of budgeting a meal plan. Me, a purported mathematician. If I couldn’t handle simple arithmetic, how could I ever do something so far out of mycomfort zone and hook up with the blue-haired cashier with the quick wit and the alluring, bad-boy grin?

“So…” he said playfully as he handed over my purchase, and my change. One measly penny. Which he pressed into my hand with a deliberation that practically scalded my palm. “Dinner?”

Yes, my heart yearned to say.

But of course I couldn’t accept. I couldn’tafforddinner. Financially, or emotionally. “I’m sorry,” I told him, not meeting his eyes. Clutching the can to my chest, I bolted out the door.

5

Angus

You win some, you lose some. So I told myself, but the rebuff hit hard. I knew full well I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Sir Isaac had said he was both queer and single, though, so I should’ve stood some kind of chance. Maybe it was the gravity story. Had I come off as a pseudointellectual douchebag who was too fond of my own voice? It wouldn’t be the first time.

And yet, back there…I kinda thought we’d shared a moment.

After work, I was in my kitchen scrolling through a recipe, hoping to drown my sorrows in some super spicy dal palek, when an alert dinged my phone. A review from last night’s gig. Just the first few words:AndHedonia Started with a Bang… and I tapped it without questioning whether it was something I actually wanted to see. Opinions are like assholes, after all—but a heck of a lot less useful.

This particular review didn’t disappoint.

AndHedonia started with a bang, three power chords that promised a nostalgic, grunge-punk retro rock experience, and quickly devolved from there into the self-indulgent navel gazing characteristic of all of Angus White’s songwriting attempts…

I X’ed out of the review, powered off my phone and lobbed it onto the couch, but the wordsself-indulgent navel gazingremained scorched on my retinas as I put together my meal, studiously ignoring the way the swirls and whorls on the spice jars from the ethnic grocer reminded me of a certain orange-stickered can.

It was careless of me to get sucked into looking at that review. If opinions arelikeassholes, reviewersarethe assholes. Especially the self-important jerks who garner all their music cred from shitting on everything they hear.

Why waste my time regurgitating a tune that had been done to death? Not all songs needed to be a three-chord ditty with a strong hook and a chorus everyone could sing along to. Unfortunately, while most people claim they want something new, they’re actually hoping to hear those same three stupid chords, albeit with a slightly different hook.

Normally, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks, but this jerk of a reviewer had managed to slap up against my biggest fear—that no one would ever understand me. Or maybe he was just grinding salt into the rejection I’d faced back at the register.

This called for more chilis.

I stirred the pot, stewing. It’s not like I was incapable of writing a standard, predictable rock song—it was that I shouldn’t have to. I didn’twantto sell out.

Though would I be more successful by now if I had?

Probably.

But at what cost?

The dal was thickening and I turned down the burner, while in a separate pan, I sizzled my spices in ghee to pour overthe top. Ah. Nowthatcleared the sinuses. Those chilis would pack a nice wallop. I was just about to serve it up when I was interrupted by a knock on my door. At first, I presumed it was a not-so-gentle reminder from my upstairs neighbor that while she likes fenugreek as much as the next gal, there’s only so much she can take. But she was off tending bar across town…and, come to think of it, that knock had been way too polite for her tattoo-laced knuckles.

With a weird little surge of anticipation that I immediately discarded, I pulled open the door, already telling myself that no way would Newton have gone through the trouble of tracking me down.

And yet, there he was, wind-tousled and earnest-eyed.

“So, I hope I don’t come off as a stalker,” he said, all in a rush. “I’ve been regretting turning you down all day. When I went back to the store after class, you were already gone, and one of the other cashiers gave me your number. I tried calling, but it went right to voicemail. And then he told me where you lived and it was just a block away…” he shrugged helplessly.

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