Page 3 of Hello Darling
2
Stella
I’m trying to remember the last time Ididn’thave a hangover the day after Halloween. When I was fifteen? Unless you count candy hangovers, then I guess it was when I was four. When was the last time I had a Halloween hangover that wasn’t mixed with a hint of bewilderment, shame and regret?...I know the answer to that, and I don’t want to think about it. No need to feel hungover, bewildered, shameful, regretfulandsad. It’s so unlike me to behave the way I do on Halloween.
I’m just never myself on October 31st. I suppose that’s the point of the holiday nowadays. I suppose that’s the thing about living in a small town your entire life—Halloween is the only time people are open to seeing you in a different way. Or maybe it’s the only time I feel comfortable being somebody other than who my family and community expects me to be. I guess that’s why so many people leave this beautiful place. But I won’t.
It’s the first day of November, and despite my own personal history, I still love this season here in the Pacific Northwest. It’s all flannel and boots and pumpkin spice and the smell of burning cedar and pine logs escaping the chimneys. Some people feel weighed-down by the overcast skies but I prefer to think of the clouds as hugging the earth. And the beaches? Quiet and soul-crushingly beautiful. I can walk a mile along the shore and not cross paths with another human.
It’s just me and the seagulls, the Lord Huron playlist that’s infusing my brain through my earbuds, and the cool breeze caressing the beard burn on my chin courtesy of Jason “The Kwas” Kwasnicki and three too many pints of Guinness at last night’s festivities. The one downside to this season is that there are fewer tourists to have dalliances with, so back to the local dating pool we go, and it’s sink or swim until Memorial Day. Good thing I don’t care about dating. It’s not usually an issue, since most of the local guys don’t want to mess with me. Having a dad and three brothers who can kick most dude’s asses without even trying will do that to your social life. I’m fine with it.
I had to get away from Main Street on my break. The talk of the town usually shifts seamlessly from Halloween costumes to Thanksgiving plans and recipes, but this year I’ve been hearing less about pumpkin pie and more about crumpets (what the fuck are crumpets?). There’s going to be a major motion picture shooting on location here in a couple of weeks, and the star is from England. All the business owners of Port Gladstone have been Googling him to find out what he’s into, to try to lure him to their premises so they can take pictures. Mrs. Flauvich ordered a month’s worth of Yorkshire Gold tea, crumpets and marmalade for her deli. The window display of Clemmons Sporting Goods is now dressed to feature cricket and rugby. The Chef’s Special of the month at the Golden Panda just changed from Egg Boo Young to Posh Spiced Rice with Diced Bangers, and the Wangs also printed up new To Go menus. They are now called “Takeaway Dish Menus.” Fortunately, our finest tavern has always been well stocked with Guinness and Newcastle Brown Ale (unless we Starkeys have cleaned them out).
Who is this Evan Hunter guy, and why am I supposed to care? All I know is, he’s not Loki and he’s never been on “Game of Thrones.” Supposedly he’ll be in an upcoming JK Rowling series, so—three points for Gryffindor. But I’m not going to be waving the Union Jack until we know if it will be ofHarry Potteror “Casual Vacancy” caliber. I haven’t Googled him, even though I keep hearing: “Oh he was so handsome in that one about the soldier who has amnesia.”Barf.“I keep reading that he’s going to be the next James Bond.”Oh really? If Sean Connery is still alive, then he should still be James Bond. End of discussion.“Forget about the movies—have you seen those shirtless pictures of him in Barbados?”Um. Have you seen those shirtless pictures of Jason Momoa in absolutely anywhere? Why do you ever need to look at anything else?
The guy isn’t even in town yet, and I’m already sick of him—although perhaps there will be someone else on the visiting film crew that I can have a fling with. A gaffer or a key grip (whatever they are). I may love this town with its Victorian era houses and buildings, but fancy Englishmen have always made my eyes roll. So here I am, sitting on a log while eating a sandwich and staring out at the ocean, instead of shoveling a Cobb salad into my face at the deli while staring at a book like I usually do.
Also, I’m trying to avoid The Kwas.
I can still feel his tongue tickling my tonsils, and he sent me a text this morning that said:Yeah!
That’s it. That’s all it said. I don’t even know how to respond to that, so I won’t.
Twenty-six feels way too old to be drunk-kissing guys that I went to high school with at parties. Even on Halloween. Not wearing my sexy sailor costume again next year might help with that. Or not going to a Halloween party at all would probably be even more helpful. Why do I do this to myself? Why can’t I just be sad and stay home with my cat or hang out with my family like on every other holiday?
I pull my phone out from my pocket when I feel it vibrate. What a delight! It’s another text from Jason Kwasnicki.
It just says:Hey hey!
He is nothing if not succinct. I will have to pass on responding to this one as well.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a man in black who’s jogging along the path, heading back towards Main Street, his back to me. His tall frame is distinctly unfamiliar. He’s wearing a baseball cap and running pants. He is fast. Good stride. Great form. Fairly lean but broad-shouldered. Fantastic male butt specimen.
Not my type.
Just as well.
I’ve consumed my sandwich down to the last bit of crusts, which I’ve saved for the birds. You’re not supposed to feed seagulls bread, but they’ve been hovering. I have such fond memories of doing this with my mom when I was a little girl, so I always do it when there’s no one else around. I toss bits of crust into the air for the fastest and the bravest of the flock, making sure to chuck a big piece directly at the nervous wonky-looking bird that’s been waiting in the wings.Hang in there, little guy.
I take my time strolling back to work on the sand, because it’s wonderful out and I’ll be inside for the next six hours and I love this Lord Huron song that just started. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the melody. When I open them again, I see the man in black, jogging in my direction. He’s on the path, which is about thirty feet from where I’m walking, his pace slower than when I first saw him. I run my fingers through my wind-blown hair and get my smile ready.
He’s wearing dark Ray-Ban wayfarers despite the mostly cloudy skies. Even from this distance I can tell he has the kind of jawline we don’t see much of in these parts, because—beer and beards. He is staring intensely at the ground ahead of himself. Again, it’s the kind of intensity one doesn’t see very often around here, where people come to enjoy the laid-back artsy/seaport lifestyle. It’s a kind of intensity that I can only describe as: HOT. I can’t see his eyes behind the shades, but judging by the way his shoulders and jaw are set, if he were looking at me the way he’s looking at the pavement, I’d have to call it “panty-liquefying intensity.”
But he’s not looking at me like he’s looking at the pavement. He doesn’t look at me at all as he jogs past. Another thing I don’t see much of around here is a human being who doesn’t even glance my way—at the very least, we politely nod at each other, to acknowledge one another’s existence.
He must be from New York. Whatever. I’ve got other stuff to look at too, like the time. I should have been back at the gym five minutes ago. My younger brother hates being on phone-duty because talking to faceless strangers who have questions is more painful to him than doing fifty weighted deadlifts and squats.
Starkey Fitness is not the largest gym in Port Gladstone, and it’s not the one that’s open 24 hours a day, but it is the one with the best membership renewal rate, the most consistent membership growth, and it’s the only family-owned business in town where every member of the family can run a six-minute mile and hold a plank pose for a minimum of two minutes at a time. I’ve been managing the business full-time for five years. I started helping my dad out with administration and expansion right out of high school. It wasn’t the plan, but it became what I wanted. Living in this town, working with my guys and keeping them in line is a good life.
As soon as I step through the front door, Billy jumps up from the stool behind the front desk. I can tell by the way his wavy brown hair is standing up and out in front that he was pulling at it while he was on the phone with someone. His dark eyebrows are knitted as he stares at me, and I expect a reprimand or a “where’s my sandwich?” but instead, he says: “Is it true you made out with The Kwas last night?”
I wince. “We didn’t make out. He kissed me and I paused before pulling away. Who told you?”
“Whodidn’ttell me? As soon as you left for lunch people kept coming in here to dish.”
“Great.”
“You want me to give him a message from the Starkey Brothers?” He holds up his fists and makes his badass tough guy face.
