Page 3 of Very Unlikely
“Umm…” For the first time in my life, I am lost for words. I sure as fuck don’t want to go home with her—I’ll most likely end up tied to a boiler in the buff for the next six years if I do—but I don’t know how to tell Chelsea that without risking having my face peeled off by the bubbling bowl of soup of the patron sitting next to us. “I haven’t finished my beverage yet,” I eventually blurt out upon noticing my full yet ruined vanilla milkshake.
When Chelsea prepares to retake her seat, I’m saved by the waitress for the second time tonight. “He also failed to advise you he has herpes.” While folding her arms under her chest, she locks her eyes with mine. “You know it’s a requirement of your parole, Lennox. One more failure to give notice will see you sentenced this time around. The judge excused the first three instances but only because the cluster of infections it spread during the off-season was the worst the Infectious Disease Department had ever seen.” She gags like she personally inspected the pus-filled warts. “He knew the university’s reputation wouldneverrecover from such a scandal.”
Chelsea’s eyes bounce between the waitress and me for the next several seconds. Her mouth is hanging open, exposing she’d have no trouble taking a man with my girth, but it’s also bone-dry, hinting that it would be a rough and scratchy road to climax.
Her lips only become friendly again when the waitress mumbles, “But I guess you could class this as disclosure if you want. You know he’s crusty. He knows you’re willing to risk infection to see if his off-field bat is as big as his on-field one. It’s kind of perfect.”
“Ah…” Chelsea looks as speechless as I did earlier, but there clearly isn’t as many pockets of air in her brain as her ditzy appearance indicates. “I just remembered it’s my turn to vacuum the lawn… uh, mow the lawn. I need tomowthe lawn.”
After digging a handful of bills out of her purse, she dumps them onto the table before making a beeline for the closest exit. The gust of her race is still felt by my face when the waitress hums out in a singsong voice, “Her share of the bill only covered your tip. You can pay the rest at the register on your way out.”
Once she stuffs Chelsea’s notes into the front pocket of her stained apron, she collects the dishes from my table, including my untouched drink, then moseys back to the kitchen.
I take a second to gather some sort of normality before taking off after her. “How did you know she was a full-on psycho?”
She pours my double shot of espresso down the sink before stacking it and my milkshake glass into a dishwasher on her right. “It isn’t hard. A pattern is a pattern no matter how weird the design.” After stacking the dishes she juggled earlier into the almost overflowing dishwasher, she turns it on, then twists to face me. Her face is prettier than I gave credit for earlier, even with the recent scrub of her nose adding to the sprinkling of cocoa dusting it. “All minorities present the same.” She waves her hand down my body. “You’re the jock.” She thrusts her hand at the door. “She was the psycho princess jocks chase because they’rewild in bed.” She air quotes her last three words. “And I’m…”
I wait and wait and wait for her to finalize her reply.
When it doesn’t happen, I prompt. “You are…”
She peers at me with crinkled brows, lost as to why I care. “Being summoned,” she eventually murmurs when a man too old to be hanging around this part of town waves his bill in the air while stomping toward the dated register at the front.
I yank my wallet out of my sweatpants when he only thanks the waitress for her service with a couple of the coins she hands back to him after ringing up his bill. If it weren’t for her, I could have been featured onGood Morning Americafor something more than my record-breaking pitches. That deserves more than two nickels.
After stuffing a bunch of bills into the tip jar at the side of the register, I continue my research on witches in the modern era. “Although you can predict personalities by behavioral patterns, your theory is full of holes.” She rolls her eyes at my assumption her thesis is in need of a desperate patch job, but she doesn’t interrupt me, freeing me to say, “For one, shouldn’t I have gone after Chelsea since she’s trademarked as beingwild in bed?” I mimic her country twang while quoting the last half of my question.
She doesn’t back down easily. It doubles my fascination while also tripling my caution. “Typically, yes. But not all subjects fall into thebig-fivepersonality traits. Social status and environmental habits have to come into play at some stage.” When my brow gets lost in my messy bed hair that usually drives the girls wild, she explains, “You wear gray sweatpants because you want the world to know you have a cock and know how to use it.” I almost shout ‘bing-fucking-o!’ but she continues talking, silencing me. “But your shirt is white because your heart is purer than your deviant mind, and it hopes a clean palette will make you appear less douchey.”
Incapable of arguing about a theory I’ve heard before, I ask, “Does it?”
The waitress drags her eyes down my body in a slow and dedicated sweep before she shrugs. “Kind of.”
I follow her through the café slash bookshop like a lost puppy, too confident I’ve stumbled onto a gold mine to let her slip from my grasp. “You were on the money with Chelsea…” She was with me as well, but I’d rather keep that to myself. “So, what are your thoughts on Sit On My Face Sally?” A nanosecond after her eyes shoot in the direction of my head nudge, they rocket back to me. She doesn’t look impressed, but it won’t stop me from saying, “Come on… you can’t honestly tell me that isn’t the face of a woman who’s been tea bagged a hundred times since adolescence.”
I try to keep my laughter to a minimum, but little bits of spit splutter from my lips when the waitress struggles to conceal her oh-my-god-you’re-right face. She knows I’m on the money, she just doesn’t want to admit it.
After a beat, she murmurs, “Sally…” she takes a moment to settle the giggles I can hear rattling in her chest but can’t see compliments to her baggy shirt, “… would most likely still take you home if I gave her your herpes line. Roasting Rachel…” She hooks her thumb to a woman I assume is mid-twenties but appears more like late thirties because of an obsession with tanning. “Wouldgiveyou herpes. And Jockstrap Jack, who’s been dating one of my sorority sisters the past three months, would let you slip in more than a thumb… if you get what I mean.”
My jaw drops. I’m not just shocked by her insinuation an up-and-coming football prodigy plays for both sides of the team, I’m stunned as fuck she’s part of a sorority. She seems too straitlaced for that, too proper. I would have never picked an alliance with all things anti-geek, and I’m smarter than I’ll ever let on.
My next line is living proof of this. “We need to collaborate.”
The waitress, who’s no longer wearing the name tag she had on when I arrived, chokes on her spit. “What? W-w-what do you mean we should collaborate?” She straightens her overalls like she’s wearing a blouse done up to the neck before whispering, “I’m notthattype of girl. I don’t do…one-night stands.” Her last three words are whispers, proving she stumbled onto Matched by accident.
“Not likethat.” I run my index finger down her nose, removing the dusting of cocoa before popping it into my mouth. My groan is inappropriate when sweetness activates my tastebuds, but I haven’t eaten since training, so I’m going to use that as my excuse. “We should join forces against the diversity of dating.” When her blonde brow shoots up high on her face, I push out with a chuckle, “If you keep me clear of psychos, I’ll…” I pause with the hope of expressing myself in a way that won’t bruise her ego more than her outfit already is. When I fail to find a way, I mumble, “Make you not so dorky.”
Her foot stomp is super cute. “I amnota dork.”
“Uh…” I point to her messy, out-of-control locks. “Eh…” I wiggle my finger around her blue eyeshadow, overly pink cheeks, and chapped lips. “And…” Since I have no words for her hideous get up, I let the bobbing of my Adam’s apple speak on my behalf.
She takes in each item I pointed out—even the eyeshadow, thanks to the sparkling clean coffee maker at her left—before slitting her eyes. “None of those things make me a dork! It makes me a…” She mumbles something, but I miss what she says.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I said…” she exhales sharply. “I’m not a dork. I am a…”
“Nope. Missed it again. If you want to be a philosopher, you really need to learn how to speak up.”
