Checked (25 page)

“Relax, Callie, and get your ID out.”

I do as I’m told and reluctantly give my ID to the sweaty bouncer who runs it through some scanning machine. I guess that’s how things are done at a college bar…a way to check that college students aren’t lying or doing something stupid. A tradition much like the health center’s pregnancy test custom…

I really wish he didn’t have to touch my ID. I really wish he wasn’t so sweaty…

“It’s okay, Callie. Release the tension and remember your relaxation techniques.” I try to focus on my breath as I watch him take my ID and shove it into his own pocket.

“I’ll give it back to you after an hour or so,” he says to answer the question on my face.

Oh. After an hour—when all potential (and imaginary) disease germs on it have died. Good call.

We get into the main part of the bar, and it’s not quite as crowded as it is in my scary visions (pick any scene from
Coyote Ugly
), but there are still way too many people.

My hand secure in his, I follow him through tables, past dancers, and around waiters, and I pray that I don’t bump into any bodies or objects on the way. He seems to know exactly where he is going. He does. We end up at a table in the back corner where Mandy and some of her sorority sisters are seated. Hillary, the redhead who spent a night throwing up in our downstairs bathroom about a year ago, sees us first.

“Callie!” she screeches as she stands. “It’s been too long.”

Please don’t hug me. Please don’t hug me. Please don’t—

In a super smooth maneuver, my hand is dropped and an arm circles around my waist. His warm, strong arm.
{An unidentifiable voice sings the opening of Gershwin’s
“Someone to Watch over Me.”
}
It does the trick. Hillary is distracted by the gesture, and she quickly nudges Mandy. Hug averted.

Mandy’s eyes linger for only a moment at his hand around my waist, and she quickly welcomes us over, showing us two empty seats. We walk over, and he releases me to pull out my chair. Actually, he pulls out both chairs and quickly inspects the seats and backs.
{The song continues, louder now.}

“Your chair, my lady,” he says with a silly smile, gesturing for me to sit.

Adorable.

We both sit down and I nod my hellos to the girls around the table. Most of them are looking to my left, at him.
Vultures.
I look over at him. He doesn’t acknowledge their looks. Because he is looking at me.

A waitress shows up almost right away to take our order. She stands only inches behind us, so close that I think I can feel her breath on my neck. I hope she doesn’t accidentally spit while she’s talking.

“She’ll have a margarita, and I’d like a Jack and coke, please,” he says before I can even think about what to order. “Wait—Callie, do you want salt?” He looks at me intently.

I nod and mouth a thank you before he turns to the waitress to tell her
. {And even louder.}
Mandy’s sorority sisters have about three different conversations going on among the six of them. I can hear all of them and none of them at the same time. It’s kind of nice—not unlike my cooking show white noise.

My margarita arrives in a fancy (and clean) glass, and he leans over to whisper in my ear.

“Try to enjoy your drink, Callie. You can even go over your one drink limit tonight, if you want…”

His breath feels like…I don’t know. There isn’t a word good enough.

I guess he takes my silence as resistance. He goes on.

“It will be fine either way. You aren’t driving. You have no one you need to take care of tonight.” He grabs my hand on my lap. “And I’m here to take care of you.”

That. Sounds. Perfect.

I squeeze his hand and nod. And then I take a sip of my drink with my other hand. We sit like that for a while, silent amidst all the chatter at the table.

Eventually, he leans over again, whispering, “How is the bar experience so far? You okay?”

I nod. Oh so close to his mouth.

This bar is much better than I expected. I have breathing room. A clean seat. No one touching me.

Well, no one else touching me.

I smile at the thought as I take another sip of my drink. Surprisingly, there isn’t much left to sip. He notices too, and before I know it, I have another drink in front of me.

Probably ought to slow down, even though I don’t really feel any different. Just a tad calmer than usual, maybe.

“Are you okay to drink this?” he asks quietly, even though he is the one who ordered it for me. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure if you don’t want—”

I shake my head with a smile. “Nope—I’m fine for now.”

“Thank you,” I add in a quieter voice.

He squeezes my hand, which has been all entangled with his for quite some time now. For one entire drink anyway…

I’m just starting my second drink when Mandy begins reading directly from Melanie’s script.

“Why don’t you come with me to Pittsburgh tomorrow, Callie?”

Before I can say a word, she continues.

“Mom or Dad will pick you up on campus, and you can hang out with them and already be there for Mom’s dinner on Sunday.”

Jeez. You’d think Melanie would have taken the time to change up the monologue a tiny bit. Didn’t she think that I might recognize it?

“Well?” Mandy prompts, shrugging up her shoulders a little and raising her eyebrows.

“Thanks, Mandy, but no. I have so much work to do…a paper due Monday and an entire poetry portfolio to do before Tuesday.” And a therapy session tomorrow night.

“You could bring your work with you.”

“Yeah, and get it done at Mom and Dad’s house?” I throw back with a smile.

She doesn’t say anything because she knows I’m right. There will be neighbors Mom wants to visit and shopping to do and dinners out. And no time for paper writing. For sure.

“Okay…I guess…but if you change your mind, I’m not leaving until after my classes tomorrow.”

I can’t believe she gave in that quickly. Melanie would be pissed. Lucky for Mandy, I’m too grateful to tell on her.

Mandy goes back to texting something on her phone (to Melanie?), and I try to lose myself in her friends’ garbled conversations again. All of a sudden, one of them (a pretty, toothy blonde—I don’t remember her name) jumps up and starts grabbing the hands of the girls sitting on either side of her. Apparently, some important song is playing. From what I can make out of their jumbled sentences, it is “badass” and “totally sick.” I don’t recognize the song. Nor do I fully understand their verbal description of it.

Mandy, who seems to understand the significance of the song, starts to move with them toward the dance floor. She takes a few steps away from the table before turning back to me, making a motion for me to join them. She doesn’t have time to wait for my response though because the excited blonde is tugging at her arm and shouting something with her insanely white teeth.

“What do you think?” he asks with a grin. “You wanna dance to this ‘sick’ song?”

Smiling up at him, I give him my nod.

We stand up and he leads me to the dance floor, definitely taking the path least traveled. We end up in the corner with Mandy’s group. She and her friends are dancing in a circle, which they immediately enlarge to let us in. We have plenty of room, really. No one is brushing up against me or touching me.

Unfortunately, he isn’t even touching me right now. We sort of dropped hands as we joined the circle and started to dance. He does keep looking over at me, checking on me every two seconds. Even when he’s surrounded by all of these bouncy girls—girls who won’t stop staring at him. I can’t even blame them.

He looks pretty natural here. Who knew he could dance? It looks like he’s even holding back a little. Probably so he can keep an eye on me. But I’m not going to pass out or throw up or anything anytime soon. I don’t think.

I feel pretty good. A little buzzed from my one and a half margaritas and moving in a circle of people on a dance floor in a bar. Pretty unbelievable.

The all-important song ends, but we stay in our dancing circle as, I guess, less exciting songs are played. In the middle of a song, he stops dancing suddenly and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pager.

I can’t believe doctors still use those. Do stores even sell them anymore?

He glances down and then looks at me. All worked up. Completely distraught.
{Cue Damien Rice. Cue Damien Rice. Cue Damien Rice.}

“I have to make this call. Tell me what you want me to do. Do you want to come with me outside or would you rather stay here with Mandy?”

I weigh my options. I’m here in this circle with people I know (or kind of know—Mandy knows them at least), not bumping into anyone. Walking outside means walking through the crowd, having to pass the sweaty bouncer again, standing on a dirty sidewalk in the dark where I’m sure people have dropped all kinds of trash and—

“I’ll stay here.”

He looks surprised. “Really?”

Nod number 999,999.

“Look at you,” he says with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

He will be right back. I know that. So I keep dancing.

Mandy throws a smile my way as she spins around with her arms up. She looks proud. Like her big sister is so brave, dancing in a bar without her psychologist. I smile back and keep moving until the song ends and the first slow song of the night (or at least since I’ve arrived) begins to play.

Shit.

Mandy and her gang decide that it’s a good time to take a break and get another drink. That means I need to make my way back to our table.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I feel a soft tug at my hand.
Too soft to be him
. I look up, and it’s Mandy. I mouth thank you over and over as she guides me off the dance floor. After several steps, I feel a tug at my other hand.
Too harsh this time.

Oh my God.
I turn and try to free my hand, but I feel myself being pulled away from Mandy. The hand dragging me is rough. And sweaty. When I look up to see its owner, I again think rough and sweaty. No idea who he is.

“No need to waste a slow song, beautiful,” the stranger slurs as he turns toward me, still pulling me further back onto the dance floor.

I freeze as tension rips through my body. This man, this mass of germs is going to pull me nearer to him. Any second now.

“Oh—you wanna dance here? Thought you’d want to be closer to the speakers.”

This is it. He’s twisting my hand out, trying to force our bodies closer together.

I can’t get away. I can’t convince my limbs to move. And our bodies are going to be smashed together in three, two, on—

Other arms encircle me, smoothly pulling me back, back, back against a hard, tense body.
His body
.

“What’s going on here?” he asks in a loud, angry voice that I’ve never heard from him before. He keeps his arms around me, one slung loosely around my neck and the other firmly around my waist.

“Just trying to have a little dance,” Rough-and-sweaty drawls.

“Well, it’s not your dance to have.” He pulls me back even further, our bodies completely molded together. My would-be dance partner holds his hands up in the air (Meaning he gives up? Or he’s sorry? I don’t know) and walks away.

I don’t move. After a moment, he carefully turns me around to face him.

“I’m so sorry, Callie. I’m so, so sorry.”

I meet his eyes. He is that sorry. And miserable.

He doesn’t move his eyes as he reaches into his pocket, saying, “Where did he touch you?”

I look down at my rigid hands, which are still hanging awkwardly in the air in front of me, touching no other part of me.

I watch him rip open a packet, one of those super germ-eliminating, disease-preventing wipes and remain still as he thoroughly cleans my right hand and then my left. I don’t move. A moment later, he rips open another package and repeats the process. And then he does it again with a third wipe.

After he opens the fourth packet, he cleans his own hands systematically. He then pulls out a plastic bag from his pocket and deposits all of the used wipes and empty packaging before tying it shut.

When our eyes meet again, he is questioning me silently. Did he do enough? Should he—

“What is going on?”

Mandy.

“Where did you go, Callie? What happened—”

“I’ll take care of her—don’t worry,” he answers for me without moving his eyes.

“Oh, great. I just—” Mandy begins.

“Don’t worry,” he says again, hesitantly moving his eyes to her. “But hey, do you mind throwing this out for me?” He hands her the plastic bag, and she takes it immediately before turning to go.

“Thanks,” he calls after her.

And then he’s looking back at me, questions hanging in his eyes.

“Thank you,” I somehow get out.

“Is there anything else I need to do?”

I shake my head. “No—you took care of it just like I would have. Even better. I don’t have easy access to those wipes.”

He smiles as relief fills his eyes.

“We’ll go soon,” he says. “I have to call that patient for an emergency phone session in an hour.”

I nod.

“We can go right now if you want,” he continues.

I shrug my shoulders as I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. Whenever you are ready.” My voice is shockingly calm; somehow I must actually mean what I am saying.

He smiles. “Then how about that dance with me?”

A dull ache, his dull ache, begins surging through me. I manage to nod, and he’s moving closer to me, pulling my body into his. Arms touching. Hips touching. Everything touching. My head resting on his lower shoulder. His hand on my upper back.

A song is playing, I’m sure, but I can only hear the sound of his breathing.

It might be a slow song. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We move back and forth, back and forth in our own rhythm.

I feel his lips on the back of my head as his hand slides from my back up to my hair. Gradually, I turn my neck so I now face him when I place my head back on his shoulder. Inches from his neck
. {A song is playing, I’m sure, but I can only hear the sound of his breathing.}
He rubs his head against mine, and the throbbing in my stomach overwhelms me. Turning my face up to his, I have to wait no more than a blink and his lips move right to mine. An extravagantly slow, gentle kiss. I don’t know how long our lips move together or who pulls back first so we can each take a breath.