Page 33 of Every Rose

She rolled her eyes. “Let me choose something when I get there.”

She dressed rapidly in jeans and a sweater, pushed a comb through her hair and brushed her teeth. Maybe she was picking up an inebriated friend downtown, but nothing would induce Rose to leave her apartment without a swipe of lipstick and another of mascara.

Driving downtown late on a Saturday night required all her wits. There were drunks ambling into the road, kids with nothing better to do hanging around smoking, cabs darting in and out of traffic, red lights, one-way streets. By the time she’d found parking, she was completely wired as though she’d drunk four cups of strong coffee.

When she walked into the bar she saw that it was still hopping. How anyone could fall in love here, of all places, was incredible. The music was too loud to talk, the dance floor was crowded and it was dark enough that your best friend could be on the premises and you wouldn’t see them.

She saw Matt, though, right away. He was sitting alone at a table for two. He had a half glass of something that looked like scotch in front of him. He was staring into it as though the theory of everything was written on the surface of the liquid. Something about his air of—what? Sadness? Confusion? It got to her.

She stepped forward. “Hi, Matt,” she said softly.

His face lit up when he saw her. “You came.”

“Yes. I came.”

“Sit down. Have a drink.”

“I think I’ll take a rain check on the drink. How about I drive you home.”

He squinted at her. “Do you know where I live?” He wasn’t incoherent, falling-down drunk, but she noticed he chose words with care and his gaze was slightly unfocused.

“No. Do you think you can direct me?”

He thought about it seriously. “Yes.”

She caught the eye of a waitress. “Is his tab paid up?”

The young woman in the short black dress grinned. “Oh, yeah. And he’s a very generous tipper.”

“Good. Okay, pal. Let’s get you home.”

He got to his feet and walked pretty steadily for a man in his condition, to her car.

He dodged around a light pole. “I’m not drunk, you know,” he announced.

“Good to know.”

The night was chilly but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why don’t we?”

She shot him a glance. His hair was flopping over his forehead in unruly curls. Why did she want to reach over and smooth them back? His eyelashes were ridiculously thick and curly. The pub-crawl hadn’t improved his general air of slovenliness. There was something sexy about him, though, with his stubbled cheeks and his I-could-eat-you-all-up white teeth.

“Pretty sure I don’t want to answer that.”

He turned to her, and the intensity in his gaze pulled at her. “Why don’t we believe in love at first sight?”

She doubted he’d remember this conversation in the morning so she tried to answer honestly. “I’ve seen it happen to other people. I think love at first sight exists. I don’t believe in it for myself.”

She got him into her car and helped him with his seatbelt.

“Love is a pain in the ass. Like a virus.” He peered out the window ahead. “Or the IRS.”

She imagined that somewhere inside his inebriated brain comparing love to the IRS made sense. “Where do you live?” She wondered if she’d have to dig out his wallet and consult his driver’s license to get his address but he told her. He lived in a house in the Pearl District.

As they headed to his place, she wondered what had made him ditch the rest of the stag participants instead of riding home on the minibus.

“Pull over here,” he directed. She found herself in front of a craftsman cottage that begged for a rocker on the front porch and pots of winter pansies. If she’d thought at all about where he’d lived she’d have pictured him in a modern condo, something like hers, not in a turn-of-the-century cottage.

She pulled over and he turned to her as though continuing a conversation she thought they’d dropped. “Yeah. That’s the thing. Harvey was sitting there tonight gushing about Theresa and how he fell in love with her at first sight. Even though it was kind of sick making, he believed it.”

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