Page 225 of Story of My Life
“Are they holding up copies of my books?” I asked, certain I was imagining things.
“That’s how Team Hazel identifies each other,” she explained as she ushered me to the bar.
Rusty met us on the other side of the bar. “Ladies. The usual, Hazel?” he asked with a teasing grin.
I blanched. “God, no. Can I have a chardonnay please?”
“Sure thing.”
“Same for me,” Zoey said.
Junior Wallpeter walked up and clapped me on the back. He had some kind of baby vomit/food stain on the collar of his date-night shirt. “You deserve better, Hazel. I hope you’ll find the real thing like me and the missus.”
“Thanks, Junior,” I said weakly.
“Hey, I’ll email you some pics of the twins, okay? Wait’ll you see the double diaper blowout at the park. That’ll cheer you up.”
“Sounds…great,” I lied.
He returned to his table and his wife, and I stared morosely at my wine. Even Junior Wallpeter had a happily ever after. Meanwhile I was destined to only write about other people’s HEAs.
“Stop moping,” Zoey commanded. “Garland is coming over here.”
I groaned. “Seriously? I can’t deal with my own personal paparazzi tonight.”
“There’s my favorite local celebrity,” Garland said, sidling up to me on the left. “How do you like my recent reporting?”
I felt a breeze behind me and turned to find Zoey mid-throat-slashing gesture.
“I haven’t seen it,” I said, turning my suspicious gaze back to the amateur journalist.
“Well, in that case, I just need a quick pic for…reasons,” he said.
“You know what, Garland, I don’t feel camera-ready,” I said.
But he wasn’t listening to me. He was too busy snapping his fingers at Quaid, the bodybuilding twentysomething at the end of the bar.
“Quaid, do me a favor and come on down here for…uh…contrast,” Garland said.
The blond permed, mulleted Quaid abandoned his barstool and brought his muscle mass our way.
“He looks like an eighties Ken doll,” Zoey said with an appreciative sigh.
“We’re old enough to be his much, much older sisters,” I pointed out.
“So then Iwas just like, ‘You can do it, Quaidster. Four hundred fifty pounds is nothing.’ And then I lifted it.”
Garland had art directed a shot of me and “the Quaidster” at the bar, looking like we were deep in conversation. He claimed it was for his marketing side gig. And then he’d vanished, and Zoey had excused herself to the restroom, and now I was left sitting here alone with Quaid while he explained the difference between regular dead lifts and Russian dead lifts.
Was this what real dating was like now? Sitting quietly waiting to interject something about your own weird interests with someone you had nothing in common with?
“Quaid, let me ask you this. If you really screwed up with a woman, what would you do to win her back?” I asked. If the guy was going to bore me with his interests, I might as well mine him for fiction.
He frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever screwed up with a woman.”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I admitted.
“You’re really easy to talk to, Hazel,” he said with appreciation. “Wanna hear about my training regime for my bodybuilding competition in November?”
