Page 3 of An Overdue Match
Yep. I no longer have any hair for a man to be tempted by (A). The disease that started as alopecia areata, or spot balding, has progressed past even alopecia totalis, where I didn’t have any hair on my head but still had hair on other places on my body. Now, it’s alopecia universalis, which, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, is a complete and universal loss of hair. Everywhere. I no longer have to shave my legs (yay!), but I also have lost characteristics that are essentially associated with being human. The face radically changes when it no longer sports eyebrows or eyelashes.
Which, of course, leads to (B) and the fact that not only do I apply makeup, as do probably ninety-five percent of modern women, but a lot of what I wear is fake. Fake eyelashes. Fake temporary eyebrow tattoos. Fake hair in the form of a wig.
I quickly reshelve the trio of books and make my way back to the front desk. I don’t often think of my character status anymore. Not since I moved to Little Creek and began my fresh start, anyway. But for some reason, my stalking of Tai Davis earlier brought it all back. Maybe because I wasn’t able to clearly classify him, although, again, I’m not sure why I even tried. I don’t often make a habit of judging people without talking to them first. Even then, I try to give them the benefitof the doubt if the first impression isn’t the best. Life isn’t a Jane Austen retelling ofPride and Prejudice.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Hayley looks up from the computer where the library’s catalog is glowing on the screen. “Can you call me at exactly 7:10 tonight?”
“That’s a really specific time. What would happen if I called at 7:09 or 7:11?” My fingers graze the zipper of my skirt, which has scooted to its current and erroneous position in front of my hip bone. Taking the waist, I rotate the material an inch to the left to put it back in place.
“I might either be the victim or the perpetrator of a murder.” Hayley spins the desk chair to face me.
The bookmarks by the checkout area are askew, so I reach over and fix the stack. “If you think you might be murdered, then don’t do whatever it is you’re planning on doing. Same advice if you think you might be the one on the other side of the trigger.”
“Or—” she draws the word out—“you can call me at exactly 7:10 like a good friend and citizen. Really, Evangeline, you might be considered an accessory if you don’t make the call. Sheriff Jacobs is just looking for a good bust on which to build his new reelection campaign.”
“And arresting a couple of small-town librarians will give that to him?”
“I don’t know.” She winks. “I heard a rumor that librarians have a wild side.”
At this my composure cracks and I let out the small laugh I’d been holding back. “Let me guess, another first date tonight?”
She nods, her thick bangs bouncing a little with the motion. “I need a way-out call. 7:10 is the perfect time. We’re supposed to meet at the Tasty Tortellini at 6:30. That gives a ten-minute buffer if he’s running late, plus thirty minutes to order and deduce if he’s some weirdo who collects his own toenail clippings in a jar or Chris Hemsworth’s equally hotbut less famous long-lost brother. The food comes, I take a couple delicious bites of their portobello ravioli in Parmesan cream sauce, then you call. If the date is going horribly, then I pretend you’re having an emergency and I have to leave right away—taking my meal to go, of course.Butif the date is going well, then I’ll tell you I’ll see you at work tomorrow and then give you the juicy details in the morning.”
“He’s going to know exactly what you’re doing,” I warn.
Hayley shrugs. “So what? If I leave, I won’t care if he does. If I stay, then he knows I’m interested. Win-win, if you ask me.” She leans forward and captures my hands, begging over them. “Please? I promise I’ll return the favor next time you go out on a first date.”
I snort. “You know I don’t date.”
“Then I promise to feed your cat the next time you go home to see your grandparents.”
Kitty Purry is rather independent, and I can leave her with some extra food and water over a weekend, but she did give me the stink eye last time I came back from a visit home, hiding under the bed for two days at the perfect distance where I could almost reach her but not quite as punishment. “Fine.”
Hayley springs from the chair. “You’re the best!”
See? Sidekick material.
3
Instead of waiting at home until the appointed time to call Hayley, I decide to head to the Tasty Tortellini. I’ve been thinking about their roasted garlic gnocchi ever since she mentioned the restaurant, plus I feel more comfortable being onsite for her blind date. The location is public and the restaurant draws a decent dinner crowd, so she should be safe, but a girl can never be too careful. Most of the residents of southeastern Tennessee are exactly how you’d expect them to be: generous, hospitable, and overly friendly. Fast to smile but with a slow southern drawl.
But then there are the occasional nutcases like Eric Rudolph, the Olympic Park Bomber, who managed to evade law enforcement for years by hiding out in the mountains of Appalachia. In case Hayley’s date tries to slip her a roofie so he can haul her back to his corner of the hollow, I’ll be here to stop him.
I’m seated at a small table near the middle of the dining room with a clear view of the front door. So far, Sheriff Jacobs has come in with his wife. He’s out of uniform and off duty, but if Hayley’s date has any nefarious tendencies, the sheriff will be close at hand for backup.
Dalton Matthews came in and picked up a to-go order. HisCarhartt dungarees and plaid flannel shirt had a thick layer of sawdust clinging to them. Probably taking a break from the chainsaw sculpture he’s working on just long enough to get a bite to eat. Everyone in town is dying to see the top-secret art installation he’s been creating in the town square over the past couple of weeks, but not a single person besides Dalton has laid eyes on it.
The front door opens, a sliver of early evening sunlight shooting through the space and tracking across the wide-planked floors. A bouquet of white gladiolas sitting in a vase along the half wall separating the hostess stand from the dining room hinders my immediate view of the newcomer. I tap the screen of my phone. 6:18. Unless Hayley and her date are early, it’s not them.
“Right this way.” The hostess’s sweet soprano voice floats across the distance. She sashays around the half wall with a menu tucked against her body.
I blink at the man stepping around the partition. What are the odds that in a small mountain town I would run into a man twice in one day whom I previously had never laid eyes on?
An uncomfortable feeling in my diaphragm, a unique concoction of shame, embarrassment, and guilt, makes me shift in my seat. It’s the same feeling I’d get as a kid when Granny would catch me being particularly naughty. I send up a silent prayer that Tai Davis hadn’t seen me staked out on the other side of the bookshelves. I doubt he’d be any more understanding of my vigilante bent toward book protection than my coworkers are.
My phone screen lights up at the same time the ping of a text notification sounds. Relief washes over me. I can bury my face in my phone and ignore the world and possibly the accusing glare of the man who—my stomach dips—is currently being seated at the table in front of me.
Because of course he is. There are exactly nine vacant tables,seven of which aren’t in my direct line of sight, but he has to be seated at the one in front of me, in a chair facing me, with no centerpieces or obstructions to hide behind. If he noticed me at the library, then his subconscious is likely to poke at him until he can place my face.
