Page 1 of The One You Chose

one

Exactly Twelve O'Clock

Lina

Withoutfail,theWednesdaybefore Thanksgiving felt like a high school reunion. The Skol House was packed to its chipped paint and neon beer sign brim. Hard cider was spilled, two different couples had a screeching fight in front of a closed Sluy’s bakery and one person had attempted to climb onto the second-floor balcony of Prost Euro-Pub to fall and sprain their ankle. The air smelled of beer, salt air, and sweat. The town was in full revelry and I was not having a good time.

“So, it’s like that coupon you get at Old Navy when you spend fifty dollars?” I raised my brow innocently at the guy in front of me.

He blinked a few times as he processed my sentence. “What? No, they are nothing alike...”

I interrupted. “From the way you’re describing it, it sounds like this crypto-currency is exactly like that.” I took a sip of my craft beer and waited for the guy to either explain again or walk away. Despite knowing better, I was hoping for the latter. This was the problem with small-town bars during the holidays. It was always a complete shit show. Every school crush from seventh grade was shooting her shot. Every hot shot baseball player was recalling his glory days. Theremember whenand theyou’ll never guess who I just sawstories that blended into the mediocre music the DJ played.

I already had three separate conversations with three different ex-boyfriends about what they were doing. Including my crypto-currency-obsessed junior prom date, who somehow was still trying to explain digital currency to me. He couldn’t take the hint when we were sixteen and it didn’t look like he got any more sense in the eight years since then. I waited for him to finish his diatribe, before shrugging my shoulder. “I don’t see the difference.”

As the guy walked away in a huff, likely off to harangue some other unsuspecting girl, I fidgeted around in this mistake of a short red dress. My roommate, Zoya, was at least four inches shorter than me and had a lot more up top to fill out. Why I let her talk me into wearing this outfit, I had no idea, but after the third tequila shot we took at the apartment before heading out it seemed like a good idea. Now I was left resting my elbow on a tall table while Zoya chatted with her boyfriend, Milo.

Tonight was supposed to be my first date with Chad, the uncle of one of my students at the preschool. When he asked me for my number after trick or treating with his niece, I said no. Dating a family member of a student wasn’t exactly against the rules, but in a small town, it wasn’t a smart choice. As cute as he was, he didn’t exude the qualities that would be worth my job for a single date.

But I’ll give him this. He was persistent. Suddenly, he was there every Thursday afternoon picking up his niece and asking for my number. Three weeks of it and I relented, half to get him to stop asking while I was elbows deep in oobleck and half because I was curious if he’d manage to live up to all this big talk.

So I agreed to dinner at the local tapas restaurant. I figured even if he was a bust, they had a tasty house sangria. Only to have him bail on me. After I did my make-up. So here I am, red dress on, straps of my heels digging painfully into my ankle. Annoyed.

Across the bar, I caught sight of Matt Hansen. In high school, he had been a big deal but had since been divorced when he got his ex-wife’s best friend pregnant. The best friend and the baby didn’t live in Ridgewood anymore, but everyone knew what happened. Matt held his beer up at me and gave one of those ridiculous chin nods guys gave. I never understood how they thought that looked cool. Looking around, I hoped that there was someone else Matt was nodding at. No such luck. I made the mistake of holding his gaze a second too long and he started walking towards me. Damn.

Deciding I had better flee before I got caught being hit on by Matt, I ducked behind a pillar, clutching my drink to my chest. The line for the back door was a clear shot. I moved, walking sideways through the throngs of people dancing to old-school hip-hop, and made it out the back door where all the smokers congregated too close to the door.

Closing my eyes, I rested my head against the cold metal wall. The mixture of tequila and craft beer swirled through my stomach. I could be in bed right now, comfortable pajamas on, my favorite teen drama about witches playing while I cut out the paper salmons for the color-matching game for my students. Instead, Zoya dragged me out of the house. It didn’t matter that there were far more people in town this weekend, nights in the Ridgewood bar were all the same. Life in Ridgewood was the same.

Truly, I loved my hometown. Far enough from Seattle to not worry about crime, but close enough that we still had a good grocery store. I loved Freedom Bay and the fireworks over the Fjord every summer. The barista at my favorite coffee drive-through stand who would start making my drink when she saw my car. Ridgewood was great, nevertheless, I wanted something, anything, more. I should have gone to college somewhere farther away. Volunteered for the Peace Corps or something. Nothing was keeping me here. Except for all my friends, my family, and the way no one could make a better pizza than Ridgewood Market.

Was this a quarter-life crisis? Every morning I would get up and think, maybe this will be the day things will click and I’ll figure out what the next step was for me. I had a job I loved that paid me an insanely low wage for my labor, but that was on the education industry. A cute apartment and a few friends. But it was all the same. I sighed heavily, resting my head against the wall. The late November wind whipped at my ankles and I cursed Zoya again for making me wear this outfit. Wrapping my jacket tighter around myself, I glanced at the alley. If I timed it right, I could be home in fifteen minutes and still catch the evening news.

“You doing okay?” a deep melodic voice asked. Startled, I stepped out from the wall to look at the man attached to the voice and found my words dying in my throat. In front of me was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. Golden-skinned with warm brown eyes that seemed to pierce right through me. He had thick curls I wanted to feel under my fingers. He was taller than me, even with my heels, putting him over six feet. His full lips quirked a smile at me, repeating the question.

“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled.Smooth talker, Lina.My hands suddenly felt very damp and gross. “I just needed some fresh air. It was getting crowded in there.”

“Is it always this busy?” he asked, peering into the open door where the DJ switched from the 90s hip-hop song to an 80s girl anthem. A piercing “woo” went up as twenty girls rushed the dance floor and every man disappeared to the edges.

Looking back at him, I shook my head. “Not on a Wednesday night, no. It’s because of the holiday. With everyone home to visit their parents, they’re making up for months of being professional adults by binge drinking and chatting up their middle school crush before they sit down at their grandmother’s house for pumpkin pie tomorrow.”

“Is that what you’re hiding from? Your middle school crush?” The man asked.

I darted my eyes from the back door where Matt Hanson was now talking to a pretty redhead. He was certainly one to subscribe to theA Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bushtype philosophy for picking up women. “Not my crush, no.”

“But you are hiding?”

Grabbing the end of my ponytail, I tugged at my hair, a nervous habit I’d been trying for years to kick. “Hiding is such a strong word. Looking for a brief reprieve? Evading the throng.”

“Circumventing the crowd?” He asked, the corner of his mouth hitching up to expose an almost dimple. I wondered what that dimple would feel like under my finger. Or lips.

I nodded, “Yes, exactly.”

“The crowd, or someone in particular?” He stepped closer. In the streetlight I could see he was wearing a maroon flannel shirt over a tee shirt with art I recognized from a recent art exhibit in Seattle.

“Both. Neither. It’s kind of a high school reunion in there and I’m not really in the mood to reminisce about the time I tripped on stage during a fashion show and had to get five stitches on my chin.” Without thinking, I ran a finger over that scar. It took years of expensive creams to smooth the keloid down.

“Well, I can tell you I know nothing about your fashion show blunders or anything else about high school in Ridgewood. This is my first time here at...” He glanced over his shoulder at the metal back door festooned with bumper stickers, furrowing his brow. “What’s this place called again?”

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