Sleet Sugar by S.J. Tilly
CHAPTER TWENTY
IZZY
This is soooo awkward. I’m standing in a corner, clinging to a glass of wine like it’s my lifeline, and wondering how drunk is too drunk.
I took Meghan’s advice. I’m in my black dress. Yes, it’s a wrap dress. It has wide straps, but no sleeves, and stops a couple inches above my knees. With the low V-neck and pushup bra combo, my girls are on full display. Whatever, the attention they’re getting is letting me be less self-conscious about all the other skin I have showing. I didn’t know what to pair with it, so I’m in black pumps and have a black clutch hanging on my wrist. I did put on some dangly pink crystal earrings and a stack of matching bracelets. Since I’m not here with the goal of going to bed with a man, I don’t have to worry about the whole earrings-caught-in-my-hair scenario.
Turns out there’s a short happy hour before the speed dating portion of the night. I wasn’t expecting that. Which just goes to show that I didn’t read the details when I drunkenly signed up for this. I don’t really understand the concept of a social hour before the event. If I was good at mingling, and making friends, and finding dates, then I wouldn’t be at a Mother Clucking Speed Dating Event!
Damnit, now I’m internally shouting at myself. I suppose that’s better than externally shouting. I snort, picturing the crowd’s reaction to the sad lonely girl in the corner yelling out profanities.
The man walking past me snaps his head over to glower at me. Geez, ease up dude, I wasn’t snorting at you. Though upon closer inspection, I could’ve been. His combover, sweater vest over a polo, and pleated khaki pants make quite the atrocious combination. I have to bite my lip to hold in a real laugh.
But as I get ready to brush him off as a loser, I realize that he and I are in the same dating situation. And just like that, I feel the prick of tears in my eyes.
Blinking furiously, I vow to not let the depressing surroundings get to me. I’m here to have fun and meet people. It’s not like I really expected to meet Mr. Right at a speed dating event, on a Thursday night, in the party room of a bowling alley. I just want to get my feet wet, so to speak.
From my corner, I take the time surveying the crowd. The ages range from about 30 to 50, give or take. I’d say about half of the people here are attractive, and that half is decidedly female. Taking a deeper look, the crowd itself is decidedly female. There are plenty of men, eligible or otherwise, but it’s not an even split. All in all, the dim lighting is working to everyone’s favor.
Draining my glass of wine, I decide that there is no amount of drunkenness that’s unacceptable for this situation, so I head to the small temporary bar that’s been set up in the corner. Time to level up.
The bartender, a man in his 60’s, has just handed me a tequila sunrise when a bell chimes. That sound alone confirms that I made the right choice in switching to hard alcohol.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” The tiny lady speaking must be our host. “Thank you all for coming. I know we’re going to have a great time tonight. For those of you who haven’t joined us before. . .” Before? Some people have come to this circus of depression multiple times?! “We start by asking the ladies to find their tables. When you checked in, you were given a name tag. Please find the table with the corresponding sticker.”
Ah, yes, nametags. Nothing says I’m a functioning adult like a piece of paper stuck to your tit with your name written on it. Add on the fact that this check-in was done by the high-schooler behind the shoe rental counter, and my humiliation is complete.
Pressing on the top of my boob so I can see my nametag, I see that my sticker is a cupcake. Oh for fuck’s sake…
I find my table, right smack-dab in the middle of the room. Sticking with the Classy AF vibe, these are the high, round tables that you might find in a bar. Like, say, the exact type of table you’d find in the bar at a bowling alley. Complete with the black Formica top covered in little red and white boomerangs. This also means there are no chairs. At first glance, it might look more casual this way. Just two people standing around a bar table, chatting. But I suspect this was done out of necessity, not ambience. Because let’s face it, the black carpet covered in neon colored sperm is not really setting the mood. Or maybe it is. I shudder.
Seeing us all in place, the host continues. “We have a few more ladies than we do men, so if you find yourself without a date for one of the sessions, feel free to use that time to get a drink or go to the restroom.” I clench my teeth to prevent my eye roll. “You’ll have five minutes with each of your dates. When you hear the chime, please follow the arrows to the next table.” I was so distracted by the interior design disasters in here that I didn’t even notice the arrows taped to the floor between the tables. Cute.
“Men, please find a lady you’d like to start the evening with.”
As the men start to move through the tables, I pull the stupid “scorecard” out of my handbag along with one of those teeny pencils. Based on all the lines crisscrossing the paper, I’m thinking these are really just ancient bowling scorecards.
“Hi… Izzy?”
The voice that just appeared across the table says my name like a question. Oh good, he’s not sure if he can read.
“Hi,” I look at his nametag, “Dan.”
Dan looks fine. Not like oh damn, he’s fine, but like meh, he’s fine.
With my heels on, I’m taller than him. And I weigh more than him. Off to a stellar start.
I take a large sip of my drink. The starting bell dings, and I experience just how long five minutes can truly be.
About halfway through, I make a note next to Dan’s name on my scorecard. No thank you.
The bell dings.
I underline no thank you.
I can smell the Axe body spray before my next tormentor even speaks.
“Hi Darling.” His voice is Southern. And surprisingly high pitched.
Without checking his name I write on my scorecard. Southern Lass, I’ll pass.
Another five minutes, and I’ve learned that Minnesota doesn’t have proper square dancing venues, cold weather has helped Lass’s allergies, and my face is Sweet As Molasses.
The bell dings.
I take another drink.
“Only eight more to go,” I mutter to myself.
The next guy who steps up to my table is actually decent looking. And young. Probably my age.
He holds his hand out. “Hi, I’m Bradley.”
“Izzy.” I’m about to say it’s nice to meet him, but he’s still staring at my cleavage.
I clear my throat.
He doesn’t snap his gaze up to mine, like I would expect from someone who just got caught being inappropriate. Instead, he makes a show of slowly raising his eyes. What a creep.
“Pleasure’s all mine.” His smile is as fake as his tan. “So, Izzy, how about I give you my little elevator speech and then you can ask me whatever you want?”
He doesn’t wait for a response, which is probably good for him, since it would likely include the words Fuck and Off.
“I’m 34, born and raised here in the Cities. I work in the finance industry. I enjoy socializing and attending events for my favorite charities. My favorite form of exercise, other than love-making, is swimming.” He winks. “I like to cook. All gluten-free, of course. And I own a racehorse named Jock Block.”
Jock Block. Why does that name sound familiar? He's still talking about himself when it hits me.
“You’re Bradley!” I basically shout it at him.
“Yeah…” He sounds slightly confused.
“I mean you’re the Bradley.”
His confusion turns to smugness.
I slam the lid on that before he can take it any further. “You’re Bad Boyfriend Bradley. You dated my friend Katelyn.” I jab my finger in his direction, like that will help make my point. “I’d remember that stupid horse name anywhere. And no, she wasn’t pining over you when she told me that. We were sharing stories about idiots that we wasted too much time on.”
Bradley sputters.
“Save it,” I say, holding both hands up. “And don’t be such a tool. Your family might own that poor racehorse, but you sure as heck don’t. And you’re a mid-manager at a credit union. Which is a fine career, but don’t try to make it sound like you work on freaking Wall Street.” I feel like I’m on a roll, so I go with it. “Oh, and buying Viagra in bulk does not qualify as charity work.”
The bell dings.
I mouth the word bye and wiggle my fingers at him.
A deep laugh booms out behind me, the sound sending a humming sensation through my blood.
Bradley’s eyes dart over my shoulder at the man clearly laughing at his expense, and he quickly steps away, moving to the next table.
I feel a warmth at my back as the man steps closer, and I close my eyes.
A hand slides down my back, stopping just before the point of indecency.
I feel the breath against my ear a moment before he speaks. “And here I thought I was coming to save you from this group of Neanderthals. I should’ve known my Sugar could handle herself.”
