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He’d like to say he has no clue how he ended up here, but that would be a lie.
Two words, ladies and gents: Robin. Buckley. Friend, roommate, current bane of his entire existence, you get the picture. Point is, if it weren’t for her, Eddie would be halfway through his regular Friday Night Routine by now, scarfing down a Hot Pocket (or three, shut up) for dinner and dissociating from reality with this week’s Bake Off (why yes, he does know the difference between a cookie and a biscuit, fuck you very much, Mr. Hollywood).
Instead, he’s— here. Awkwardly lurking by the check-in table with a couple dozen other losers who had nothing better to do this fine evening. Wearing a goddamn name tag. Wondering if he should murder Robin as soon as he gets home or maybe wait a few days to lull her into a false sense of security.
Speed Dating Extravaganza! proclaims the sign above the door in loopy, glittery font.
Yeah. Yeah.
Except, okay, he can’t entirely blame Robin. Sure, she relentlessly harps on his (extremely nonexistent, fuck you very much, again) love life like it’s her God-given mission to make sure he doesn’t die alone, but he’s managed to fend off her attempts to wife him up thus far. He tried the blind date thing—blech—and he tried Tinder—blech times a billion—and now he’s trying something new and letting Satan take the wheel. If he meets someone, he meets someone. If not, whatever. He’ll just squat in Robin’s attic for the rest of eternity.
Solid plan, right?
“Uh, wrong, dingus,” was Robin’s reply when he’d told her as much earlier this afternoon. “Hence why you’re going to this shindig tonight.”
Eddie punched the volume on the remote, just in time for Paul Hollywood to declare that someone’s choux buns were a bit of a mess. “Dude, it’s patisserie week. You’re certifiable if you think my ass is going anywhere that’s not the couch or my bed.”
Robin poked her head into his room. “Oh my God, Bake Off again?”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Uhhhh, you’re shouting a lot. I thought maybe you tripped and finally discovered porn.”
“Okay, number one,” Eddie said, ticking off the offenses on his fingers, “I wouldn’t have to shout if the judges could pick a technical that wasn’t literally sadistic. Vertical tarts? Come the fuck on. Number two, my door is, like. Wide open. Context clues, Buckley. And number three”—punctuated with a (very loving) middle finger—“fuck off?”
Robin pretended to snatch the gesture out of the air, tucking it in her back pocket. “Cute. Now listen up, Iron Chef. This is an intervention. You’re at serious risk of turning into an actual gargoyle if you hole up in this pigsty for any longer, and then I’ll have to find a new roommate, and it’ll be a whole thing, and I have better shit to do with my valuable free time.”
Eddie splayed a hand over his chest. “I’m touched, Rob.”
“Shut up. My proposal is this: if you can get one number tonight, just one, I’ll make it worth your while, monetarily speaking.”
“Monetarily speaking,” Eddie echoed.
“I’ll give you ten bucks.”
Eddie just scoffed at that.
“Fine,” Robin sighed. “Twenty. But that’s as high as I’ll go. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“I’ll do it for a hundo.”
“What did I just say?”
Eddie made a show of stretching and reclining back onto his pillows. “On second thought, maybe I’m good. Two thumbs up for the effort, though.”
“You do know what speed dating is, right? Dozens of single ladies just waiting to be hit on? Holy twist-your-arm, Batman, you should be paying me.” She heaved another (unnecessarily melodramatic, in Eddie’s humble opinion) sigh. “Fifty bucks, final offer.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Fifty, and I’ll do your laundry for a month.”
And the rest, as they say, was history. Because even if the thought of making insipid small talk with random strangers he’d never see again made Eddie wanna hork up his cheese melt, the mental image of Robin folding his delicates canceled that out and then some. And the cash? Frosting on an already-delicious cake.
Fast forward to now—two hours and one hasty shower later—and he’s possibly rethinking his life choices. But, okay, how long do these things really go? An hour, tops? Sixty minutes. He can act like a moderately sane human being for sixty minutes. Should be easier now that he has a fresh name tag (Satan’s Doorman hadn’t gone over too well with the woman who checked him in). He can do this. Has to do this; Robin’ll never fucking let him have another second of peace otherwise.
“Welcome, everyone!” someone calls out— oh, speak of the devil, it’s the check-in lady, her overenthusiastic tone a far cry from ten minutes ago when she had very curtly instructed him to write your real name on the name tag, please, all but impaling him with the Sharpie she’d thrust in his direction. “Ladies, if you’ll take your designated seats, we’ll get this extravaganza started!”
Sixty minutes. One phone number. This is just a stats game, like one of his campaigns. As long as the dice roll in his favor—
Ms. Sharpie-Wielding-What’s-Her-Face is rattling off some “rules” now: five minutes per date, dudes rotate when the bell dings, yada yada. Eddie’s only half-listening as he beelines for the table closest to the door. Exit strategy, check. When this evening inevitably goes into a tailspin, he can just yank the parachute and dip without having to walk-of-shame his ass past allllllll the other tables. Some people (meddling roommates) might accuse him of mentally sabotaging himself on purpose; Eddie just thinks he’s being pragmatic.
That is, until he spots her.
Because the table he’s been spearing towards like a heat-seeking missile? It’s already occupied. By the her in question.
And, look. He’s seen how some guys openly leer at women in public. It’s gross. It’s cringey as hell. He’s obviously more evolved than those neanderthals. Obviously. He’s just not entirely sure what his face is doing right this very nanosecond, because now that he’s looking at her, he can’t seem to stop. The lights in this joint have been dimmed, probably to set the mood, but this chick’s eyes are sort of— glowing. And her hair’s all glossy. And she’s wearing this dress that’s white and sleeveless and clingy, and yeah. Yeah, he’s completely fucked.
She gives him a pinched little smile as he slides into the chair across from her, glancing to the side and back again. Eddie’s heart cartwheels up into his throat. Shit. He’s being that guy. He’s the neanderthal. He’s made her uncomfortable already, and his ass isn’t even fully in the chair yet, that must be some sort of record—
“Uh, hi,” he says, mostly to shut his brain up.
“Hi,” she replies, and he watches her eyes skate over his crazy hair (which he did wash, okay), the Judas Priest T-shirt and flannel combo he’d thrown on (both miraculously clean), and finally landing on his name tag. “Sir Edward,” she says slowly, mouth twisting again, only this time it’s like she’s trying not to laugh.
She’s— really fucking pretty. Like, ten thousand zip codes out of his league pretty.
“Oh, uh—” his frontal lobe is doing its best impression of a flopping fish. Words, dude. Make some words. “Yeah, I was just messing with the check-in people. Fighting the good fight, y’know, championing the common folks’ right to— fill out a name tag however the hell they want? Real heroic stuff. But it’s, uh— Eddie. My name, I mean. Just Eddie.”
She actually giggles, and the sound pinballs through him. One of her front teeth is a little crooked. She’s got this shiny stuff on her lips. He feels gooey and warm all over, which is fucking weird, right? Like, ground zero for boneheaded neanderthal behavior. But before he can tell himself to get a fucking grip, she goes, “Well, just Eddie, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Chrissy.”
Chrissy. His thumb unconsciously taps out the syllables. Chris-sy. Jesus, he’s actually sweating. Is that normal?
Either way, Chrissy doesn’t seem to notice that he’s suddenly transformed into a moon-eyed moron. “So,” she says, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “Is this, um. Your first time?”
Be cool, man, be cool be cool be cool— “That obvious, huh?”
“No!” she laughs nervously, cheeks going a little pink. It’s the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen. “No, I just mean— a lot of the same people tend to show up at these things, and I’ve never seen you here before.”
Eddie holds up both hands, as if to say, you got me! When Chrissy huffs a tiny laugh—again! He made her laugh again—he leans forward, all conspiratorial like it’s some big secret, and goes, “I’m actually here under extreme duress. We’re talking bribery, extortion, the works.”
Chrissy hums sympathetically. “Friends?”
“Friend, singular. Slash roommate. Slash— gremlin, probably? She’s a certified menace.”
“Have you tried feeding her before midnight?”
It’s Eddie’s turn to bark a hyena laugh. Undignified and maybe a smidge humiliating, but whatever, this girl is funny. And it might just be a trick of the low lighting, but he swears she’s still blushing.
“Sage advice,” he says, and yep, her face is totally red. Shit, his probably is too. “Speaking of…since it’s incandescently obvious that I don’t really do any of”—he gestures broadly at the room—“this, ever, if you’ve got any pointers, tips, et cetera for surviving the night unscathed, that would be, just. Immensely appreciated.”
Chrissy’s mouth crinkles at the corners. “Oh, um. I mean. I think you’re doing fine?”
“Give it to me in Yelp stars, man.”
“I guess, maybe…” she’s full-on grinning, tongue poking between her teeth. “Three and a half?”
“Three and a—” and without waiting for permission from his brain, Eddie jabs an imaginary knife into his chest, launching himself off his chair and onto the ground. Why, he has no idea. He’s obviously no longer in the driver’s seat with regards to his sanity. All he knows is that Chrissy’s adorable little yelp of surprise lights him up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Head to toe, his whole body feels like a livewire. “Nah, y’know what, that’s fair,” he grunts, hauling himself to his feet and rolling his shoulder a bit, because fuck, that kinda hurt. “I probably wouldn’t even give myself that many. ”
People around the room are staring, their expressions ranging from legitimate concern to that man should be committed. Sharpie Lady is eyeballing him hard with a look that could probably melt glass.
Eddie ignores every last one of them and slides back into his seat. “Do I have shit in my teeth?” he asks, very seriously. “Something wrong with my hair? Everyone’s looking at me, Chrissy.”
Chrissy gasps out an incredulous laugh, eyes sparkling. In this light, Eddie can’t tell if they’re blue or gray. “You’re— insane!” she cackles. Then, gesturing at his arm: “Are you. Um. Okay?”
“Nothing wounded but my pride,” he replies, grinning when Chrissy buries her face in her hands. “Hey, it’s cool. I respect the brutal honesty. In fact—” he spreads his arms wide. “Do your worst, Gandalf. Dispense your speed-dating wisdom.”
Chrissy’s eyebrows crinkle together. “Gandalf?”
“Uh, yeah. Gandalf. From Lord of the Rings? Touchstone of the modern fantasy genre?” Eddie clutches his chest in faux-horror. “And you gave me three and a half stars!”
She shrugs apologetically. “I never got around to those books. Or the movies. Is he the short guy with hairy feet?”
Eddie claws his hands down his face, and the sound of Chrissy giggling—a sound he wants to bottle up and play on repeat, yeah, he said it—almost drowns out the ding of Sharpie Lady’s bell.
“And rotate!” she calls out.
Shit, that was the fastest five minutes of his life. The guy at the next table over from theirs is already ambling over, and Eddie— doesn’t like that. Hates it actually, picturing Chrissy smiling and laughing with this other dude instead of him. Which is crazy, because he’s known her for all of, you heard it, five minutes, and yet. And fucking yet.
Chrissy looks as thrown off as he feels, but she recalibrates faster, pressing her lips together in a coy little smile. “Be sure to start with your actual name, this time.”
Eddie follows the line of her gaze down to his Sir Edward name tag. “I’ll take that under advisement. Anything else? You gonna tell me you’ve never heard of Star Wars, next?”
“That’s this one, right?” she asks, throwing up the classic Vulcan salute. Her tiny smile blooms, dimpling her cheeks. “And, um. Another thing. Maybe don’t tell people your roommate coerced you into coming?”
“‘Hi, my name’s Eddie and I’m thrilled to be here.’ Better?”
Her nose scrunches up like she’s trying not to giggle. Eddie just about perishes on the spot.
Un-fucking-fortunately, Next Guy has finally made it over to their table. He audibly clears his throat, and Chrissy ekes out a breathy laugh, hand darting up to cover her mouth. That’s gonna go straight to Eddie’s head, inflating his ego like a goddamn balloon. He has to resist the insane urge to start pounding his chest, or something. The neanderthal radar is going absolutely haywire.
Man, he just wants the two of them to get out of here. Grab a bite, take a walk, continue to flirt via pop culture references or lack thereof, whatever, he’s not picky. The thought of getting up and taking one step away from the table, away from her, just feels— wrong. Like he’s going against the forces of nature. Ripping a hole in the space-time continuum, maybe.
But— Next Guy is death glaring at him, and Sharpie Lady looks like she’s about half a millisecond away from marching over here and reading him the riot act. Eddie blows out a frustrated breath, swinging his arms as he slides out of his chair. “Alright, Mr. Spock, any final nuggets of wisdom? Going once, going twice…”
“Yeah. Um. Stay in your seat.”
And then Chrissy winks—winks!—at him.
Sweet suffering Christ. Eddie starts walking backwards toward his new table, a truly herculean effort given that he’s moments away from melting into a puddle of goo, Wicked Witch style. He’s pretty sure there are cartoon hearts shooting from his eyes. “Arms and legs inside the ride at all times,” he manages to get out, tipping her a salute with his index finger. “I think I can handle that. Thanks, Gandalf. If I can even call you that, sheesh.”
Chrissy bites her lip, eyes flashing. Eddie spins around to face his next date.
He’s so, so fucked.
In his defense, he tries, okay? He really tries. Stacy—shit, is that her name? Eddie flicks his eyes down to her name tag. Stephanie, Stephanie Stephanie Stephanie—seems nice enough, even if the conversation never manages to grate past work and the weather and the amazing new restaurant she tried the other night. Eddie just bobs his head and smiles like he’s hanging on every word she’s saying.
The problem is, he isn’t. The problem is, he can’t stop darting quick glances over at Chrissy, his heart doing that cartwheeling thing again when he catches her looking right back, every single time. Which, again! Truly fucking bonkers! He honestly can’t remember the last time someone showed even one iota of a passing interest in him. There’s only so many awkwardly catastrophic blind dates and dead-end right swipes a guy can take before he starts to develop a bit of a complex.
But Chrissy. She’s sneaking tiny glances, too. And maybe he’s way off base, maybe he’s gone full Looney Tunes, but— that’s gotta mean something, right?
Ding!
Everyone rotates. Once again, Eddie has to swallow down the sensation of wrongness about the whole thing. Stop the ride, he wants to get off!
“Hey, I’m Eddie. Nice to meet—”
He must be more flustered than he thought, because when he goes to shake his next date’s hand, he jabs his arm out a little too forcefully and sends her drink careening. She doesn’t push back from the table quickly enough; the front of her dress gets soaked, and then she’s sorta gaping down at herself in disbelief.
“And for my next trick!” Eddie laughs nervously. “Holy shit, sorry about that. Can I help, or…?”
“It’s fine,” his date says with a pinched smile. “I’m just gonna…” she gestures vaguely, then takes off in what Eddie assumes is the direction of the bathroom to clean up.
Aaaaaaand scene. For the second time this fine evening, everyone is gawking at him. Eddie sweeps an arm out and does a half-bow, and the low thrum of chatter slowly starts up again as people turn back to their dates.
Chrissy’s smiling, wide and toothy and adorable. He jabs both thumbs at his chest and mouths three and a half!, and even from two tables over, her delighted laugh makes his chest go all fizzy and hot.
He’s literally gonna spend the rest of the night LARPing as a starry-eyed lunatic over this girl, isn’t he?
And— fuck it. Might as well lean into the lunacy. Before he can talk himself down, he grabs his chair and schleps it over to Chrissy’s table, plopping down on it backwards and folding his arms over the backrest.
Chrissy’s current date—a guy who looks like he majored in Wall Street, which tells Eddie just about everything he needs to know—frowns at him. “Can I help you?”
Eddie drums his hands against the chair. “Nah, man, just out here living the American Dream.” He waves some imaginary pom poms. “Rah rah, capitalism, and whatnot.”
The dude just stares at him like he’s sprouted a second head. Chrissy makes a strangled noise in her throat that she covers by delicately coughing.
“Aaaaaanywho,” Eddie sing-songs, “this’ll just take a second, and then we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.” He turns to Chrissy. “So. Took your advice. I think it’s going pretty well, actually.”
“I can tell,” Chrissy giggles.
“How many stars do you think I’m at now?”
“Um. Shouldn’t you ask your date that?”
“Yeah, y’know, I would, but she’s, uh, indisposed at the moment. Some idiot with the motor coordination of a toddler spilled a drink all over her.”
“Excuse me,” a snappish voice interrupts. Startled, Eddie glances up to see Sharpie Lady looming over him, hands on her hips. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your table."
“Oh, it’s really okay—” Chrissy starts to chime in—yep, his inner neanderthal’s totally pounding his chest right about now, howling at the moon, the whole shebang, and the perplexed-slash-offended expression that flits across Late-stage Capitalist Ken’s face isn’t helping—but Eddie holds his hands up in surrender.
“You can put down the pitchfork, Ms.—” he squints at her name tag. “O’Donnell. I was just leaving.”
“Finally,” the Wall Street Ken doll mutters. “Jackass.”
“Ouch,” Eddie smirks. “You kiss your TPS reports with that mouth, man?”
“Sir,” Ms. O’Donnell—screw it, he prefers Sharpie Lady, so that’s what he’s gonna call her—grits out with a brittle smile. “I need you to come with me. Now.”
As she herds him back to his table, Eddie catches Chrissy’s eye over his shoulder. Taking a page out of her book, he winks.
You, she mouths. Are. Insane.
Yeah. Yeah, he really is.
His dates go solidly downhill from there.
One chick won’t stop staring at her phone, another actually tries to lick him when he shakes her hand, and by the time he arrives at the girl who breaks down in tears because she really misses her ex, Eddie’s this close to going all Office Space on Sharpie Lady’s bell.
Ding!
In his head, he’s bashing the thing to pieces, Metallica’s For Whom The Bell Tolls backdropping all the action. It’s a satisfying fantasy.
He has to trek across the room to his next table. It’s conspicuously empty when he gets there, his date nowhere to be seen, which suits him just fine. He flops down in his chair with all the grace of a wet mop. It’s only been— thirty minutes. Thirty minutes! His brain feels like it’s gone through a blender.
With a colossal groan, Eddie slumps over. Forehead to tabletop. Fingers tap-tap-tapping against the leg of the chair, one-two, one-two.
Chris-sy. Chris-sy.
Fuck.
What is it about her? She’s got his heart doing somersaults, backflips, all sorts of acrobatic bullshit, and he’s known her for, like. Half a second! And yeah, she’s absolutely gorgeous, he wants to know what her laughter tastes like, et cetera et cetera et cetera, but it’s— more than that. Eddie’s gotten relatively used to being, uh, perceived a certain way. He owns who he is, but it’s easy for people to take one peep at his Van Halen hair or his chunky rings or those sweet ol’ semi-sacrilegious tatties and put him in a box. Delinquent, bum, freak. Closed case, no need to dig deeper.
Chrissy, though. Chrissy looks at him like she wants to keep looking. Like he’s a Real Boy instead of the fucking caricature everyone else sees. Which doesn’t mean she’s into him like that, but it doesn’t not mean that, either, and bleggggh he just. Likes her, okay? He likes her a lot.
Eddie rotates his head ninety degrees so his cheek is flush with the table. The room tilts with him, a sea of faceless blobs and monotonous, droning jibber-jabber. He almost doesn’t notice when one of the blobs starts— waving at him?
He blinks. The blob morphs into Chrissy.
She’s fluttering her fingers, trying to catch his attention. He sits up, stomach swooping. Now she’s pointing at the empty chair across from him, holding up her palms as if to ask, where’s your date?
She’s all alone at her table, too, so Eddie shoots the gesture right back at her. Where’s yours?
Chrissy sticks her tongue out at him. Then she beckons—beckons!—him over. His chest does this little Pop Rocks dance of glee. Emboldened, he feigns confusion, craning his neck to look behind him. Who, me? he points at himself, trying not to grin when her whole face lights up and she bobs her head emphatically.
Sharpie Lady is serendipitously making her rounds on the other side of the room. Eddie waits until her back is completely turned before making his way over to Chrissy’s table, and if he has to physically restrain himself from Naruto-sprinting there as quickly as humanly possible, that’s between him and himself.
“Scaring ‘em off, now, huh?” he asks when he drops into the chair across from her.
“Oh, yes,” Chrissy says solemnly. “I’m very scary.””
“Terrifying,” he agrees.
She glances down with a demure grin, tugging a hand through her hair. “So, um. How’s it going?”
Eddie digs an index finger into his cheek, flashing an artificial smile. “Juuuust peachy. I think the evening peaked with the chick who tried to lick me.”
Chrissy’s mouth warps into a tiny o of shock and mild horror. “I— don’t know what to say to that.”
“Yeah, well, that makes two of us! Pretty sure I went with thank you in the moment, which— oh, great, yeah, laugh it up,” he says as Chrissy proceeds to do just that. “Kick a dude when he’s down, Jesus.”
“I’m sorry,” Chrissy giggles helplessly. Then, clearing her throat: “No, you’re right, that sounds very traumatic, I shouldn’t—” her voice completely breaks on that last word, laughter spilling out of her in bright, melodic waves.
“Unbelievable,” Eddie grins. His face is starting to hurt from all the uncharacteristically goofy smiling he’s doing. “You know I’m risking life, limb, and the impending wrath of Ms. I’m-Going-to-Have-to-Escort-You-Back-to-Your-Table just by sitting here? Pretty sure I’m at the tippy-top of her shit list.”
Chrissy’s still smiling. “Well. Better talk fast, then.”
“You hellion,” Eddie laughs, pulse jackhammering up his sternum when she flushes at the endearment. He feels like a goddamn teenager. “Getting a little too comfy up on that star-slinging high horse of yours, methinks.”
“Funny you should mention that…” Chrissy pulls a face. “Ask me about this last guy.”
Eddie raps his knuckles on the tabletop. “What, the Invisible Man, here? Oooo, how badly did he fuck up? Like, on a scale from one to whoops, I mistook you for a human popsicle.”
“He told me that my teeth reminded him of a horse, so— I’d say at least an eleven?”
Eddie reels back like he’s been hit. “The fuck? He said that? Jesus. I’d say I apologize on behalf of all men, but I’m, like, hesitant to claim this prick as one of our own. And, uh. Your teeth are great, for the record.”
Chrissy’s lips twist. “It’s okay. Well, no, it’s not, but I totally got the last word, because—” she squishes her face between her hands, cheeks going tomato-red. “I, um. I said. That if he thought my teeth were bad. He should see. My feet.” She shakes her head furiously. “I told him that they were hairy. Really hairy. Like, Gandalf from Lord of the Rings levels of hairy.”
Eddie actually howls, throwing his head back. “You’re a freak, Chissy! Weaponizing your factually incorrect nerd trivia. Ha!”
“Well.” She’s actually beaming, wide and bright as sunshine. “He did excuse himself pretty quickly after that, so. I must be doing something right.” Her hands tangle through her hair again, picking at the ends. A few moments go by before she speaks again. “It’s funny. A couple years ago, a comment like that would’ve sent me spiraling. I, um.” She blinks up at him. “I used to date a guy who would say things. About the way I looked. Not that mean, but. More passive aggressive, I guess? It messed with my head.”
Eddie’s punched exactly zero people in his very short life, but the thought of planting his fist in either of these amorphous dudes’ faces fills him with indescribable joy. “Well, a pox upon that asshole’s dick, too, then. Seriously, I’m thinking— flaming jock itch? An eternity of fire ants in the pants?”
“Oh my God,” Chrissy cackles, covering her face, and Eddie almost wants to thank her shitty ex for being such a fuckwit. Like, the sheer tonnage of stupid you’d have to possess to drive a girl like Chrissy away! Fuckwit’s probably too generous a label. But she wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise, so. Begrudging credit where credit’s due.
He’s about to open his mouth and tell her he’s got a whole rolodex of fake genital ailments, we can insult your dipshit ex all night, sunshine, when an all-too familiar voice jump-scares him for the second time this evening.
“I’m curious,” says Sharpie Lady, appearing behind him like some sort of speed-dating ghost of Christmas past. “What part of please stay in your designated rotation are you failing to understand?”
Eddie leans across the table. “You can see her too, right?” he asks Chrissy, barely above a whisper.
“Um.” Chrissy presses a hand over her mouth, nose all scrunched up again. “Yes?”
“You sure? I’m picking up some, uh. Less than benevolent vibes.” Then, to Sharpie Lady: “Go towards the light, Ms. O’Donnell!”
Chrissy squeaks out this tiny sound that’s halfway between a snort and a giggle. Sharpie Lady’s plastered-on customer service smile wobbles, eyes going narrow. Eddie can practically hear the Kill Bill sirens.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you”—she laser-stares directly at Eddie—“to leave. If you’ll follow me—”
“Oh, but.” Chrissy clears her throat gently. “I waved him over here.”
“And now I am escorting him out.” Sharpie Lady gestures forcefully in the direction of the entrance. “This way, please.”
Holy shit, she’s— actually kicking him out. He’s gonna get a bad grade in speed-dating, which. Okay, that tracks. And no offense to any of the other women here—with the notable exception of Lady Lick It Up, her tongue was literally inches from his hand—but, well. He only has eyes for Chrissy. Yeah, he said it! Go ahead and cue the cheesy music, get that close-up shot of his Big Dramatic Realization, he couldn’t give less of a shit! He’s twitterpated. A complete fucking goner. The thought of talking to anyone else at this point is laughable. Sharpie Lady’s doing him a favor, actually.
Eddie blows out a melodramatically defeated sigh, hopping down from his seat. “Alright, I concede. I lay down my sword. Live to fight another day.” He tilts his head to catch Chrissy’s gaze. Here goes fucking nothing (everything). “I, uh. I bartend at the Hideout most weeknights. The place is a total dive, but. You should come by sometime. If you want. If you’re in the neighborhood, I mean. Or even if you’re not! Either way, whatever! And yeah, I can hear the weird high-pitched thing my voice is doing, so I’m gonna shut up! Starting now! Seriously, this is me shutting up in three, two…”
Chrissy’s face opens up like a book. Teeth poking between her lips, cheeks crinkling. She’s so—
Sharpie Lady shoos him away from the table, and he almost biffs it a few times because he can’t stop shooting these dopey grins over his shoulder. Chrissy’s beaming back at him, and. Yeah. It’s the best high he’s ever had. He’s up in the stratosphere, kinda floaty and maybe semi-nauseous, but in a good way? He feels like he could run a marathon, climb a mountain, something, which is insane. His idea of a good workout is dragging his ass out to the kitchen to finally relocate the dirty dishes that have been bunking in his room. He’s never felt this way. He cranes his neck again, looking back—
Only Chrissy’s right here. Huffing a little bit like she ran to catch up with him. She presses something into his palm. A piece of paper. Her eyes meet his, wide and blue—blue!—and sparkling. He glances down.
It’s her phone number. And underneath— five teeny-tiny, perfect stars.
“I, um.” She blinks up at him with those Bambi eyes. “I revised my earlier assessment.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, heart bungee-jumping down to the pit of his stomach. “Management will be, uh, thrilled to hear that.”
They’ve reached the front door. Sharpie Lady makes this hem-hem noise in her throat, ushering him outside. The last thing he sees before it swings shut is Chrissy cupping her face between her hands, grinning to herself.
Out on the sidewalk, Eddie just sort of. Stands there, for a second. Dazed. It’s a clear night, not too chilly for this time of year. He drove the van here, but now he almost wishes he’d walked. He needs to move, do something to burn off all this heat that’s simmering under his skin. The house isn’t too far. Maybe he could—
The door swishes open.
“Forgot something,” Chrissy says, surging up on her toes to kiss him.
The noise he makes in the back of his throat is uncivilized on several different levels, but Chrissy doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. Her fingers curl around his flannel, tugging him closer. She tastes like strawberries, and her mouth is so fucking soft, and he has no idea what to do with his hands, and—
She pulls away, touching her lips. Looking up at him. Her eyes are somehow even brighter out here.
God. She’s his dream girl. Yeah, apparently he says shit like that, now. Shut up.
“So, um,” she breathes. “You know when you have a first date, and there’s all that tension because you’ve never kissed before? Well, now we can just go out, and it can be tension-free.”
“I, uh,” Eddie sputters. His brain is melting in a puddle down his spine. “I still have tension.”
Chrissy just laughs, and the sound lands somewhere behind his ribs. Crackling warm and bright in the center of his chest. Singing in his blood like a sweet guitar riff. He wants to— whatever. Drown in it. Lick it off her lips, maybe. Neanderthal shit, he's aware!
He leans in, and she meets him there.
Fucking ding.
“Does this chick know how much of a hot mess you are?” Robin asks him a couple days later, traipsing into their shared bathroom unannounced.
Eddie’s trying (with marginal success) to tame his lion’s mane. More rockstar, less something-built-its-nest-in-there. He blows a raspberry at Robin through the mirror. “She’s got a pretty good idea, yeah.”
“I only ask because, uh.” She holds up a pair of his boxers by the veeeeery tip of her thumb and pointer finger, wiggling the fingers of her other hand through the giant hole in the waistband. “You do know you can buy some new skivvies, right? Money can be exchanged for goods and services? This is just sad, man.”
Okay, so maybe he didn’t fully think through the ramifications of Robin suddenly having access to his entire wardrobe. Sure, the sounds of mild-to-moderate horror and disgust coming from the laundry room this morning were entertaining at first, but then Robin realized she could just mercilessly bully him, instead. Which she’s been doing. Non. Stop.
“Could you maybe not brandish my underwear in my face?” he says, smashing his hand over a particularly unruly patch of curls. “It’s. Unsettling.”
“The number of holes I’m finding in literally every single thing you own is unsettling.”
“Don’t you have another load to do, Cinderell-y?”
“We agreed that I’d do your laundry. A timetable was never specified.”
“That’s some ‘terms and conditions’ fine print bullshit, right there, Buckley.” Eddie eyeballs his hair in the mirror, then throws his hands up in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, I give up.”
“Allow me,” Robin says, unceremoniously tossing his boxers onto the floor and crouching down to rummage through the cabinet under the sink.
Eddie shakes his head violently. “No. Nope. You’re not coming at me with all your”—he waggles his fingers—“potions.”
Robin snorts, then triumphantly holds up a very pink and sparkly bottle. “God, you are so dramatic. Look.” She holds it close to his face. He catches the word detangler before she whips it away, giving it a good shake. “This shit will change your life, trust me. Now, hold still.”
Arguing with Robin once she’s sunk her stubborn teeth into something is a pointless endeavor, so. He begrudgingly holds still.
She gives the whole left side of his head a good misting with the alleged detangler, then hands him his brush. “You’re welcome.”
“So, what, I just—” Eddie emphatically yanks the brush through his tangles, down-down-down in a quick staccato.
Robin wrenches the brush from his hands. “That’s how you brush your hair? How are you not bald? You wanna go sloooowly, Rambo. Like this.” She gently works it through the gnarliest knot. “So. When are you leaving?”
“Shift starts at five. Chrissy’s meeting me there at— fucking ow, Buckley, who hurt you and why are you taking it out on me?”
“Well, if you’d stop thrashing. Here.” She hands him the brush. “Anyways, she’s meeting you at—?”
“Seven,” Eddie winces, holding it away from him. “Provided, y’know. My scalp’s still attached to my skull.”
Robin just rolls her eyes and goes to retrieve his underwear, which admittedly does ease the sting, just a bit. A second later, his phone buzzes where it’s sitting by the sink. Eddie launches himself at it, brush clattering to the floor.
chrissy: So. I looked up the Hideout’s Yelp reviews.
“Oh, vom, not again,” Robin groans, side-eyeing him. “I’m happy for you, dude, but you’ve literally been making that dopey face for two days straight.”
Ignoring her completely, Eddie taps out his reply.
eddie: Oh ho ho! The plot thickens!
eddie: Wait. We /have/ Yelp reviews?
chrissy: Yes! Here’s my favorite one so far: it just says “hot bartender” with five stars.
Yep, his face is totally going all— what did Robin say? Dopey.
eddie: Well, you know what they say. Customer's always right.
chrissy: Ha! I'm inclined to agree, though.
eddie: The lady flatters me!!
chrissy: 😘
chrissy: Wait, this one’s my favorite. Sorry.
chrissy: i have SO many questions.
And Eddie just fucking busts a gut right there in his bathroom. Folds almost in half, laughing harder than he has in— he doesn’t even know. His abs are burning.
“Dingus,” Robin grumbles, but he can hear the smile in her voice. Roommate slash gremlin. Slash friend. Best friend, actually. He’ll thank her later, once his ears have stopped burning from all the unsolicited gloating she’s gonna subject him to.
So, yeah. Turns out, Eddie knows exactly how he ended up here. You won’t hear him complaining.
(Much).