Page 1

Chapter 1

Moxie

Z ombies. At least, they might as well be. The dude at the far end of the bar is close to passing out and drowning in his drink. The other men are ashen and unappealing, though the general darkness of the room doesn’t help. The lurkers on the dance floor are like a herd of corpses milling aimlessly, waiting for fresh flesh to appear. My booze goggles appear to be malfunctioning.

“Hey Murray, what’s with the crowd tonight?” I ask the middle-aged bartender. The hole-in-the-wall is a frequent haunt of mine. It’s usually a good place for picking up men, but tonight’s options are lacking. The atmosphere feels stale in a way that makes my muscles twitch. The sameness weighs down on me, and I suck in a deep breath to fight the sudden claustrophobia squeezing me.

“Same old stuff,” Murray replies, rolling his eyes like, Don’t give me shit today, Moxie.

Maybe I need to change things up. I mostly follow a one-and-done policy. Getting close with someone leads to a natural entwining of lives and a reliance that makes my skin crawl. Dependency is not my jam; thanks, dear old Mom and Dad.

“Hook me up with some tequila,” I say. If the vodka didn’t do the trick, tequila definitely will. Heck, enough rounds with my buddy Jose Cuervo, and I’ll probably forget the men entirely and start dancing on the pool tables.

A woman bursts through the door and throws herself at the bar a few stools down. Physically, she’s my complete opposite. Her wavy, sandy-blonde hair is a sharp contrast to my own jet-black pixie cut with blue highlights. She wears a white skirt and pink sweater on her thin frame, while I'm rocking jeans and a black tank top over my curves. Tears stream down her blotchy face.

This is not a silent suffering kind of cry. This girl is in shirt-drenching, snot-producing, ugly cry mode—and I know her.

“Lady, are you okay?” Murray asks.

“May I please have some alcohol?” she asks between sniffles.

Murray stares at her dumbfounded and looks at me like I’ll have a solution for him.

Hannah doesn’t wait for a response, just throws her head into her arms and shakes with the violent heaves of her sobs. Damn it.

I need to find a bar further away from work. I bump into an acquaintance too often. Each time, I vow to frequent a new bar, but Murray’s is in easy stumbling distance from my apartment. I have a feeling I’m going to regret my laziness tonight.

Hannah is the self-appointed welcoming committee at the casino and is always kind to me. She’s quick to offer help to everyone. We aren’t close, but she regularly waves to me from her post at the customer service desk. Her smile is always bright, and she has Donkey-from- Shrek kind of energy.

Meanwhile, I deal out cards and shoot the shit with my players. It sounded like such a fun job. I’ve worked my way to the best tables, but the players blend together. Instead of the hitting-the-jackpot high I sought, I'm stuck on a losing streak with not much chance of the cards turning.

Hannah hiccups loudly and Murray stands with his hands frozen helplessly on an empty glass. Doesn’t he know bartenders are supposed to be every drunk’s sounding board? The last thing I want is to spend my night off consoling a coworker. The girl clearly needs someone to talk to, but we don’t talk. I deal cards, she signs up new members. Acknowledging each other in passing doesn’t qualify me to break out a notepad and leather sofa and talk about her feelings. Tonight was apparently a bad night. She’ll have “some alcohol” and wake up tomorrow ready for her Miss America act, all without any needed intervention from me.

When Murray doesn’t make a move to play therapist or bartender, Hannah’s bleary eyes search the room like a player down to their last chips frantically scanning the table for the winning card that will be their salvation. We lock eyes and my stomach twists. Her lips tremble, and her eyes widen and glisten in an absurd puppy dog stare.

This is a lost cause. I blame you Cuervo. I toss it back before trudging over to Hannah.

“Get her a chocolate cake shot,” I say, and Murray nods, relieved to have direction. “And I’ll have another Cuervo.”

“Moxie?” she asks.

I do some unenthusiastic jazz hands. “That’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Drinking.” It’s truthful and sounds better than prowling for a hookup.

“Shots come in cake form?” Hannah asks. She pulls a fresh tissue from her purse and cleans up the swamp on her face.

“Yep. There isn’t any chocolate in it, but somehow it still tastes exactly like chocolate cake.”

Alcohol is a topic I can handle. Her eyes light up behind the glaze of tears. “I love chocolate. And cake.”

“I had a feeling,” I say.

We wait in silence for Murray to pour our drinks, and she trembles with the effort of composing herself. We’ve reached the splotchy aftermath stage: tissues, uneven breaths, and the occasional whimper.

Murray delivers our shots, and I nod to her. We clink glasses. “Bottoms up,” I say, and we toss them back.

She bites the lemon and studies the empty glass, her doe eyes wide with astonishment. “It does taste like chocolate cake.”

Just like that, I'm out of conversation topics. I tap a finger on the bar along with the beat emanating from the tinny speakers.

“Do you... want me to pick out another drink?”

“No. It’s okay. I’m alright.”

She’s not. She’s going to fall apart and tell me the whole story any minute now. She attempts a discreet eye blot with a tissue. I sip my water and wait her out. Three. Two. One—

“I’m never going to find love!” she wails.

Ah, love. A topic I’m oh-so-qualified to advise her on. I spare my old stool a longing glance. Best not to dwell on the past. First things first, I need to confirm the severity of the situation.

“Are you physically okay? Did someone hurt you?” I ask.

“Only my heart !” She sobs.

I nearly choke but hasten to stifle my laughter. If we were at the casino, I'd be putting my money on Hannah being a drama kid in high school.

“Alright, who was it, and what did they do?”

“It was supposed to be a rebound date. The guy was a freaking sword swallower for Renaissance Faires. He has a flair for the unusual, and I couldn’t see myself doing anything with him.”

Ever a sucker for the wild ones, I perk up but remind myself that we’re focusing on her issues right now. Tonight’s mission: get Hannah’s smile back.

“And... you’re upset you’re not getting a second date?”

“No. It’s history repeating itself. My boyfriend of a whole year broke up with me because he said I was too predictable. I don’t want to be boring, but how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

I can’t help but laugh. Neither one of us can find the right person, but our reasons are reversed. “You’re not alone. I can’t find a good one either, although I’m just looking for an interesting guy to date occasionally. All the ones I go out with bore me to tears. The last guy I dated had a routine he refused to deviate from, including a weekly game night.” A shiver runs down my spine, remembering how he’d wanted to slot me in like a cog in his perfectly-planned life.

“What’s wrong with game night?” Hannah’s head jerks up, jaw dropping and brows furrowing as if my criticism is a personal affront to her.

“Nothing!” There really isn’t. They could be fun. My ex’s game night was the same game with the same people every week, and it was a box I couldn’t stand being placed in. Something in his ideal system would inevitably break. “It was all too scheduled for me.”

Hannah’s nose crinkles at this and I laugh. “What’s that look for?”

“Schedules are awesome.” She’s no longer crying. I smile to myself as phase one of the Hannah Project—put a stop to the sobbing— is complete. “Don’t you feel lost without one?”

I work on a schedule, and that’s enough for me. I prefer to go out and not know where or with whom the night will take me. Anything else makes me feel like the world is quicksand swallowing me whole.

“Nope. I find it freeing.” I signal to Murray for two waters.

“I love schedules. And spreadsheets. I live for spreadsheets, but I can’t seem to find anyone else who agrees.”

Murray delivers our waters, and I blink at Hannah. “You love spreadsheets?”

“Oh yes, they’re wonderful.” There’s not even a hint of exaggeration. She’s talking about spreadsheets like she watched them save a litter of kittens from a burning building. “I would love routine dates and someone I could rely on.”

“Mind numbing.” I shudder. No one can be relied on, but she’s so innocent and sweet, I don’t want to be the bearer of that bad news.

She absently stirs the ice around the glass of water. “You sound just like my exes. Maybe you should date them.” She laughs.

“Ha, yeah.”

Since Hannah’s ceased her hysterics, we’re no longer the center of attention. The disheveled suits around the bar return to ESPN or their existential crisis fueled staring contests with the bottoms of their bottles. I tune out the clanking sounds of Murray filling drinks and the crackle of the same old songs funneling through the speakers. Hannah’s hand stills, and she spins to face me. Her grin widens in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise with dread.

“Hear me out,” she begins.

I cringe. That can’t be good.

“We should date each other’s exes!”

“Yeah, okay.” I laugh and look away.

“I’m serious! It makes sense. Think about it.” Her eyes are wide with hope. “I need someone who moves more at my speed, and you break up with guys because they’re too boring. We do a little switcheroo, and voilà! A perfect match.”

“I don’t know…” I shift in my seat and crane my neck in search of Murray. I’ve got an urgent need to cash out. “It makes sense in theory, but we don’t know each other that well. We can’t possibly know if our exes are a good fit.”

“Not knowing each other is why this works. It’d be too weird to date your ex if I’d known you two together, but I didn’t, and you never saw me with any of mine.”

Seriously, where the hell did Murray go? “Fair, but I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“Please?” she asks, giving me that glossy-eyed, pleading look.

No. Not falling for that. I grimace. “They’re not my thing and I don’t see the point in you setting me up for a hookup.”

“So go and have some fun on a date. See how it goes. Who knows? Maybe one of my exes will surprise you. You said it yourself, they’re right up your alley. You don’t have to marry them, but you might want three or four dates before you cut them loose.”

I tap on my glass and shake my head. “You’re going to call up some guy who, in your own words, broke your heart, and say, ‘Hey, there’s this girl you should meet’?”

“No, of course not. Most of these guys didn’t break my heart. We just weren’t right for each other. Oh, I know! We could stage a meet cute.” She leans in close, giving me the puppy dog eyes again.

The options in the bar have not improved. My inclinations meter ticks closer to Maybe . “It feels hella weird to go out with some guy you dated for a year.”

“Who says it has to be him?” She frowns at the bar top and her eyes widen as she grins at me. “I’ve got it! There’s a guy I've known since I was a kid. We dated briefly but weren’t a good fit. I bet you would like him.” She blows her nose, still experiencing the lingering effects of her sob session.

“I still haven’t agreed to this.”

“I’m telling you, Wyatt’s the one. Please, Moxie? I can’t go back into the dating world alone.” She pouts.

“Can’t I just cheerlead you from the sidelines? I’m not looking for The One.”

“Help me believe in love, Moxie!” she yelps, drawing attention to us once again. I can’t deal with these dramatics.

I might have to agree just to be done with her badgering. The thing about one-night stands is there’s no pressure. No expectations. I can chat someone up, and if it goes well, I can take them home. If I'm not feeling it, I can easily walk away and find someone else just a few stools over. Hannah wants a lot more. I’ve got to put a stop to this now.

“I don’t know. Dates are so awkward. All that small talk, or the whole ‘let’s ask the big questions now so we don’t waste each other’s time’ third degree.”

She bites her lip in a way that seems to move beyond simple contemplation and into fear that I won’t agree.

“What if it’s not a date? What if we could arrange a quick meeting so you can get a first impression. We don’t have to say a word to him, so there’s no pressure and we aren’t getting his hopes up, either.” Her voice creeps higher with each word in a way that suggests panic, so that by the end of her speech she’s squealing.

My bank of excuses is running low, and Murray’s taking his sweet ass time. I’m so going to threaten him with a negative Yelp review when I get my hands on him.

“It’s perfect.” She claps her hands. Her mood is flip flopping so fast I can barely keep track. “We could give each other intel to make sure the first date goes well.”

“What happened to just a quick meet to see if I even want a date? I thought we were going the low stakes route?” I don’t bother mentioning there is very little intel I could provide her on my one-night stands. What am I going to say? Kick this one out when you’re done with him, he eats too much cheese and farts in his sleep? Or, Let that one go down on you, he works wonders with his tongue?

She waves her hand. “Hypothetically, of course. If you decide you want to date.”

“I don’t usually put this much effort into dating,” I say weakly, already knowing she’ll have an answer.

“That’s just because you’re not using spreadsheets to their full potential. Don’t worry, I can plan the whole thing.”

Murray finally shows up, and I lean in to ask for my check.

“Can I please have another?” Hannah wiggles her empty glass at Murray.

So much for peacing out of here before Hannah talks me into her wild scheme.

“If you're so keen on this idea, why don’t you go first?” I suggest. “That’ll give me time to decide if I want to be set up.” I mentally scroll through my little black book, grasping at fleeting memories for someone who might be a good fit for schedule-loving Hannah.

“I still have mascara tracks on my face,” she says. “I need a hot minute to catch my breath. I’ll take a couple weeks to recover, and then we’re in this together. But the more I think about it, the better I think Wyatt is for you.”

Seeming to sense that I'm wavering, Hannah whips out her phone, taps, and scrolls.

“Okay, you want to see a picture? Here.” She thrusts the phone at me, and I take it. On the screen is a very attractive man with a strong chin and the kind of wide, honest smile that can only come from genuinely having the time of your life. Long blonde hair frames his face, hanging just far enough off it that there must have been a strong wind that day. He has kind eyes that crinkle at the corners and sun-kissed skin dotted with small freckles. He’s hot.

She silently waits me out, sipping the fruity concoction Murray whipped up for her. Hannah's eyes are full of confidence. Mental recap time.

Her suggestion of a low pressure meet-and-greet isn’t terrible, and maybe by then I'll have come up with better excuses. Judging fully on his looks, I could certainly do worse than Wyatt.

At this point, saying no to Hannah’s tear-stained face feels a bit like kicking a puppy. I may not be taking home a Miss Compassionate award any time soon, but I'm not that big of a monster.

I take a fortifying breath. “Fine, but just a quick meet. I meant it when I said dating isn’t my thing.”

Hannah pumps a fist in the air, and let’s out a quiet “Yes!” I can’t help but chuckle.

“Do you still talk to this Wyatt? Is he even single?”

“Only if we bump into each other, but Stitch ’N Bitch is a reliable nuisance of a news source.”

“I’m sorry, run that one past me again?”

“The neighborhood moms are in a cross-stitch and gossip group. That’s the central hub for the goings-on in the neighborhood, but it extends beyond that inner circle. I can’t sneeze in the grocery store without getting a call from my mother to ask if I've got a cold. They’ve got eyes everywhere.” She looks around as if moms are hiding in the corner.

The music in the bar shifts mid-song, and the abruptness makes us both look around. One of the dance floor zombies turns away from the TouchTunes jukebox as his selection plays. He locks eyes on us to the crooning of “All By Myself.” Subtle. Hannah shudders, and I agree.

We spin back to the bar. “Right. Stitch ’N Bitch. What does that have to do with this guy?”

“Wyatt’s mom is a member. You know how you get superglue on your skin even when you swear you were careful and there’s no way you could have gotten any on you, and then you try everything to get it off, but you eventually have to accept that you’re going to live with it?”

“Not really.”

“Well, pretend. Even though he and I ended on good terms, our mothers hold a grudge and have clung to the dredges of our very brief affair like superglue on skin, so I hear about him all the time. He recently broke up with someone.”

“I feel like you could have just said. ‘Like superglue.’” The song ends and promptly restarts, dooming us to desperation in musical form on repeat.

“Forget the analogy,” Hannah says. “You’re stuck on the analogy.”

“There are so many better examples. Like spinach on front teeth, sand in your swimsuit, glitter on… anything.” What little hints of sadness that had been lingering vanish with her annoyance. Mission accomplished.

“Yes, they cling to their grudge like all of those clingy things.” Hannah folds her arms and tips her nose up, looking rather pleased with herself.

“Alright,” I shrug. “Wyatt it is. Now can we get out of here before we have to listen to this song a third and fourth time?”

She presses a hand to her chest in absolute bewilderment. “We can’t leave now. There’s so much planning to do!”

I wince, sparing a glance toward the sad sap near the dance floor and setting the over/under for his approach at five minutes. I’m taking the under.

“I seem to remember you saying you’d handle the planning. Can’t you just text me when and where to show up?”

She laughs as if I've intentionally cracked a joke, but I wasn’t trying to be funny. “This is going to be so much fun! Who knows, maybe he’ll even be the love of your life.”

I've created a monster. I glare at her, and she holds her hands up with a laugh. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. We’re going slow. First things first, we need to be able to communicate.” She grabs her phone and looks expectantly at me. I hesitate for a second before giving her my number.

She’s so damn sweet it’s hard to be annoyed with her despite how absurd all of this is. If I'm not getting out of here anytime soon, and if I'm agreeing to this thing, I might as well go all in. I order another round of drinks as Hannah frantically searches her purse.

“I wish I had my notebook, but this will have to do. Or I could pull up a spreadsheet on my phone. No, sometimes paper is best.” She is full-on babbling to herself, and I decide it’s best not to interrupt her.

She taps around on her phone some more, then flashes Wyatt’s profile at me. “Status recently changed to single. Gossip confirmed.”

“Way to go Sew n’ moan.”

Hannah laughs, and a hiccup bubbles out. Maybe we should slow down on the drinks. “Stich n’ bitch.”

“Right, that. Hey Deejay! Give us something upbeat,” I shout to the guy who has been playing us the depressing broken record.

His eyes widen, and he nods and swipes his card in the machine.

“You acknowledged him,” Hannah whispers. “Now he’s going to expect a dance.”

“I don’t owe him or any man anything. He can expect all he wants.”

She raises her eyebrows but lifts her glass. “Moxie, you might just be my idol. Cheers to that.”

If I'm her idol, I fear for her. Hannah busies herself with planning, doing who knows what on her phone and scribbling notes on a coaster. True to her word, she doesn’t seem to need my input, so I eye the crowd.

Before long we’ve roped another group of women into dancing with us, and I do my best to find the perfect ratio of alcohol and water for happy and fun, but not sloppy. Hannah alternates between notetaking and dancing. I’m questioning the quality of her notes as tipsy Hannah takes the wheel. She appears to be a shouty and lovey-dovey drunk.

“I think we’re going to be best friends,” she shouts at me for probably the sixth time.

“And I think you should drink some water.” I shove a glass in her direction.

“You don’t believe me, but just call me Kool-Aid Man because I'm going to break right through that wall you’ve got around you.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I tug at her elbow and steer her toward a corner of the room away from the chaos I’ve stirred up. “Right. Drink that water.”

“Ooh yeah!” she bellows.

We tumble into a booth and she rummages through six coasters covered in her looping script. Finding the one she wants, she shoves it in front of me, where she’s written:

County Fair Expo

This Saturday

Meet Cute

Saturday already? My chest constricts with anxiety. While playing the entertainer, I almost forgot what we were doing. The reality of starting this project so soon slaps me in the face and sobers me up fast.

She hits me with that hopeful stare, her smile loose from the alcohol, and once again I nod with a resigned sigh. “Saturday, huh? At the fair?”

“Yep. Wyatt and his buddy Noah have an adventure tourism business. They’ll have a booth there. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to meet him without it seeming like a setup.”

I have to admit, it’s a good idea. “Alright. I’m in.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s meet at one o’clock at the entrance to the expo.”

“I can do that,” I say.

“Oh! And Wyatt is on the rugged side, so don’t wear anything that screams high maintenance.”

“Noted.”

Hannah puts the rest of her note-coasters into her bag. “I already emailed you a map of the fairgrounds. I’ll send you another email soon with more information.”

I can’t imagine what else I could possibly need, but I’m ready to wrap this up. “Sounds good.”

We cash out, and I make sure Hannah gets into her rideshare before taking the short walk to my own apartment.

The unfamiliar pressure of a dating scenario that isn’t just picking up a random guy at the bar has my thoughts swirling once again. I remind myself that I don’t have to go on a date. I simply agreed to meet him. I only hope I don’t regret it.