Speed Dating

“Who in their right mind does speed dating on Valentine’s Day?” I asked Callie as I buckled myself into the passenger seat of her tiny red car. What I really meant was “How in the hell did I let you talk me into going speed dating ever, especially today?”

Speed dating always seemed a bit desperate, a bit like sorting through as many humans in as short a time as you could in the hopes of finding one salvageable one. On Valentine’s Day, I was bound to be scraping the bottom of the barrel, the people who couldn’t find a date on the day of the year when everyone was practically required to find a date.

The people like me.

Really, someone else was likely climbing into a car on the other side of town having the same unkind thoughts toward me. And we were headed toward each other. We would meet in an hour. In a dark bar full of people we’ve never met before. Full of people we might wish to never see again.

The only good news was it was February in Chicago. Cold enough to justify the layers of clothes, the scarf, the gloves that I was hiding inside. I could probably keep the layers in the bar without getting a single strange look. On the down side, it would make it easier for the guys across the table to hide as well. We would all be able to walk out of the bar with the same secrets we walked in with, if we chose.

“It’ll be fun,” Callie said as she pulled away from the curb.

I was not convinced. But I had agreed to go. I didn’t have a date. I really should stop being so pessimistic and nasty and give the night a chance. At the very least, the odds were good that I’d get a free drink or four out of the evening.

Bridget’s Bunker was the brightest building on the block when we pulled into the lot. Flashing neon beer signs battled against strings of red heart lights draped across the front windows. It was so cheerful it made me nauseous. I really needed a beer. Or a shot of tequila.

I stepped out of the car and pulled my gloves up snug on my wrists in a futile attempt to protect me from the cold. It seeped in, getting through my barriers far easier than the Hallmark holiday cheer.

It wasn’t much warmer inside once we pushed our way through the front door. I swear Bridget, or whoever the real owner was, had left the heat turned low, thinking that the bar would be so crammed with bodies that we’d keep each other warm. Right now, though, the bar was less than a quarter full. Every push against the door let in a fresh stream of cold air that washed over everyone inside. Fine by me. I could keep all my layers, all my barriers.

I barely had my first beer in front of me (purchased by Callie- the guys here were so not brave) when a voice crackled through the speakers calling for our attention. I followed instructions, settled myself into a booth to wait for my string of wanna-be Prince Charmings.

The first gentleman caller laughed a lot. Too much. A deep, forced chuckle that made it clear he really had no sense of humor. Or he was trying to cover for a very inappropriate sense of humor. I wondered for a moment if he let that laugh loose when he saw animals on the side of the road, thrown there by cars. I wondered if I would only hear his true laugh when he hurt someone. Hurt me.

Next.

My second date didn’t laugh at all. Not even a glimmer of a smile cracked across his face. This was much more curious. Much more appealing. What would it take to make him laugh? What was the last thing that made him laugh? I tried a dad joke. Nothing. I tried an embarrassing story. Nope. I was reaching for my gloves, desperate to know what would work when the buzzer sounded and he stood and walked away.

I missed my chance. That might have been the guy I was here for, the guy that would make dragging myself out for public shaming worth while. But now he was on to the next girl. Someone else was likely to catch the man that might have been mine.

I wasn’t willing to let another one go. The next one could be the right one, or the one after that. And I had a way to know.

I peeled off my gloves and slid my fingers down the side of my beer glass, letting the cold drops of water bathe my fingertips. It was a palate cleanser.

Date number three settled in across from me. This was by far the handsomest of the three men I’d met. Dark waves of hair dipped low over one brow. Ice blue eyes were doubly bright in comparison to the stark dark of his hair. A strong jaw framed a mouth that looked softer than any pillow.

I only debated for a moment. It wasn’t really a debate, more a confirmation of what I had already decided. I wanted to see this one, see him all the way.

I leaned closer, stretched my arms across the table so that my hands were in easy reach of his. I turned the left hand over, revealing the delicate flesh of my inner wrist. My right hand dropped a bracelet on the table.

“Could you help me with this?” I asked. “It’s so hard to manage these clasps with one hand.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, a not-so-gentlemanly thought clearly raced across his eyes. But his hands did exactly what I wanted. They slipped forward and picked up the bracelet.

His fingers fumbled with the clasp for a moment as he struggled to figure out how the delicate metal moved. Then he slipped the cool metal under my wrist. As he pulled the ends of the bracelet up to latch the clasp, his fingers brushed against the tender skin at my wrist.

It began.

A wash of warm spread up my arm and into my chest before pouring across my face. As the wave reached my eyes I started to see.

I saw the two of us together in the park, his dark good looks a contrast to my pale, washed out features. We were both smiling. We were both happy. At least it looked that way.

I saw the two of us dancing at a wedding. Not ours. A bride coasted across the floor behind us, her smile outshining ours easily.

I saw us sprawled on a white sandy beach, ocean waves rolling up to splash across our toes. We didn’t notice. We were too busy kissing.

I saw my hand reach out to lift up a knife, the blade dripping blood onto the white tile of my bathroom floor.

I didn’t see him hurt me.

I never saw the men I touched hurt me, never saw less than love in their eyes. But they must have hurt me. All of them. Somehow. Why else would I stab every last one of them?

The Girls at 17 Swann Street and other January Reads

I finished 8 books in January:

Time’s Convert by Deborah Harkness
Your First Year as a High School Teacher by Lynne Rominger etal.
The Girls at 17 Swann Street by Yara Zgheib (ARC)
Vicious by V.E. Schwab
The Suspect by Fiona Barton (ARC)
The Bazaar of Bad Dreams by Stephen King
https://amzn.to/2TuKWuHThe Hakawati by Rabih Alameddine
More Than Words by Jill Santopolo (eARC)

I reviewed three ARCs this month. My favorite ARC this month was The Girls at 17 Swann Street (full review below).
For my review of The Suspect click here
For my review of More Than Words click here

I received an Advance Readers' Edition of the The Girls at 17 Swann Street by Yara Zgheib from the publisher (St. Martin's Press) in exchange for an honest review. The Girls at 17 Swann Street is scheduled for release on February 5, 2019.

This novel is the story of one woman and her battle with an eating disorder. We join Anna on the day of her admission to a residential treatment program. Here she is surrounded by a group of women who allow Anna to see what she is doing to herself and help her realize how much she has to fight for.

The story jumps back and forth in time as Anna deals with the path that has led her to this house and searches for the path that will take her back out. These glimpses into Anna's past, including her childhood and the early days of her relationship with her husband, allow us to see how the disease developed, and appreciate that it was not one incident, or a decision made by Anna that led her to anorexia.

Primarily, the story is told by Anna, so we have direct access to her thoughts and inner battle when she is faced with something as innocent as a bagel with cream cheese. What is interesting about the presentation of the story is the format. In this edition, paragraphs are all left-justified with no indent and a space between each. Dialogue is written in italics, with no tags attached. This gives the story a poetic feel. It also put a bit of distance between the story and the reader. To me, it made the dialogue and events feel like an echo. I am curious if this formatting is intentional and will be kept in the final version. This might be a deliberate choice to give the reader a taste of how Anna interprets the world around her.

This novel was a very fast read, as I was drawn into Anna's world and her journey. Toward the end of the novel, I did feel as if the plot was a bit rushed. Again, this might be an intentional choice, representing how these residential treatment centers move patients through in an effort to help as many people as they can. It might also have been to elicit a reaction from the reader. I found myself worried about Anna, worried what would happen once I closed the book. I was concerned that she hadn't had enough time, that she hadn't dealt with everything she needed to deal with, to move forward and be healthy.

The Girls at 17 Swann Street definitely pulled me in, dropped me deep in the mind of a person fighting an eating disorder and showed me their world. I recommend this to anyone who wants to better understand what is happening with a person who is battling this disease, but I do warn that it might be a very difficult read for anyone who is fighting these battles themselves.