When six-fifty rolled around, I started getting nervous. We had ten more minutes, and I worried Seth might have gotten seriously lost. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the store, wondering if he was there. Nope, they told me, but Paige did have his cell number. I tried it next, only to get voice mail.
Annoyed, I snapped my phone shut and huddled farther into my own embrace to stay warm. We still had time. Besides, Seth not being at the store was a good thing. It meant he was on his way.
Yet, when seven and the start of the game arrived, he still wasn't there. I tried his cell again, then looked longingly at the doors. I wanted to see the beginning of the game. Seth might never have watched hockey, but I had and liked it. The continual movement and energy held my attention more than any other sport, even if the fights sometimes made me squirm. I didn't want to miss this, but I'd also hate for Seth to walk up and not know what to do when I wasn't where I said I'd be.
I waited fifteen more minutes, listening to the sounds of the game echoing toward me, before I finally faced the truth.
I had been stood up.
Such a thing was unheard of. It hadn't happened in... over a century. I felt more stunned than embarrassed or angry by the revelation. The whole thing was just too weird to fathom.
No, I decided a moment later, I was mistaken. Seth had been reluctant, yes, but he wouldn't just refuse to come, not without calling. And maybe... maybe something bad had happened. He could have been hit by a car for all I knew. After Duane's death, one could never predict when tragedy might hit.
Yet, until I had more information, the only tragedy I faced now was missing the game. I called his cell again, this time leaving him a message with my number and whereabouts. I would come outside and retrieve him if needed. I went into the game.
Sitting alone made me feel conspicuous, driving home the sadness of my situation. Other couples sat nearby, and a group of guys kept eyeing me, occasionally nudging one of their number who wanted to come talk to me. Being hit on didn't faze me, but looking like I needed it did. I might choose not to date, but that didn't mean I couldn't do it when I wanted. I didn't like others perceiving me as desperate and alone. I felt that way enough sometimes without outside confirmation.
At the first break, I bought a corndog to console myself. While sifting through my purse for cash, I found the slip of paper with Roman's phone number. I stared at it while I ate, remembering his persistence and how bad I'd felt refusing him. My sudden painful abandonment fired the need to hang out with someone, to remind myself I really could have social contact when I wanted.
Common sense froze me briefly as I was about to dial, cautioning that I would be breaking my decades-long vow of not dating nice guys. There were more prudent ways to deal with an unused hockey ticket, that reasonable inner voice reminded me. Like Hugh or the vampires. Calling one of them would provide a safer interaction.
But... but they treated me like a sister, and while I loved them like family too, I didn't want to be a sister just now. And anyway, it wasn't like this was even a real date. This would be a simple matter of companionship. Plus, the same precautions it had provided for Seth—lack of interaction— applied for Roman too. It would be perfectly safe. I dialed the number.
"Hello?"
"I'm tired of holding on to your coat."
I could hear his smile on the other end. "I figured you'd thrown it away by now."
"Are you crazy? It's a Kenneth Cole. Anyway, that's not really why I called."
"Yeah, I figured."
"Do you want to come to a hockey game tonight?"
"When does it start?"
"Um, forty minutes ago."
A Seth-worthy pause.
"So, you just now thought to invite me?"
"Well... the person I was going with didn't exactly show up."
"And now you call me?"
"Well, you were so adamant about going out."
"Yes, but I'm... wait a minute. I'm your second choice?"
"Don't think of it like that. Think of it as more like, I don't know, you're stepping up to fulfill what someone else couldn't."
"Like the Miss America runner-up?"
"Look, are you coming or not?"
"Very tempting, but I'm busy right now. And I'm not just saying that either." Another pause. "I'll stop by your place after the game, though."
No, that wasn't how this was supposed to play out. "I'm busy after the game."
"What, you and your no-show have other plans?"
"I... no. I have to... put together a bookcase. It's going to take a while. Hard work, you know?"
"I excel at that handy-type stuff. I'll see you in a couple hours."
"Wait, you can't—" The phone disconnected.
I closed my eyes in a moment of exasperation, opened them, then returned to the action on the ice. What had I just done?
After the game, I skulked back home. The elation of winning couldn't overpower the anxiety of having Roman in my apartment.
"Aubrey," I said upon entering, "what am I going to do?"
She yawned, revealing her tiny, domestic-sized fangs. I shook my head at her.
"I can't hide under the bed like you. He won't fall for it."
Both of us jumped at the sudden knock at the door. For half a second, I did consider the bed before deigning to let Roman in. Aubrey studied him a moment, then—apparently being too overwhelmed at the sight of a sex god in our midst—darted off for my bedroom.
Roman, casually dressed, stood bearing a six-pack of Mountain Dew and two bags of Doritos. And a box of cereal.
"Lucky Charms?" I asked.
"Magically delicious," he explained. "Requisite for any sort of building project."
I shook my head, still amazed at how he had managed to weasel his way over here. "This isn't a date."
He cut me a scandalized look. "Obviously. I'd bring Count Chocula for that."
"I'm serious. Not a date," I maintained.
"Yeah, yeah. I get it." He set the stuff on the counter and turned to me. "So, where is it? Let's get this started."
I exhaled, uneasily relieved by his matter-of-fact manner. No flirtation, no overt come-ons. Just honest, friendly helpfulness. I'd get the shelf built, and then he'd be gone.
We tore into the huge box, dumping out loose shelves and panels, as well as an assortment of bolts and screws. The directions were short on words, mostly containing some cryptic diagrams with arrows pointing to where certain parts went. After minutes of scrutiny, we finally decided the large backboard was the place to start, laying it flat on the floor with the shelves and walls placed on top. Once everything was properly aligned, Roman picked up the screws, studying where they joined the various parts together.
He examined the screws, looked at the box, then turned back to the shelf. "That's weird."
"What is?"
"I think... most of these things usually have holes in the wood, then they include a little tool to put the screws in."
I leaned over the wood. No premade holes. No tools. "We've got to screw these in ourselves."
He nodded.
"I've got a screwdriver... somewhere."
He eyed the wood. "I don't think that'll work. I think we need a drill."
I felt awed at his hardware prowess. "I know I don't have that."
We hightailed it over to a big chain home store, walking in ten minutes before they closed. A harried salesclerk showed us to the drill section, then sprinted off, calling back a warning that we didn't have much time.
The power tools stared back at us, and I looked to Roman for guidance.
"Not a clue," he finally admitted after a span of silence.
"I thought you excelled at this 'handy-type stuff.' “