“A doctor? No joke? Boy, that’s great.”
“I’m not pregnant,” Megan shouted.
“Denial,” Pat whispered to Dave. “That’s stage one when you have an unwed mother.”
Dave shook his head. “This is sad. I never expected it.”
Pat punched him lightly on the biceps. “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to make a terrific father.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t counting on marrying somebody who’s already pregnant with someone else’s kid.”
“Dave,” Pat said, his voice soft and pleading, “someone’s got to marry her. Be a sport.”
“Hell, why don’t you marry her, if you’re such a bleeding heart?”
“It would be easier for you. You’ve already got a ring.” Pat stood up and turned his pockets inside out. “You see? No ring.”
“I’ll sell you this one.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t afford a ring that size.”
“I’ll give you a good price. It has a flaw in it.”
“What?” Megan shrieked. “You gave me a ring with a flaw in it? You told me it was perfect. ‘Perfect like me,’ you said.”
“That’s how she got pregnant,” Pat confided in Dave. “Believes everything she’s told. Right off the pumpkin truck.”
“Sad,” Dave said.
“So who’s gonna marry her?” the waitress asked.
“Yeah,” the bartender called. “Which one of you guys is gonna marry her?”
Megan folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. Count to ten, she told herself. This wasn’t really happening.
“Tell you what,” Dave said. “We’ll settle this man to man. I’ll arm – wrestle you for her. Loser has to marry her.”
“Oh, no. That’s not a fair contest. You’ve eaten more spinach than I have. How about a game of chess?”
“I don’t play chess. Chess is a wimpy game.”
“We got a dart board in the back,” the waitress suggested. “How about darts?”
“I guess darts would be okay,” Pat said.
Dave laughed. “Man, I’m going to whip your butt at darts.”
“Don’t worry, pudding pie,” Pat whispered to Megan, “I’ll try to lose.”
Megan reached for his neck, but he was whisked away by the bar crowd.
“Best two out of three games,” the bartender pronounced, filling everyone’s mug with beer.
Pat took careful aim, let sail, and hit a bull’s eye. His second dart hit number seven on the inside ring. The third dart sliced into the bull’s eye again.
A roar went up from the crowd.
“You’re a dart hustler!” Dave yelled, red faced. “You’re a lousy dart shark.”
Megan wrung her hands. “I thought you said you’d lose,” she hissed to Pat.
Dave stepped up to the mark, wiped his hands on his shirt, and completely missed the dart board on his first throw. “This doesn’t count, right? This is just a practice game?” He slugged down a beer and hit the bull’s eye with his second and third dart.
The second round was a tie.
Pat retrieved the darts, took a sip of beer, and stood poised to throw.
“I’m not going to look,” Dave said, flushed from beer and the third Kamikaze Dog. He stood next to the dart board, his face pressed to the wall and his hands covering his ears. “Tell me when it’s over.”
Pat aimed his dart and winked at Megan. The dart left his hand with a snap of his wrist. It arced gracefully in the air, then dropped short just as Dave uncovered his eyes and lurched toward the board.
There was a moment of stunned silence in the bar before Dave started screaming. “Yeow!” he shrieked. “I’ve been stabbed!” He looked over his shoulder and gaped at the silver dart sunk a good inch and a half into his right buttock. “Somebody help me,” he pleaded. “Call a doctor.”
“I’m a doctor,” Pat said. “Do you have medical coverage? Do you know your group number?”
“Get this madman away from me! He tried to kill me. You tried to kill me!”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Dave. He didn’t try to kill you. It’s just a dart, for crying out loud.”
“It was a mistake,” Pat said, smiling pleasantly. “It slipped out of my hand just as you moved over.”
“Someone pull the damn thing out,” Dave cried. “I’m in pain! Lord, I feel sick. I’m gonna barf.”
“Three Kamikaze Dogs,” the waitress explained to the bartender.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Megan said, and yanked the dart from his backside.
The bartender produced a first – aid kit. “You want a Band – Aid, or something?”
Pat selected a bottle. “A little peroxide and a Band – Aid, and you’ll be good as new, Dave.”
“Forget it,” Dave snarled. “I’m not dropping my pants for you… you pervert.”
“We should take him to the emergency room,” Pat said. “He should have a tetanus shot.”
Megan bowed her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was furious at both of them, but she had to admit, it was funny. Pat was very solicitously playing the role of doctor, and Dave had deserved a dart in the butt.
“I’m not going to any hospital,” Dave said. He took a step forward and stopped. “I can’t walk.” He hobbled a little farther. “What am I going to do? I’ll never be able to drive.”
“Maybe we can lie him across the back seat of my car,” Megan said.
Pat looked doubtful. “I think he’s too big, but we could probably strap him to the roof.”
Dave looked as if he might cry. “I feel sick. I gotta get some air.”
“Sad,” Pat said, as Dave limped toward the door. “His body used to be sacred.”
Megan marched after Dave. “You’re the one who’s sad, Patrick Hunter,” she said as Pat hurried after her. “I can’t believe you did that! Stabbing an innocent man with a dart.Letting your childish temper get the best of you.”
“It was an accident. He staggered right in front of the dart board.”
“You winked at me. You knew perfectly well what you were doing.”
Pat looked offended. “I was flirting.”
“Flirting? With a pregnant woman? You humiliated me. He asked me to marry him, and you told him I was pregnant. You ruined everything.”
Pat made an outraged grunt. “What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch you get engaged to Bluto?”
“You had no business interfering.”
“Egads, will you two hold it down?” Dave said, struggling to the curb. “Megan, where’s your car?”
“It’s this maroon thing right in front of you.”
“What happened to your Carrera?”
Pat frowned. Megan Murphy owned an expensive sports car? No, he thought, pudding pie owned an expensive sports car.
“I sold it to buy a kiln,” she said.
She opened the back door and felt a pang of genuine sympathy for Dave as he painfully crawled across the seat. He really couldn’t help being a moron, she thought, and he was hurting. His perfect body had been violated. Like Barbie dolls and blue nail polish, Dave was a discarded part of her past, and she didn’t want to hate him. She’d rather file him away with Mr. Potato Head, wondering from time to time what the attraction had been.
Half the restaurant had followed them outside, and everyone gave directions. “Bend your knees, scoot up a bit, watch your head when we close the door.” Then they all waved good – bye as the car belched an acrid blast of exhaust and pulled out of the parking lot.
Megan looked at Dave in her rearview mirror. “Where to?”
“I don’t know. I thought I’d be staying with you.”
“Oh, great.” She stopped for a light and massaged her temples.
“Headache?” Pat asked. “Need a doctor?”
“I don’t need a maniacal pediatrician,” she said stiffly, turning onto Nicholson Street. She parked in front of Pat’s cottage. “Out.”