Chasing Unicorns

By Dale Thele

Shane settles into the “normal” life he’s always craved, unaware his reality is about to turn messy and complicated; split between his own budding romance while being supportive of a co-worker’s gay teen son Dexter. Homophobic hate, lies, and misunderstandings lead Dexter into a dark place, a dimension Shane may be powerless to save the teen. All the while, Shane has his hands full with his new beau, Michael. A relationship which on the surface seems to be going swimmingly, but underneath the sunny veneer, lurks chilling secrets. Inspired by actual events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Thele
• Release date: Jul 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215494028

Dale Thele

Dale Thele is a bestselling American author whose life has been a lengthy series of compulsions strung together by atrocious acts of stupidity due to boredom. After raising heck in a sleepy oil town in north-central Oklahoma for 18 years, he then ventured to Oklahoma City University on a quest for higher education. He quickly learned “higher” education meant to “elevate” one's mind with the aid of either a reefer or a bong, and ample amounts of alcohol. Destiny dragged Dale to Austin, Texas, where he lives vicariously through the fictional characters he congers up, and the far-fetched adventures he writes.Dale began writing in 2008, influenced by authors like Timothy James Beck, Mark Kendrick, Michael Thomas Ford, and Bryan Healey. Dale pens works of fiction which often includes an LGBT character or two.

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Book THREE of the Shane Davison Chronicles

A N O V E L

Dale Thele

Copyright © 2022 by Dale Thele

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

ISBN 9798215494028

Smashwords Edition

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Although inspired by actual events, the reader should not assume any portion of this manuscript is factual. In addition, this manuscript is a period piece taking place from Thursday, December 13, 1979 to Monday, March 10, 1980. There are numerous references to earlier dates going back to the 1960s. Being that this is a period piece, some terms and phrases may be considered outdated, or inappropriate for the present day. Use of terms and words are intended to give a sense of authenticity and should not be deemed racial, or intended to be hateful, or belittling by today’s social standards. Be aware of the use of profanity, drug and alcohol use, smoking, homosexuality, homophobia, and violence; you the reader are hereby forewarned.

Characters in this manuscript, although they may have similarities to persons living or dead, are purely accidental. The principal location where this story takes place is real, however other references may be creations of the author.

All scenes, dialog, characters, and story settings are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as factual. Other than stated, any resemblance to actual events, businesses, and/or locales are altogether coincidental.

Thursday, December 13, 1979

"Don’t cry because it’s over.

Smile because it happened."

Dr. Seuss

The year is 1979. Jimmy Carter is President of the United States. The television show Dukes of Hazzard debuted on CBS. Freaky weather struck the Sahara Desert with thirty minutes of snow. America’s most serious nuclear power plant accident occurred at Three Mile Island, Pennsylvania. McDonald’s introduced the Happy Meal. Tens of thousands assembled in Washington, D.C., for the National March for Gay Rights. Donna Summer and Bee Gee’s each dominated the Top Music charts. The chart-topping song is Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff.

Yes, a lot went down earlier in the year in the U.S. and worldwide. While those and other events may have been newsworthy, they aren’t the story I’m about to tell you. My humble story takes place in Austin, the capital of the Great State of Texas, and home of the University of Texas Longhorns and St. Edward’s University. The city boasts a population of 134,500. My home since arriving four years ago on Thursday, November 6. Thanks to my high school friend, Cal Corbin, who helped me escape with my life from two mob families in Oklahoma City—that episode is a whole other story—I could write an entire book just on that alone.

Anyway, we’re not talking about my mob fiasco—we’re talking about what my friend Cal did. He set me up as a roommate with one of his high school buddies, Brad, and his boyfriend, Matt. You might remember my mentionin’ Brad when Cal, me, and Drew had supper at Hannah’s house—back when I was attending Oklahoma City University. Cal was talking about what he’d done during the summer and said he’d run into some guys we’d gone to high school with at a dance club in Hollywood. Well, one of those guys was Brad and his boyfriend, Matt. Oops, I’m afraid I’m dredging up shit from the past—stuff I don’t really wanna get into. Besides, that shit doesn’t have all that much to do with Brad and Matt. But—Brad and Matt are essential to this part of my story. Ya see—they shared a two-bedroom apartment not far from the University of Texas campus where both of ‘em were attending classes. Since they used only one of their bedrooms—the spare room was a decoy to give the impression to Brad’s parents that the boys each had their own rooms. Brad’s parents didn’t know Brad was gay. That decoy spare second bedroom became my room.

Sharin’ the apartment with Brad and Matt wasn’t all that bad. At first, I was worried I’d be a third wheel—always in the middle or in the way. It didn’t happen like that at all. It was like I’d gained two older brothers who watched out for me. Just so you know, Brad and Matt graduated high school one year ahead of me.

There was this one weekend when Brad’s parents showed up kinda unexpectedly. Brad, Matt, and me had to do some quick switching up of stuff in the apartment to make it look like Matt and Brad were straight roommates, not gay lovers. Like I said earlier—Brad hadn’t come out to his parents. That meant Matt, Brad, and me—we had to make the place look like they were two straight dudes sharing the rent on a two-bedroom apartment. Makin’ things look like Brad and Matt each had his own bedroom. Then there was another problem, what to do with me. Matt came up with the idea I pretend to be his visiting cousin just while Brad’s parents were in town. That meant I bunked with Matt during Brad’s parents’ visit. Don’t ya go getting any naughty ideas. I slept on an air mattress on the floor. Matt slept in the bed. I assure you, there was no hank-panky going on—not between me and Matt or me and Brad.

Things were sorta working out till out of the blue, Matt’s parents suddenly showed up. They knew their son was gay and that he was shackin’ up with Brad. They had no problem with that. Actually, they liked Brad and considered him an equivalent to a son-in-law. Even though gays can’t legally get married, they figure Matt and Brad will one day tie the knot with a commitment ceremony. Anyways, our challenge was to keep Matt’s and Brad’s parents apart so Brad could keep his secret from his parents. I don’t know how in the world we pulled it off, but somehow, we did. Brad’s parents left without finding out their son’s secret, and Matt’s parents left thinking all was copacetic with Matt and Brad—which it was. After all that business, I was determined to get my own place—A.S.A.P. I never want to be the third wheel in a relationship ever again, even if I’m not romantically involved with either of the two.

Not long after that, I’d been lucky to get a job as a Men’s Fashion Apparel Sales Associate at Dillinger’s Department Store in central Austin’s premier shopping mall. Before getting hired, I had no men’s clothing sales experience, except that I’d been wearing ‘em for the last twenty-some years, which may have won me the position. With the new full-time job, I could afford to rent a comfortable, lofted condo in the south-central part of town.

During my first annual review at my job, the store manager asked if I’d be interested in applying for the management training program. He thought I’d be a suitable candidate, and I applied. To my surprise, I beat out another contender for the position. After completing the one-year training program, I was named the new Home Accessories department manager. I replaced the retiring manager who had run the department for a very long time.

Fast forward, I’ve been managing Dillinger’s Home Accessories department for two years. I’m settled comfortably in my condo, and finally, my life is coming together. I’ve got a cozy office on the fourth floor, the same floor as my Home Accessories department. Just down the hall from my office are the store’s executive offices. Since accepting the department management position, I’ve kept an open-door policy. When in my office, I keep the door open, so if any of the employees wish to speak with me, I’m available. That also includes the other department managers, which frequently drop into gossip and shoot the bull.

Before I say more, I’m about to tell you two stories happenin’ simultaneously but in opposite parts of town. So, bear with me as the various sections of the story jumps from one side of town to the other. That’s how real life is. It’s never just one story unfolding in one location—it’s several smaller parts of a bigger story taking place at the same time. I must mention that I couldn’t be everywhere when this story occurred. With the help of my friends, they collaborated in pullin’ together the missing pieces of what took place. So, here’s my rendition of what happened. I’ll tell it as if it’s happening right now. I want you to feel like you’re right smack in the middle of everything—sort of like how I felt when this story went down in my life.

C H A P T E R 1

Thursday afternoon, December 13

my office at Dillinger’s Department Store

...we were tied in heated double-overtime. I had the ball, but the goalie was watching me like a hawk—there was no way I could get the ball past him. Josh and I’d worked out a move that might win us the match, but we hadn’t tried it during an actual match. We needed this goal. I signaled Josh, then I crossed the ball in front of him. He took the ball to his left foot, and with two steps—he gave it a hard strike. It slammed the back of the goal—right past the goalie, just as we’d hoped it would. We won 2-0 against Calvary Academy in our first preseason match, an excited Dexter announces through the phone earpiece.

The fifteen-year-old’s excitement streams into my ear from the telephone receiver crooked against my scrunched shoulder while I absently jot notes on sales reports stacked on my desk. I have less than an hour to finish the reports before I leave work for the day. Sometimes, like today, Dexter can phone at inconvenient times, but I like shootin’ the breeze with him. I don’t want to put the kid off, though. Since Dexter mainly monopolizes the conversations, I figure I can continue to work on my reports. Occasionally, I slip in a random uh-huh for good measure to make it seem he has my full attention. I know it’s not right, but I don’t wanna hurt the kid’s feelings. Besides, I’ve got to get these reports done. They were due on Monday, and it’s now Thursday.

So, what do you think, Uncle Shane?

A long, empty pause follows.

Uncle Shane?

Freezing in place from hearing my name. I’m instantly drawn back into a conversation I’d been ignoring. My grip tightens around the pen in my hand for just a moment before willfully relaxing my fingers. I set the ink pen down, neatly centered on the reports on the desk.

Whoa, what did he ask? Damn it, I should’ve been paying attention.

I gotta take a moment to tell ya, I feel like an uncle to the kid ever since my friend and co-worker Cecily brought her son into the office a couple of years ago. If I recall correctly, Cecily was off work that day but stopped by the store to drop off the upcoming week’s work schedules for her staff. Dexter and I hit it off instantly during that brief meeting. I remember how my heart jumped when I heard him ask his mom if he could come back soon to visit Uncle Shane. I enjoy being around the kid and not having any nieces or nephews of my own I relish being an adopted uncle to the boy. When Dexter calls me on the phone, he’ll rattle on about campouts, fishin’ trips, and soccer matches. Recently our talks have been focused more on sports and girls. I know he’s a bright kid, and I’ve never given the boy direct advice. That’s his parent’s job. I’ve only provided the questions for him to consider so he can make his own decisions. Honestly, I couldn’t be more proud of him. He’s like my own real-life nephew. Now that we got that settled, let me get back to the phone call with Dexter.

Well— I sputter. What do you think? I toss the question back at him. This’ll buy me some time to maybe recollect what he’d said. The last thing I remember was something about his team winning a match. Or had he been talkin’ about a girl? I rack my brain, but nothing seems to float to the surface.

I’m not sure—really— Dexter hesitates. Uncle Shane— his voice falls soft and becomes distressingly severe. How do I know if I’m gay?

What? I lurch forward in my chair, and color probably drains from my unreadable face. Shit. How in God’s name had the discussion jumped to this? I must have missed a helluva lot more of Dexter’s conversation than I thought. Nervous-like, I comb my fingers over my scalp and grab the phone receiver with the other hand before it slips from the crook of my neck.

Is Dexter asking what I think he’s asking? No way!

My heart misses a beat or two, and invisible brakes squeal as the universe screeches to a dead-on stop.

What? You think you might be gay? I ask, making absolutely sure I heard correctly. Why would you think that? I mean—what about your girlfriend?

Eh, she’s alright—I guess—as a friend, but I don’t see her as anything more than a pal. She’s okay to hang with and all, but that’s about it. We’re nothing more than friends. Besides, I don’t think I could ever marry her, or any girl, for that matter. That’s too gross.

So, are you telling me you’re interested in—boys? I ask.

I can’t believe I’m asking such a question—to, of all people—Dexter Greene? Not once since I’ve known the boy has he ever dropped a single solitary hint that he might be gay. The very thought never crossed my mind. He’s as straight as they come. For Christ’s sake, he’s a soccer jock. He has—correction—HAD a girlfriend, and what about the time he went on and on about when he first kissed a girl? He was so excited he could barely contain himself….

Yeah, it’s like I get a whole different feeling when I think about boys, Dexter says. It’s not something I can explain, really. You understand what I’m saying—don’t you?

Yes, I guess I do, I say.

Still, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with him. I feel my head slowly pivoting back and forth in disbelief.

I should tell you that Cecily, Dexter’s mom knows I’m gay, and she doesn’t have a problem with it. As for Dexter, well, he figured me out shortly after he and I first met. And all this time, I thought I was putting on a good act as being straight, but I must have been wrong if a kid could figure me out. With that out of the way, let’s get back to my story.

So—is there someone special in mind? I blurt without thinking.

Damn it, I shouldn’t be asking a question like that. I suddenly have the uncontrollable urge to bitch-slap myself for being so stupid. till a few moments ago, I’d perceived the boy as an all-American straitlaced soccer jock. My mind is reeling as I readjust the mental image I have of Dexter.

There’s this one boy at school I kind of like— he says.

Really? I say, rattled, realizing I’ve been twisting the curly phone cord over and over around my index finger. I unwrap the cord. Semi-conscious of my reflexes, I watch as I wrap the wire again.

I don’t know if he’s gay or not, he says. We’re sorta friends and all, but that’s about it. He acts real straight though—

Well, Sport, so do you, I remind the boy.

I’m really confused, and I’ve got all these questions—you know?

There’s no way I envy the boy. When I first came out as gay, it was difficult. It was in the early 70s in a small Oklahoma town. At the time, I didn’t know anyone like me to talk to. Back then, I had to figure things out on my own. My parents weren’t as progressive as Dexter’s. It wasn’t something I could talk to my mom and dad about. The best I came up with were clinical words in the Encyclopedia Britannica and the dictionary, but neither book was helpful. I doubt there’s much more available information now to help him understand what being gay is like. After all, it hadn’t been all that long since I’d come out. What’s it been—seven years?

"Sport, I wish I could give you the answers. Really, I do. Circumstances are different for each person—it’s not like a one size fits all situation. It’s something you’ve got to work out for yourself.

Why did I expect you’d say that? Dexter humphs. The older I get—the harder life gets. Let me ask you this—does it ever get any easier?

Not really, I shake my head.

Damn, I wish I could give the boy something more assuring. After all, he’s just a kid.

You’ve got to tackle each situation as it arises and live life one day at a time, I tell him.

Ugh! he groans. You drive me nuts with your no-answer answers.

I wish I could give you all the answers. Really, I do. But I don’t have ‘em either. Life’s full of unanswered questions. You’ve just got to work things out on your own.

Yeah, you’re probably right.

Take your time, and don’t do anything rash. Remember, it’s been a while, but I was once in your shoes. I understand what you’re going through. I didn’t have anyone to talk to when I came out, but you do. You’ve got me. Okay?

There’s a dead pause on the line.

Dex, you know I’m always here for ya, right?

I know—I appreciate that.

Sport, I’m always thinking of ya, I say, picking up a framed photo of him from my desk—a school picture his mom gave me. I sink into the comfort of my upholstered desk chair. Lost in a flood of memories, I affectionately trace the outline of the boy’s angelic face with the tip of my forefinger. His messy dark brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and crooked smile. One of these days, I’d like to see you play in a soccer match, but dang, they’re held when I’m at work.

Yeah, Mom and Dad don’t get to see me play, either. They’re always working too.

Maybe one day I’ll sneak out from work to catch one of your games.

Uncle Shane, you’re too funny, he says, followed by a boyish snicker. They’re called matches, not games.

My lips curl slightly as I recognize a residual trace of an innocent child remains inside him. Matches. Thanks. I’ll remember that. Well, Sport, it’s been great to hear from you, but I should get back to work. You’ll call if ya need to talk?

I will, the boy replies. Thanks, Uncle Shane. And, if you would, don’t say anything about what we talked about to my mom.

Ya got it, Sport.

See ya later, alligator.

Click.

See you too…. I say to the dead air coming from the receiver.

I think of the boy I’ve developed a deep affection for. Each time he calls me Uncle Shane, my heart skips faster. Lazily, I hang up the receiver while gazing at the photograph of my favorite nephew in my hand. A bittersweet smile crosses my face, realizing my nephew’s no longer a young boy with toys, but as if overnight, he’s become a teen thinking about boys as toys. My chest tightens, and a lump swells in my throat.

My little Dexter’s growing up. I’m only his ‘uncle’—so how do parents cope with their children as they mature? Gawd, I could never do it. It’s all too damn emotional.

With the back of my hand, I wipe a damp eye. Carefully, I position the photo back on the desk next to the phone—hesitating to release it from my touch. Just over the top of the framed image of the boy, I spot the tick marks on the door frame, where I’ve recorded Dexter’s growth spurts in black marker since meeting him. I know the ticks mean nothing to the boy, but each mark represented cherished memories to me.

My smile fades into a scowl as the stack of papers reminds me I still have reports to review. My reluctant fingers lock ‘round the ink pen as I focus on the numbers printed on the top report. I tap the pen against the reports as I focus on the columns of numbers before me. The numerals blur, forming ink-block likenesses of Dexter. I struggle to push thoughts of the boy out of my head, but they’re stubborn and refuse to go away. The pen slips from my grasp to roll and fall onto the floor.

Okay, that’s obviously a cosmic sign if ever I’ve seen one. I sigh and pull my fingers through my hair as I glare at the shuffled papers and then at the still pen lying on the floor, just out of reach.

There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate on these reports. Not now, not after Dexter’s revelation.

According to my wristwatch, it’s 6:07 in the evening. My shift ended at 6. In resignation, I draw a deep breath, then scoop the reports into a folder and haphazardly shove the manila-bound reports into a drawer. I push away from the desk, then grab my overcoat. After a quick once-over scan of the room, I flick off the light. As I pull the door closed, the reassuring click of the lock assures me my office is secure. I’m calling it a day and going home. In the morning, I’ll resume my work on the reports. For now, I need a cigarette.

C H A P T E R 2

Friday morning, December 14

my condo

Glowing lime green digits pulsate 5:30 from the bedside AM/FM digital radio alarm clock while a piercing alarm slices through the silence of the predawn hour.

Burrowed under fluffy bedding, I extend my arm into the crisp darkness to slap the morning alarm into silent submission. Instead of getting out of bed, I snuggle further into the warmth.

Can it be morning already? I think to myself. I really don’t want to get up and go to work. Maybe I’ll just call in sick. What excuse can I use? I’ve used many already and don’t want to mess up by repeating a previous excuse. Hard to believe I’ve worked retail for several years. What do I have to show for it? Nothing. Christmas is the busiest shopping season of the year and is well underway. I’m working extra hours without the compensation to show for it—being a salaried employee sucks, there’s no doubt about it.

Ugh, I groan.

Damn. I hate that fucking job. I hate it, I think to myself.

Agitated, I push the covers away to stare blindly at a darkened ceiling. I know if I lay here much longer, I’ll fall back to sleep. Then I’ll certainly be late for work, and I can’t afford to be late again.

Cotton boxers and a thin tee shirt provide little protection from the cold, which greets me as I break free from the cozy cocoon of bed blankets. Ever since I was a kid, I can’t sleep well unless it’s cool—or better yet, cold. I turn off the heat at night, so I can sleep. The downside is that when I wake up, it’s colder than a witch’s tit. I grab a terry bathrobe and wrap it around my shivering body while shoving my feet into cold slippers. Drowsy, as if in a trance, I leave the lofted bedroom. The spiral oak stairs creak and moan, complaining with each lumbering step. Familiar complaints I’ve ignored every morning since moving into the condo.

Br-r-r, it’s fuckin’ cold! I say to no one, shivering as I flick on the central heating before dashing into the bathroom to relieve myself.

After taking care of my morning business, I splash handfuls of warm water on my face, then study the image from within the bathroom mirror. Sleepy blue eyes squint back from under a frightful mop of morning hair, pointing in every direction from my scalp. I attempt to smooth the light coppery blond mane into place with my long, slender fingers, but to no avail. It’ll take a lot more than just a quick comb-through to tame the mess atop my head.

Damn it all, Shane Davison, I say to the reflection in the mirror. You’re single. Gay. No boyfriend. No prospects. And ya work a shitty-ass job ya don’t even like. I bury my wet face in a soft, dry hand towel. As I lower the towel, I continue to address the mirrored image as if speaking to my identical twin. What happened to you? I ask, staring at the reflection, waiting for a response—one I know won’t come. Finally, my patience wears thin. In a huff, I pitch the towel onto the vanity, shut off the light, and exit the bathroom, making my way to the kitchen.

Sleepily, I make myself a pot of coffee, then pour some into a mug and add a heaping scoop of sugar. Yes, I’m addicted to the caffeine and sugar rush. I depend on my morning mug of joe to jump-start my day. I lean against one side of the archway between the kitchen and living room. Looking around the condo, I figure I probably should clean up the place. Then I notice the blinking light on the phone answering machine. I was so drained when I got home last night I’d forgotten to check for messages. About the only calls I get are from people trying to sell me crap I don’t want, need, or can’t afford. I guess I might as well listen to the message before I delete it. Who knows, maybe it’s Ed McMahon telling me I won the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen anytime soon. I press a button to hear my message, expecting an earful of some hyped-up sales pitch. Instead, a recorded female voice announces—all excited, as if I’d just won a prize on a TV game show. Congratulations, you have a new message on your Love Lorn Dating account. Please log in to hear it.

I placed a personal ad in a local weekly newspaper approximately six months earlier. Even though I wasn’t sure if guys actually met through such ads, I decided to give it a shot. What could I lose by trying? So, I posted this ad:

Romantic kind of guy with old-fashioned values who believes in happily ever after, looking to date. I enjoy movies, dinners out or in, hanging with friends, walks along the lake, and cuddling on the couch with someone special. I’m not a hopeless romantic, but a hopeful one.

I don’t act anything, gay or straight. I’m just me. You might say I’m more of a stay-at-home sort of guy. However, I love country/western dancing but haven’t boot-scooted for a long while. I don’t spend time in bars nor allow them to define my life.

You might say I’m just a big kid at heart because I love cartoons, especially Saturday morning cartoons. Romantic comedies top my movie list, with mysteries coming in second. And just so you know, I find war flicks depressing.

Even though I’m twenty-three years of age, I feel more like eighteen and stand 5 foot 10, with a slim build. Looking for a masculine male in decent shape—you don’t have to be one of those guys who spends their life in a gym. Someone who’s honest, caring, romantic, and emotionally available to date. No, I’m not expecting an instant relationship, just a guy who’s open to investigating possibilities if we’re a match beyond a one-night stand. Bonus points if your baggage doesn’t clash too badly with mine.

Definitely not perfect here, and I don’t expect perfection. I’d really like to know what it’s like to be in love, hoping to share that experience with someone special. If interested, I honestly would like to hear from you.

At first, I’d got a few responses, but none panned out. With disappointing results and dwindling replies, the ad had since slipped my mind till now.

I punch my Love Lorn Dating account number and password on the phone keypad. I’m amazed I remember the logon to the message retrieval system. How long had it been since I last accessed the phone system, three, maybe four months? From previous experience, I figure the new message won’t be very promising. I’ll play the message quickly and then return to my morning routine.

The recorded message says:

"Anyhow, I’ve been meaning to respond to you for a long while, but I am:

"A. Crapulent, and, therefore, lazy, and I put stuff off forever.

"B. Not the best human being there is in existence, so I’m concerned I may be pawning off damaged goods.

"Meanwhile, I’m a homebody. I rise early and go to bed early. Er, um, I’m twenty-two, 6 foot tall, about 185 pounds, blond, blue-eyed. I am not the perfect man, and I have flaws to make my grandmother weep.

"I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, so can we use this telephone message system for a while? I hope I’ve not waited too long to respond. Like I said, I put things off. If I waited too long and missed my chance, just delete this message and forget I answered your ad. If you’re still available, I hope to hear from you, as you seem to be an ordinary fellow like me, and if we don’t connect, well, it was worth a shot.

Oh, by the way, if you’re interested, my name is Michael.

I’m in need of a second cup of coffee. This Michael person’s reply has piqued my interest with its humor and casualness. I return to the kitchen and refill my coffee mug. After adding ample sugar, I stir the amber brew and return to the phone. Since my ad had begun to run, I’d politely replied to each guy who responded, no matter how disappointing some of them were. However, Michael’s response has a different feel from those I’ve previously gotten. I certainly want to know more about him. I sip my coffee while composing a reply in my head.

Thank you for replying to my Personal Ad. Wow, your message got my attention. A man with a sense of humor and honesty, I like that. Please, I would like to know more about you, too.

I agree using this messaging system is a good idea for now. Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

Damn it to hell. I realize I’d mistakenly recorded and sent my response to the message retrieval system. I thought about the recorded message I’d accidentally left.

It wasn’t anything like what I’d had in mind. It was boring as shit and should’ve been punched up. After all, I am interested in learning more about this man.

The reply I sent needed to capture Michael’s interest, but I don’t feel like I’d done a very good job at that.

There’s nothing I can do now. The message was sent. I cross my fingers, hoping Michael doesn’t read too much or too little into my words.

Gawd bless, did I ever fuck things up or what?

From here on out, only time will tell. Ya know?

C H A P T E R 3

Later

Dillinger’s Department Store

When I get to work, I feel like something’s not quite right. For some reason, it seems the employees are staring at me. Watching me. I feel uncomfortably self-conscious—something’s either wrong or out of place. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is. But whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it has something to do with me. Still, what can it be? As I search the staring faces, I feel like I’m in a dream, that one where you go to school and suddenly realize you’re wearing nothing but your underwear. The thought makes me double-check my pants zipper. To my relief, it’s up and secure. I want nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare. Yet, am I really sleeping? All of this is weirding me out. It’s making me wonder if I’m just being paranoid. But it feels too real. Ya know?

Cautiously, I continue on my way till I’m standing in the hall outside my locked office door.

Someone’s got a boyfriend! an excited voice exclaims from behind me as I fumble with my keys.

Spinning around, I’m facing Cecily, another department manager who’s been a good friend and confidant.

What? I ask, noticing a peculiarly silly expression on her face.

It’s obvious you’ve met someone. You have a boyfriend, don’t you? A woman can sense these things. Besides, you’re glowin’ and struttin’.

I may do a lot of things, but I do not strut! I internally protest.

Cecily, you’re off your rocker, I tell her.

So—who is he? Where didja meet? I want to hear everything, she says, raising her hand to her forehead, acting all melodramatic like she’s suffering from the vapors. Who’s this ma-a-a-n who’s stolen my dear Sha-a-a-ne’s hear-r-r-t? She carries on in an exaggerated Gone With The Wind kind of drawl. Well, maybe it’s not all that exaggerated. After all, she does have that thick West Texas accent goin’ for her.

Did I hear something about Shane having a boyfriend? booms Sarah, another department manager and infamous store rumormonger.

Where the H-E-double-hockey-sticks did she come from, anyways? It’s like a magician plucked