The Undead Pool

Trent nodded, the beer he’d nursed the last hour hanging between two fingers an inch above the bar. There was only one couple left at the lanes, the cook scraping the grill, and the guy at the shoe counter cleaning each pair before calling it a night. I liked Trent like this, relaxed and thinking of his kids, and I quashed a fleeting daydream. I couldn’t picture him in my church, living with the pixies, waking up in my bed. Stop it, Rachel.

A siren wailed in the distance. It felt like a warning, one I needed to heed. I wasn’t attracted to Trent because Al told me to leave him alone. I liked Trent because he understood who I was and would still sit at a bar with me and eat french fries. And it ends tomorrow.

“I’ll be glad when Quen gets back,” I said, eyes down.

“Oh? Has watching my back been that onerous?”

“No. It’s just that you take up a lot of my time.” And after tonight, I’m not going to have a damn thing to do.

Trent set my basket atop his and pushed them both to the side, making no move to leave. “You definitely have a different style than Quen. But you did a wonderful job of it. Thank you.”

Almost depressed, I watched the cook through the long thin pass-through. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it. Again we clinked bottles, and we both took a swallow. I was going to miss it. Miss everything. But the girls would be going back to Ellasbeth in three months. I could wait.

And then what, Rachel?

“I had a good time tonight,” he said as if reading my mind. “If things were different—”

“But they aren’t,” I interrupted. “Besides, you don’t pass my underwear test.” I needed to leave before I started to cry or break things. This really sucked.

“Your what?” Trent said, his eyes wide.

I couldn’t help the mental picture of him in tighty whities, then boxers, wondering which way he went. “My underwear test,” I said again, then added, “I can’t imagine folding your underwear week after week. That’s it.”

Seeming annoyed, Trent turned away. “I have people who do that for me.”

“That’s just it,” I said, fiddling with my pop bottle. This isn’t how I wanted to end this evening. “Even if you didn’t have this big thing you’re going to do with Ellasbeth, I can’t see you living in my church, or anywhere other than your estate, really, doing normal stuff like laundry, or dishes, or washing the car.” I thought of his living room, messy with preschool toys. I hadn’t ever imagined that, either. “Or trying to find the remote,” I said slowly.

“I know how to do all those things,” he said, his tone challenging, and I met his eyes.

“I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying I can’t imagine you doing those things unless you wanted to, and why would you?”

He was silent. In the kitchen, the cook began putting the food back into the big walk-in fridge. Trent’s jaw was tight, and I wished I’d never brought it up.

“Forget I said anything,” I said, touching his knee and pulling my hand back when his eyes darted down. “Laundry is overrated. I really enjoyed tonight. It was nice having a real date.”

Trent’s annoyance, startled away from that touch on his knee, evolved into a sloppy chagrin. Nodding, he spun his bar stool to take my hands and turn me to face him. It was ending. I could feel it. It was as if our entire three months together had been building to this one date. And now it was over.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Trent’s grip on my hands pulled me closer. My heart pounded. I knew what he wanted. There wasn’t a hint of energy trying to balance between us, but the tips of my hair were floating, and a sparkling energy seemed to jump between us. Trent’s eyes were fixed on mine, and I swallowed. He was feeling it too, a slight pressure on his aura, as if passing through a ley line.

Passing through a ley line?

“Do you feel that?” I said, remembering the same sensation on the bridge this afternoon.

“Mmmm,” he said, oblivious to my sudden disconcertment as he pulled me closer.

Oh God, he’s going to kiss me, I thought, then jumped at the bang at the shoe counter.

Trent jerked, a flash of energy balancing between us as he reached for a line.

My eyes darted to the shoe counter. A dusky haze hung over it. Under the smoke was a hole blown clear through the counter, the plastic melted, and above, an ugly stain on the ceiling. “What the fuck!” came from behind the remains of it, and the two people still on the lanes turned as the counter guy rose up, his beard singed and his eyes wide as he saw what was left of his desk. “Where the fuck are my shoes? Shit, my beard!”

It was smoldering, and he patted the fire out as a big man with suspenders came from a back room, a napkin in one hand. “What happened?” he said, then stopped short, staring at the counter. “What did you do?”

“The fucking shoe charm blew up!” the man said indignantly. “It just blew up!”