The Bet

The Bet

by Brenda Kay Carpenter

“I love this place,” I said. “The food is great.”

“That’s why I picked it,” said Marci. “Let’s get appetizers. Tom’s going to join us later.”

“Tom?”

“Yea. You know, my friend from work. You met him at my New Year’s Eve party. Remember?”

“Yea. Did you invite him?”

“No, I didn’t, but he asked what I was up to after work, and I told him you and I were meeting up. He said he might join us later. This is the first time he’s ever agreed to come. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” I lie. “That’s fine.” I pull out the compact from my purse, powder my nose, and reapply my lipstick.

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since the party,” said Marci. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s have a glass of wine.”

“You? Wine?” Marci laughs. “What is it? Are you nervous or something?”

“Marci, have you ever done something really embarrassing?”

“Of course, all the time. Why? What did you do?” Marci asked. “Tom, over here!”

Following the waving flag of Marci’s hand, Tom Noles, with his straight face and serious demeanor, approaches in an intentionally confident way, the rich outlines of his shoulders straining against the fabric of his dress shirt. His movements are swift, full of grace, and virility.  I think him devilishly handsome, lacking nothing. Not in my eyes, anyway. I felt that way the first time I saw him. He is driven, successful, six years older than Marci and me, and way out of my league. Flirting with him at Marci’s party had been a huge mistake. . . Something like . . . playing with fire. I immediately regretted it, especially after doing that really dumb thing I did that New Year’s Eve night.

“You know my friend, Claire, right?” Marci asked.

Slowly and deliberately, Tom turns to face me. A sideways smile cuts into his straight face, as a hot lava rock drops to the pit of my stomach, making me grimace and swallow hard. “Yea,” Tom said. “We met three months ago at your party.” Still looking at me, he asked, “Remember, Claire?”

The waiter comes over, and Tom orders a beer. He asks for the Steelers game to be put on the TV behind the bar. Taking a folded note from his pocket, Tom opens a sheet of paper resembling a handmade bingo card. “I need them to score before half time,” he said. “Do you ever make friendly wagers, Claire? Do you like betting on an outcome?”

“No, never . . . really. Not usually anyway,” I explained. “Unless I get too confident . . . when I have too much wine. Tom . . . that night . . . I never meant to lose . . .” 

He throws his head back and laughs, a robust sound that makes me catch my breath and forget to let go. “Nobody ever does,” he said. “One thing about betting, when I lose, I pay up. And when I win, I always collect.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said, snatching my purse from the table.

You would think after three months he would have forgotten about that foolish bet on New Year’s Eve. Surely, he’s not going to hold me to it. Engrossed in my thoughts, I didn’t hear Tom approaching my spot inside the alcove of the restrooms.

“You left too soon that New Year’s Eve night,” he said. “I never got a chance to collect.”

I jump, startled by the voice that is immediately behind me. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Tom smiles. “That doesn’t change what you owe, Claire.”

“I thought you would have forgotten . . .”

“Not in this case,” he said, looking wickedly amused at my distress.

“Look,” I said. “I want a chance to explain about that night. I admit the bet was a foolish thing to do. I mean, a wager like that isn’t something you can expect me to . . .”

Placing one hand on the wall beside me, he blocks my easy exit and leans in toward me. I hear the . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . of his watch beside my ear. “Is it really so hard for you to pay what you owe, Claire?” He asked.

I swallow hard, meeting his gaze with my own. The smile leaves his face, replaced by something else, something unfettered and consuming, like a fire out of control. He’s closer now,  . . . so close that I see the gold flecks flashing in his eyes, feel the heat emanating from his body. The roaring in my ears silences the bustling sounds of diners, servers, silverware, football, betting . . . The muscles in his outstretched arm beside me tense and flex. His eyelids drop as his eyes move to my lips, then travel back to my eyes. Searching for a diversion that would allow me to breathe again, I nervously avert my gaze to focus on the white starched collar of his shirt, until he places his hand under my chin and gently lifts my eyes back to meet his own. I stand transfixed as he lowers his head, moving so near that I can feel the warmth of his breath . . . the smell of beer intoxicating me. His breath mixes with my own. Instinctively closing my eyes, I breathe in the scent of him. And then, . . . he kisses me . . . in the way I feared he would a thousand times over in my mind since the party when I lost the bet . . . longingly, with hunger too long in being satisfied. I’m lost now, not caring where, as long as it is with him . . . I don’t want it to end . . . This moment that I have been dreading . . . anticipating . . . The kiss I owe him. All my existence accumulates at this moment, bearing witness to my surrender. Stepping back, Tom smiles at my disheveled look as he sweeps a lock of hair from my cheek back to its rightful place behind my ear. His hand lingers at my cheek as his thumb strokes its softness. I watch the smile reach his eyes.

“Happy New Year, Claire,” he said.

I stand pressed to the wall, watching him as he walks over to Marci and hands her his phone. After she enters something in his cell, he takes it and walks out the door without looking back.

Reclaiming my composure, I join Marci as she’s paying the check. “What was that all about?” I asked.

“Tom asked for your number.”

“And you gave it to him?”

“From what I just witnessed,” Marci said, “He left here with a lot more than your number.”         

I silently acknowledge It’s true.

THE END