One Bride for Five Mountain Men

“It looks like… what is that? Is he just wearing a hoodie? With no shirt underneath it?” I squint, trying to figure it out. “I mean, I can see his nipples. Is that a thing? Do guys wear that?”

Nance sighs heavily, tipping her head thoughtfully to one side. “You know what, you’re probably right,” she nods. “We don’t want you hooking up with someone who is not wearing the proper number of layers.”

I just shrug. “What? Is that wrong? I mean… you do see his nipples, right?”

“I see them,” she confirms, slurping noisily at the bottom of her drink and twisting to order another one immediately. “So pick somebody else. What about the guy in the baseball cap?”

As if he hears us, a broad-shouldered young man stands up a little straighter, raising the palm of his hand to glide it across his gleaming, wavy hair. His friends pivot away, probably talking about us.

“He’s got some potential,” I admit. “But in general, a backward baseball cap doesn’t signify a lot of masculine ability in my book. Can we save him on the shortlist?”

“Yeah, you’re probably maxing out at four minutes with that guy,” Nance observes over her new drink.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m looking for at least six minutes. At the very least.”

“At the very least,” she repeats, sitting up straighter and craning her long, beautiful neck as she surveys small groups of people walking across the aisle in front of us.

The slot machines are bright, noisy monoliths placed in rows. Chasing lights ring the tops of some of them with promises of a hundred thousand dollars, a million dollars, ten thousand dollars. I wonder how many times people actually win those prizes.

They’re arranged in short rows, with aisles crossing here and there. It’s sort of confusing, like a maze. People wander in and out, stopping for a little while at the different machines to try their luck. For the most part, they seem to walk away disappointed.

But here in front of the bar, there are only a few electronic poker machines. The table games are off to my left. In this area, it seems to be a sort of staging ground for younger people who might be up for the clubs, or might be up for the bar, or might be up for dinner or a show… Whatever. Nobody here is that dedicated to slot machine life. We’re all sort of wondering what’s going to happen next. It’s a good place to try to find a date, I suppose, while we drink free booze.

My drink is almost gone, but I don’t want to order a new one. I’d rather not get drunk. Since Scott and I broke up a few weeks ago, I seem to have spent more nights drunk than not. It’s getting confusing trying to remember where I’ve been, the writing deadlines I’m avoiding and the random texts I’m also avoiding.

Apparently I’ve had quite a good time here in Lake Tahoe, licking my wounds and an assortment of strange men too in the process. When I get a text from a number I don’t recognize, now I just go ahead and block it automatically. I figure I am saving us both a lot of time.

But I’ve always known that this vacation was temporary and that I’d have to get back to the writing. I’ve always known that it was supposed to help me get over Scott and the three years that we spent together. And now that there’s just a couple days left before we have to go back to the office in Sacramento, it seems like there’s still a stunning amount of healing I still have left to do. A stunning amount of forgetting.

So I’m going to need the services of a stunning man.

“You know, I’ve always had a thing for blonds,” Nance muses. She twists slightly back and forth in her swivel chair, rocking distractedly. With her elbow, she gestures toward a Thor-looking guy in a cable-knit sweater.

“I think a Viking would suit you well,” I agree. “He’s checking you out, too. Why not give him a try?”

She leans away from me, casting back a surprised look. “I already told you I’m not dating men this year,” she reminds me. “I’ve got a whole series of articles planned. Vikings are not on the menu.”

“Oh yeah, your Year of the Lady piece,” I sigh. “I hope that works out for you.”

“Me too, honestly,” she sniffs. “I hate using my sexuality as bait for readers, but what is an artist supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to live for your art,” I reply dutifully, though to be honest I’m not entirely convinced. It never seems like “living for her art” also means going to the grocery store or paying her bills on time. But when presented with the opportunity to make a fuss or leave a train wreck in her wake, Nance is all about living for her art. And everybody else has to just go along with it.

The Viking still seems to think we are discussing him, though, and has now turned fully to face us. His arms are out slightly from his sides, his hands open and twitching as though ready to wrestle a bear or something. His nostrils flare as though sniffing the air for her.

“Jesus,” I hear Nance exclaim under her breath.

“Stay strong. Think about your art,” I caution her wryly.

Behind the Viking, the crowd shifts, parting as someone cuts across it. A man in a midnight-blue suit strides purposefully among the jocks, his gaze intently trained on the bar next to me. As though receiving some kind of silent command, people naturally shift aside to allow him to pass. When he walks right next to me, I feel a sort of buffer, a kind of electrical buzzing around him.

He leans against the bar with his palms, flexing his arms as though ready to do a push-up and jerks his chin at the bartender. She offers him a cockeyed sm

ile and nods breathlessly.

“Patron, neat,” he answers her unasked question.

I lean toward Nance. “Yes?” I ask her confidentially.