He just shrugs casually.
I shake my head. “No, that’s not how it works,” I say playfully, enjoying the exchange with the perfectly handsome stranger behind the warm green eyes. “You can’t just drop a little nugget like that and not give me the goods. Tell me how you got past the Forerunner Mission, because I was stuck there for hours, getting killed over and over.”
I listen intently as Video Game Guy begins detailing his tactics, talking with his hands, moving his body back and forth a bit to simulate Master Chief’s movements, the main character in Halo. He has a nice body. Wait, he has a fantastic body. He has the kind of body that women driving cars slow down for. He has the kind of physique that turns a gal into a gawker. The way his tee-shirt falls just so tells me all I need to know about the flatness that lies beneath.
Then I remind myself to pay attention and focus, because it’s rude to just stare at his belly instead of his face, especially when his face is so very lovely too. So I nod as he shares his gaming secrets.
I wasn’t always into video games. In fact, it’s not really accurate to say I’m “into” video games, per se. I’m not a gamer geek, though I did have a fondness for retro games growing up, since my parents used to take Julia and me bowling on Saturday and the Silverspinner Lanes boasted all the original arcade games like Qbert, Frogger, and, of course, both Pac-Mans. It’s just that, well, I developed a particular predilection for shooter games after Todd left. I know – probably just a completely random little coincidence. And, to be fair, the video game habit didn’t kick in the second he dropped his Vegas voicemail bombshell.
The first few months, all I did was cry at night in Ms. Pac-Man’s fur, asking myself what I could have done differently, what had gone wrong, how I’d let him slip away. Was I not adventurous enough? Interesting enough? Pretty enough? Young enough? But it wasn’t until I showed up for a Fashion Hound shoot in jeans and a wife beater tee, that I knew something needed to change. My videographer, Andy, took one look at me, and said, “We need a change, and we need a change fast. I have never seen you in monochromatic clothes before and your nails aren’t even polished. You’re a damn fashion blogger.”
Then he told me when his last boyfriend had dumped him for another guy that he turned to Halo rather than self-loathing, and that made all the difference in the world. “Look, it’s not like you and I are going to go out and shoot things for release, and that’s why these games are perfect. It’s like punching a pillow. Same idea – gets your anger out – but a hell of a lot more satisfying.”
With my cheeks dry, all the tears sucked out of me, Andy took me to the electronics store and I bought my new therapy. A gaming console. At the end of each day, after I’d shot my videos, dutifully answered every email, and sketched out ideas for the next show, that little cluster of anger I’d been harboring was banging around, begging to be let out. So I’d turn that sucker on by ten most nights, and spend the next hour pumping bullets into bad guys. I was trigger happy, delighted to dispense ammo into whatever creatures came my way, gleefully, indiscriminately letting bullets fly, talking back to the screen: “Take that, you cheating scum.”
I don’t think I was talking to the game.
“What other games do you like?” the cute guy asks, and something about the question startles me. Maybe because it’s so normal, and he seems legitimately curious. Then, there’s the simple fact that we’re having a conversation in the middle of an electronics store.
“Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly,” I say with a completely straight face since I know he wasn’t referring to board games.
But he picks up the baton easily, raising an eyebrow as he asks, “Clue?”
“Of course. And it was always Mr. Plum in the library with the candlestick.”
“Interesting. Because Miss Scarlet was pretty wicked with that rope in the ballroom, if memory serves. What about Chutes and Ladders?”
“Let’s not forget CandyLand either.”
“What was your favorite candy destination in that game?”
“The vintage game, right? Not that new King Candy imitator?”
“As if I’d even be talking about that game,” he says playfully.
I’m about to answer, when he puts his hands together as if he’s praying and says in a whisper, “Please say Ice Cream Floats. Please say Ice Cream Floats.”
I laugh, the kind of laugh I haven’t felt in a while, the kind that radiates through my whole body and turns into a huge grin. “Of course. I wanted to live at Ice Cream Floats.”
“I was all set to build a chocolate and licorice home in Ice Cream Floats. And this reminds me that I need to stock up on the classic games too. But I don’t think they sell them here.”
“I came here to stock up on a new camera.” I pat the camera box. Then I dive into my best infomercial voice. “Did you know that when a cat pees on your camera it can’t be resurrected?”
He shrugs his shoulders confidently, quirks up his lips. “Actually, I could fix your camera.”
I give him a quizzical look.
“I can fix pretty much anything.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“Want me to try?”
“You really want to?”
“I do. Yeah,” he says, as if he’s digging the prospect of repairing the damaged device. “I really enjoy that kind of challenge. It’s kind of like a game to me.”
“The Fix-It game.”
“Exactly.”
“If you really want to, I’m not going to say no. I have it with me – it doesn’t smell anymore, I cleaned it – because I wanted to make sure to get the same model.” I reach into my purse and hand him the plastic bag with Chaucer’s victim in it.
“I can have it back to you in a day or two.”
“Great,” I say, and smile, as I stand here looking at his fabulous face.
“But I would need your info to get it back to you.”
Correction: As I stand here stupidly looking at his fabulous face. “Duh. Of course.”
I give him my first name and number and he programs it into his phone.
“It was fun talking to you, McKenna,” he says, then extends a hand. “I’m Chris McCormick.”
We make contact, and I’m not going to lie – there’s something about the feel of his strong hand in mine that just seems…right. Maybe it’s the firm grip, or his soft skin, or the way his eyes light up as he smiles while shaking my hand. I don’t want to let go. I want to go all black-and-white movie and have a simmering moment where his eyes smolder and, like magnets, we can’t resist. He pulls me in, dips me, and plants a devastating kiss on my lips.