Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“You don’t win friends with salad.”

— The Simpsons (1989–present)

For the first time in my life, I went to a bar alone and drank. I didn’t realize that being a female alone at a bar meant strange men felt empowered—nay, incited—to hit on me. Constantly.

Here’s what happened.

Today was the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend and I was at home, doing laundry while listening to my murder show podcasts. I’d been listening to music, audiobooks, and podcasts nonstop since returning from work yesterday. I’d gone into work yesterday because I felt like, if I allowed my brain any silence, something bad might happen. I even went to sleep with my headphones on, my favorite K-drama OST playlist blaring.

So my friend Manny called in the middle of my murder show. He lived in France most months out of any given year and had come to visit me last January. We’d spent a lovely evening together chatting and consuming charcuterie. I’d even pretended to drink wine, for mood purposes.

Tonight we’d chatted for a short time on the phone. He needed me to pop over to his Chicago apartment and water the plants since the man who usually did it had fallen ill. Apparently, it was a plant emergency since they’d gone without water for longer than a week and—whatever. You get the picture. I promised to go tomorrow or arrange for Grace to stop by.

We hung up. I went back to my laundry and murder shows. And I couldn’t concentrate. I felt bad.

Really bad.

And sad.

Like I’d forgotten or missed out on something critical. A deep sense of loss crashed over me, seizing my chest. For no reason I immediately understood, I cried. Deep, soul-aching sobs, pulled from my chest, like I might never stop crying.

Before I could process the origin of this emotional tidal wave, the alarm on my phone went off, reminding me that the Cubs game was about to start.

Next thing I know, I’m dressed, my hair braided in pigtails, and I’m sitting in a sports bar—at the bar—watching the game on the big screen, sipping a vodka, and waiting for my pretzel with cheddar cheese sauce to show up. I didn’t want to cry. If I was in public, I wouldn’t. The plan was to slowly sip the vodka all night since I didn’t want to order lemonade or water while sitting at the bar.

That’s when it started. A man walked up and offered to buy me a drink. I smiled politely and declined. He tried to strike up a conversation. I told him I was there to quietly watch the game. He left.

Then, as though waiting in line, another guy walked up and offered to buy me a drink. Same series of events occurred until he left. And then it happened again. And again. And again until I missed the entire second inning and—though I’d only wanted to sip the vodka—I ended up downing it as a shot.

Lifting my hand, I signaled to the bartender who’d originally poured my drink. He seemed extremely busy, so I wasn’t surprised when he tapped a different bartender on the shoulder who’d been chatting with customers. He lifted his chin in my direction and then continued mixing his drinks.

The lady turned toward me and walked down the length of the bar. But when she halted in front of where I sat, I hesitated, surprised by the woman. Or girl. She didn’t appear old enough to be a bartender. I tried to discern her age. She looked twelve.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“Vodka. Neat.”

“That means just vodka, right?” Her eyes lowered and she seemed to be inspecting the bottles under the counter. “And which vodka? We have lots.”

“Uh. I asked for top-shelf last time. And yes, neat means just the vodka, nothing else.”

“Got it.” Lifting a bottle from beneath the counter, she filled my glass.

And I mean she filled the glass like my chemistry teacher in high school had when teaching us about surface tension.

“Oops! Sorry. Don’t worry, that bit of extra is free.” She ducked her head, looking frazzled, then placed the bottle back under the counter.

I was about to ask about the status of my pretzel and for a second glass so I wouldn’t spill the vodka when a new contestant on the game show Who Wants to Pick Up a Single Woman at a Bar Who Is Clearly Trying to Watch the Baseball Game in Peace sidled up and sat in the stool next to mine.

He placed his elbow on the bar and faced me. Staring. Aggressively.

I sighed.

“Hey,” he said, shouting even though the bar wasn’t very loud. Apparently, he really wanted to be heard. “I’ve never seen you here before. You’re beautiful. What’s your name?”

I gave the man a tight smile, and since he was shouting, I shouted, “Stella!”

I doubted he’d get the movie reference and returned my attention to the Cubs’ game.

“That’s a pretty name. I’m Guy,” he said, predictably oblivious. From the corner of my eye, I saw he’d stuck his hand out. Aggressively. “What do you do?”

I didn’t accept the handshake and thought about quoting another movie. Maybe the 1967 classic Bonnie and Clyde, “We rob banks.” Or the supernatural suspense The Sixth Sense, “I see dead people.” Instead, I nodded noncommittally and once more returned my attention to the TV.

I didn’t feel like talking to Guy. Or a guy. Or guys. I’d washed my hands so I could eat my pretzel germ free and I didn’t want to shake his hand. I simply wished to watch the game on a big screen and pretend to enjoy vodka in peace.

Eventually he lowered his hand—albeit slowly—and said something under his breath. I didn’t hear it. Then again, I wasn’t listening.

“Are you a fan of the Cubs?” he asked loudly, unprompted, not getting any of my hints. “Or are you only a fan of being a bitch to nice guys?”

My eyes closed and I inhaled deeply for patience. I didn’t want to leave. My pretzel hadn’t arrived yet. My seat was finally cozy. I’d settled in. I didn’t have much of an opinion about the taste of vodka, but at least I’d ordered something other than lemonade. I’d sent my guards home, figuring I’d be safe in public, and now I wished I’d asked at least one to come with me. Why was this happening? Can’t a girl go to a sports bar to watch sports? Isn’t that the whole point of a sports bar? Why me?!

Please. Won’t someone rescue me from this GUY?!

No sooner had the desperate plea passed through my mind did I feel a tap on my shoulder. The shoulder not closest to Guy. Gritting my teeth, expecting maybe one of Guy’s friends, I spun around, ready to shout.

Instead, I found Des. Standing next to my seat. Holding up a white plastic bag. His eyes searing straight into my soul.

“Okay, sooo.” He leaned close but spoke just as loudly as Guy had. “They didn’t have the hemorrhoid cream brand that you specified, so I picked up three different kinds.” Looking as serious as I’d ever seen him, he shook the bag in front of me, like this aforementioned hemorrhoid cream was inside the bag, three different tubes of it, all of them the wrong brand.

“Also,” he went on. “Good news. I asked the pharmacist about the rash, and he said it was weird that it smelled, but the antifungal should take care of it in two days. Also, to avoid touching others. And—oh!”

Des made a show of looking behind me and blinking. Aggressively.

In the next moment, Des walked around my stool and inserted himself between me and Guy. “Sorry. Hi. I’m the husband. Who are you? I would offer to shake your hand, but we have a weird rash situation at our house and it’s one hundred percent contagious.”

Even though Des had blocked me with his body and Guy could no longer see me, I forcefully covered my mouth with both hands to keep the sound of my sudden laugh inside my body. I mean, I would’ve guffawed. And I could not stop laughing.

“Oh—uh—sorry, man. I—uh—right,” came Guy’s slightly disgusted-sounding response. In my peripheral vision, Guy sprinted past my stool and disappeared into the damp, dark hole from whence he’d crawled.

Des, meanwhile, plunked the white plastic bag—full of something—on the empty stool next to mine, the one Guy had vacated, but made no move to sit. Once I had my fit of laughter under control, I wiped at my eyes. He’d placed one hand on the back of the stool holding the bag and one hand on the back of mine. He hovered, his body very close.

I took a moment to scan the bar and wasn’t necessarily surprised to find many women and some men sneaking peeks in his direction. They were checking him out. I wondered if some of them would also queue up and shoot their shot.

Curious, I snuck a peek at his face to see how he handled this nature of attention. Des coldly scanned the bar, transmitting murderous vibes in every direction. Or maybe this was his usual expression in public. Hostile and suspicious.

Sitting back in my seat, a gentle warmth settled in my stomach below my rib cage, and I smiled. I hadn’t expected to see him again. After the events on Friday, I thought for sure he’d keep his distance for the rest of his time in Chicago. Nevertheless, I found I felt pleased by his unexpected arrival.

“Where are your guards?” he asked, tone clipped.

“It’s Memorial Day weekend. I told them to go home to their families.”

His eyes sliced to mine. “And they listened?”

He had such pretty eyes. Even when they looked hostile and suspicious, they were pretty.

“I called Alex. He told them it was okay.”

Des released a seething sound and resumed his inspection of the bar, making no move to sit. For a while, we stayed like that, him scowling at the room, his hand on the back of my stool, his arm at my eye level. My attention drifted to it. More liquid warmth unfurled in my stomach as I remembered how he’d wrapped those arms around me.

He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt today, his forearms exposed like they weren’t salacious. Des had veiny forearms. And his hands. Goodness. I swallowed, diverting my gaze from his scandalous hands and letting it slide up his forearm to his elbow, then higher. He’d picked me up like it was nothing, but he didn’t seem to have huge, bulging muscles. They seemed regular sized. Or slightly larger, maybe? I couldn’t quite tell in the T-shirt. It fit him fine. The shirt’s sleeves weren’t tight on his upper arms, but they weren’t loose either.

Curious and captivated by the thought, I lifted a hand and squeezed his upper arm, testing the size of the muscle.

His eyes cut to mine again and he wore a confused-looking frown. “What are you doing?”

I should’ve felt embarrassed. I didn’t. That warmth from before had bloomed all over my body, my limbs relaxed.

“Checking something,” I said, letting my hand drop as I leaned to the side and propped an elbow on the bar. “What’s really in the bag?”

Instead of answering my question, he asked one of his own. “Did you just squeeze my bicep?”

“Yes. Yes, I did that.”

“Why?”

“You can squeeze mine if you want.” I lifted my arm toward him.

Des glared at me, not looking at all tempted. “No, thank you.”

“You’re really strong,” I said, dropping my arm, apparently without a filter for the night.

He searched my eyes, his frown easing. “Okay . . . ?”

“Your arms are more muscular than they look under your clothes. You’ve got, like, real muscles now.” I nodded at my own assertion.

He grunted, a noncommittal sound that reminded me a lot of his dad. I would keep this fact to myself.

Setting my cheek in my palm, I blinked up at him. “How much can you bench press?”

His eyes narrowed. “Ava.”

“Could you bench me?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, his voice snappish.

I frowned at his tone. In fact, I frowned at his entire demeanor. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so why was he being pissy with me?

Perhaps sensing my irritation, he softened his voice. “How many drinks have you had?”

“Yes.” I nodded, not wanting to talk to him if he was going to be snappish.

Des pressed his lips together, studying me intently, then said, “Yes is not a number.”

“Yes,” was all I said, lifting an eyebrow in challenge.

This was a little game we’d played as kids. If we were mad or didn’t want to talk to the other person, we’d say yes for as long as possible in order to irritate the other person. I’d been feeling warm and fuzzy toward him tonight and he was being snappish and snippy. I’d had enough.

He made a short, growling sound in the back of his throat and I was close enough to hear it. “Ava.” My name sounded like a warning.

“Yes?”

“How many drinks?”

“Yes.”

He bent to speak in my ear and dropped his voice, his body a wall at my shoulder. “Are you going to respond with a yes, no matter what I say?”

Ignoring a new burst of heat entirely unlike the liquid warmth from before, I faced my drink and said tartly, “Yes.”

Leaning back, he paused. I felt his eyes on my profile.

Abruptly, he bent again and whispered, “Promise?” in my ear.

I fought a shiver. “Yes.”

“Can I have your Clue poster signed by the original cast?”

My instinct was to shout, HELL NO. However, I was stubborn. Thus, I said, “Yes,” just to be a jerk.

His hand came to my upper arm and he gently swiveled my stool toward him. He straightened. His other hand came to my chin. He tilted my head back with his index finger, forcing me to look at him. “That poster, it’s mine now.”

Returning his defiance, I said, “Yes.”

His eyes flared at my continued stonewalling, his jaw ticking. I fought a triumphant smirk. He wanted to talk? Well, it was too late. Maybe if he’d been nicer. Maybe now he would regret⁠—

“Kiss me,” he said, his attention on my mouth.

“Yes,” I said before processing his words. But then when I did, I flinched and sputtered, “Wait—you—I—what?”

His lips curved at the corners a wee little bit. “I win. And you owe me a kiss.”

Why did I feel hot all over?

Tearing my eyes away, I pulled my arm from his grip. “You already got one,” I grumped. Swiveling back to face the bar, I added, “I consider all debts between us paid. And where the heck is my pretzel?” The original bartender probably forgot to place the order. No pretzel should take forty-five minutes to make.

Des said nothing. But he didn’t leave and he didn’t sit and he didn’t move. He simply continued to stand there. Hovering. Aggressively.

Why was he here? What did he want from me? He’d refused to commit to anything, to seeing me before he left, to spending time with me at all.

Leaning forward, I sipped the vodka without picking it up, not wanting it to spill and determining no other way around the situation. Once I’d consumed enough for it to be picked up, I sat back and stared at the mostly full glass. The feeling of loss that had sent me out of my house and to this bar swelled again, tightening my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Without thinking, I sighed and said, “I bet you have an exciting life.”

“Not really,” came his hovering, distracted-sounding response.

Doubting him, I admitted out loud, “My life—up to Friday—has been remarkably boring.”

“Really? How sad for you,” Des drawled, his sarcasm dial set to max.

“Yes.” I nodded firmly. “And the least you could do is let me complain about it for a few minutes instead of sounding all superior and enlightened in a way I’ll never be, even if it’s true.”

“Fine,” he said, sounding tired. “Tell me, in what way has your life been boring?”

“Well, not being stranded on a desert island, for one. No time travel. No contract marriages”—I ticked the items off on my fingers—“No meeting a rock star or idol and having him fall head over heels in love with me upon first sight. No ability to see the future or my past lives. No aloof and most popular guy in school pursuing me despite my nerdy and awkward exterior. No mythical creatures seeking me out to reverse their curse. No dragons. No being the Chosen One for a fantastical elven, or fairy, or angel, or demon adventure where I utilize my mad archery and hand-to-hand combat skillz.”

“Life is never exciting in the way you want it to be. If you want my advice, enjoy being bored. The alternative is exhausting.”

I grit my teeth. “Again, please pretend for a moment that I’m allowed to have feelings about my life, irrespective of how easy I’ve had it or how hard other people have it in comparison.”

“Ah. So. You’re not drunk.” Once again, I felt him inspect me. “Then why are your eyes so red?”

I ignored his question for obvious reasons. I wasn’t drunk, but I was tipsy enough to stupidly speak my mind. This conversation had a point. Even tipsy, it would take me a while to get to my point.

Staring at my now-empty glass—Wait. How did that happen? When did that happen?—a heavy weight now in my chest, I said, “Keeping it real, I think I’m most upset about the lack of dragons.”

Des finally, finally stopped hovering and claimed the stool next to mine, hanging the plastic bag on the back of the chair. But he half leaned, half sat in it, like he might jump up at a moment’s notice if needed. “Everyone is upset about the lack of dragons, gorgeous. We don’t talk about it like you do.”

“Why do you think that is?” I glanced at him. “Why don’t more people openly discuss their dissatisfaction with the lack of dragons?”

Des lifted his hand for the bartender. “People do, but not as small talk.”

“What people?” I demanded. “Where are these cool people who discuss how much they like dragons? I’ve never met them.” My mouth and limbs felt loose.

Des sent me a frown, like what I’d said irritated him or frustrated him, then turned toward the bartender as she approached. But once he saw her up close, he hesitated, looking confused.

I wondered if he was experiencing similar thoughts as I had earlier.

“Are you a regular?” she asked, placing a square white napkin in front of him with a big smile.

“You don’t recognize me?” he asked, making my eyebrows jump. Did Des come here often?

“Sorry, no. I’m filling in. And yes, I’m legal. I just turned eighteen last month. This is my first night bartending anywhere—like ever—and my second week working here.” She cocked her head to the side and winked. “Please be gentle.”

“He’s very gentle, until he’s not gentle,” I muttered, my words slightly muffled because the base of my palm tugged one side of my mouth back due to how I’d rested my face in my hand.

Des, ignoring me, ordered, “Club soda with lime, please.”

“Gin or vodka?” the girl asked, already reaching below the counter for a bottle.

“Nope.” He settled more fully into his stool, his attention focused on grabbing another square white napkin from the dispenser.

“Driving tonight?” she asked conversationally, her gaze moving over what she could see of his body. She was checking him out. I wanted to roll my eyes but didn’t. Everyone here had been checking him out since he’d walked in. If he’d been a book in a library, he’d have a yearlong waitlist.

“That’s not it,” he said, arranging his napkins just so.

“Oh. Babysitting the lightweight, then?” She inclined her head toward me with a knowing smirk and refilled my glass with what I assumed was vodka.

Des lifted his eyes to the girl’s, held them for a beat, then said, “I can’t drink alcohol because it interferes with the lithium, anticonvulsants, and second-generation atypical antipsychotic I take for my mental disorder. Just the club soda and lime, please.”

She flinched. Her lips parted. She stared at him while he stared back. His gaze so chilly, it could’ve kept a glacier from melting.

Maybe three seconds later, she recovered enough to snap her mouth shut. She then promptly filled a glass with ice and club soda, stuck a straw in it, and thunked it down on his napkin. She forgot to add the lime.

I had to press my lips together to stop my rueful smile and waited until the girl scuttled away, down to the far other side of the bar before whispering to Des, “You still like doing that, huh?”

His pretty eyes slid to mine, held, his thoughts unreadable, but he didn’t seem chilly anymore. “Doing what?”

“Making people uncomfortable so they leave you alone.”

He faced me, turning his stool. “If she’s going to bartend, she shouldn’t ask why someone doesn’t drink alcohol. It’s irresponsible. And I don’t like having to ask for the same thing over and over, or explain myself to strangers.”

“Or friends,” I said before I could catch the words.

He winced—just barely, a slight tightening of the skin around his eyes and mouth—but he continued facing me, our eyes locked.

Looking away didn’t occur to me. And while we stared at each other, the sense of loss that kept popping up became something else. It expanded, amplified by his steady gaze, grew heavy and hot.

I want him.

I wanted Des. Fact. I wanted his hands all over my body and our legs tangled together in sheets and his mouth places no one else had ever touched.

Des blinked and he seemed to sway back an inch, a question forming in his eyes. “Ava?”

“Des.”

“Why—what are you thinking about right now?”

I drew my bottom lip between my teeth and bit down. I might’ve been tipsy before, but I was drunk now. I’d never been drunk before, but this had to be it. Yes, I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t realize I was drunk. I was self-aware drunk and I didn’t want to say anything I’d regret. However⁠—

He wants you.

I knew he wanted me. Fact. I didn’t know why, or for how long, or anything else. Just that he did, and he was here, and I was here, and I’d never wanted someone before.

His head turned slightly to the side and he swayed another inch away. “Let me take you—I’ll take you to your mom’s.” Des reached into his pocket.

I grabbed his wrist, stopping him from retrieving his phone. “Wait. I’m going to ask for what I want, and do what I want, no matter what.” I slurred my words, broadcasting my drunkenness.

“Ava—”

“Starting with you.” I pointed at him.

“Starting with me?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed, his eyes wide and still locked on mine, like they were mesmerized. Or maybe I was mesmerized.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice not much louder than a whisper.

I’d feel stupid later. I’d be embarrassed and disappointed in myself. Because he would reject me. As certain as I was that he wanted me, I also felt certain he’d reject me.

“Des.” I drew myself up and used the hand I’d pointed at him with to cup his cheek.

“Ava.” He covered my hand with his, and I didn’t know if he did so in order to remove my fingers or press my palm more firmly to his face.

Maybe I could finally move on for real this time. Maybe this rejection would be the end of all my pining and wishing. I should’ve moved on already. I should’ve forgotten about him ten years ago.

I’ll forget about him after this. I promise.

Leaning forward, my eyes on his mouth, I said, “I want you.”