Out On a Limb

“Did you know this song might be about an orgy?” I ask the witch standing next to the punch bowl, pointing toward the speaker.

“What?” she shouts, using tar-black talons to pull her willowy silver wig away from her ear.

“The song—’Monster Mash.’” I point toward the speaker again.

“What about it?” she asks, louder.

“An orgy!” I yell just as the music comes to an abrupt stop—my friend and host of the evening, Sarah, hopping onto a dining chair to address her guests.

“No, thanks…” Witch woman sends daggers my way as she slowly turns around and walks, funnily enough, toward the archway decorated in bloodied weapons.

“You should be so lucky,” I mutter under my breath as I fill my cup with an undisclosed neon-green substance, avoiding the floating candied eyeballs successfully.

Sarah, my lifelong best friend, is giving her yearly thank you so much for coming to my Halloween party; it’s the only thing I care about speech while I’m debating about whether anyone is secretly keeping track of how many hot-dog-mummies I’ve eaten thus far.

Nah. And so I reach for another.

“Aye-aye Captain Winnifred!”

Fuck, I’ve been spotted. I drop the mummy into my drink and cover the top of my cup with my hand.

“You okay?” Caleb, Sarah’s husband, asks, eyeing my cup with suspicion.

“Never been better,” I chime sweetly. “It’s another successful year,” I say, admiring their home, decorated with professional precision.

Caleb does the same, and when his expression turns to subtle pride and admiration for his wife’s work, I place a bet to the universe that the next three words out of his mouth will be…

“Anything Sarah wants,” we say in unison. He smiles into the top of his beer with a hint of guilty shyness, but mostly resolve. Sarah and Caleb met in the ninth grade. He’s been carrying her textbooks, literally and metaphorically, since.

I love Caleb. He’s like a brother to me. A brother-in-law if Sarah and I were actually sisters like we used to boldly claim (see: lie) in school. Turns out, according to a DNA test a few years back, we’re fourth cousins once removed. Sarah simply says we’re cousins now, when given the chance.

“You know, my friend Robbie is here. I thought I might introduce you,” Caleb says after a long sip of his beer.

Yeah, absolutely not.

I’ve been successfully avoiding the guys Caleb wants to set me up with since my date with his buddy from work. Winston cried while describing his—very much alive—mother and the “beautiful bond” they shared. He also brought me an orchid, which could have been a sweet gesture—I do love plants. Unfortunately, it was in a large ceramic bowl with rocks and bark, and it weighed a ton. I couldn’t just put it on the ground, lest a server trip over it and meet an untimely death, so it had to sit on the table between us—blocking our view of one another. Then, after a dull dinner, I had to carry it home with me, clinging to it in the back of the taxi as I wrote a kind but firm let’s not do this again text.

If anything, that date only solidified my desire to remain casual and stick to dating apps where I could properly vet the men for myself.

“Maybe later,” I answer Caleb. “I’m just waiting to talk to our hostess.” I tilt my chin toward Sarah, who’s dressed as the Princess Buttercup to Caleb’s Westley.

“Okay, fine. This one is different, though. He even has a dead mom,” Caleb adds far too excitedly.

“Oh, bonus!” I say, matching his energy. “I love when their mom is dead. It makes things so much easier around the holidays.”

Caleb laughs, turning to fill a cup with lime punch. “Here.” He holds it out to me before taking my mummified drink and tossing it into the trash can. “Eat however much you want, Win.”

I take the drink, leaning toward him. “That might be the sexiest thing you have ever said to me, Caleb.”

Just then, someone slaps my ass. “Is he flirting with you again? God, I’ve told you both so many times—if you’re going to have an affair, at least be discreet.”

“Buttercup! So nice of you to join us,” I say, smiling broadly.

“Love the costume… again.” Sarah sighs, pointing with a limp wrist to my elaborate pirate get-up.

“Until I grow a hand, this will still be prime comedy.” I jab her boob with my hook until she giggles, swatting me away.

“We have to go talk to a bunch of people, but do you want to sleep over tonight? I made up the spare bedroom and—”

“Yes, I will help clean up. I do it every year, babe,” I interrupt. “Go! Entertain your masses.”

Sarah jumbles the words thank-you-you’re-the-best into one long sequence as she tugs Caleb away like an extremely willing puppy on a leash.

“Great costumes,” an exceptionally drunk woman dressed as a red crayon slurs, walking toward me. The blue crayon next to her adds, “Think you might win the couples’ contest,” as they pass by.

Couples costume? Me? Single Winnie? Puh-lease.

They must have mistaken Caleb for a pirate and my betrothed. Westley was the Dread Pirate Roberts, after all. So it’s not a far-off presumption. But my pirate style is a lot more of your classic wench-whore. My boobs are practically earrings at this height, and my fishnet stockings are ripped from years of re-wear, giving them the perfect accidentally slutty look. My waist is cinched with a wide pleather belt, and I’ve tied a red bandanna around my shoulder-length black hair. That’s a new addition after my accompanying pirate’s hat was lost during last year’s debauchery. May she rest in peace.

I will keep wearing this costume until the joke gets old. That wasn’t a lie. But it’s also because—let’s be real—I look hot in it. Additionally, I’m too broke to buy something new. But let’s not talk about that.

There’s another layer of Sarah’s genius. Lock down the cutest computer geek as early as possible, make them fall madly in love with you, and then wait for them to become filthy rich. Now Sarah’s the fun friend full time. Party hostess, event planner, voracious reader, a childless housewife with a maid. She’s currently trying to decide between themes for my thirtieth birthday party, which still isn’t for another eighteen months.

“Pardon me?” a low, sardonic voice calls from behind me, making me turn.

Oh, there he is. The other pirate I’ve been unknowingly paired with. Though this one, I would certainly not make walk the plank.

My first thought? He’s tall. Really tall. As if his body was stretched out with a rolling pin before being placed into whatever magical golden boy oven he was baked in. He’s got that tousled, nineties-boy-band, middle-parted hair that’s suddenly back in style. It’s dark blond, which I can choose to forgive. He has a crooked smile that says get out while you can under a not-crooked but rugged nose and soft eyes. The juxtaposition of which is strikingly adorable.

“I’m so sorry,” he says without any sincerity, “but one of us has to change.”

“Oh my god,” I say, flattening my skirt before resting my hands on my waist. “This is so embarrassing… What are the odds?”

“Right? I mean there’s no way either of us is winning the singles costume contest this way and”—he leans in to whisper by bending over at the waist, and he’s still taller than me—“I’m not wearing anything under this.”

I fight the laugh, not wanting this bit to end. I so rarely get a new sparring partner. Never one this cute.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. You should have planned better. I have a few costumes under this one.”

The corner of his lip twitches, but he seems to resist giving me any reaction beyond that. Challenge accepted.

“Such as?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“A Viking,” I answer.

“Now that you mention it, I do see a horn peeking out just a little.” He motions to the side of my head with a bent finger.

“That’s actually standard issue for all of Satan’s spawn, but I could see how you got confused.”

“Concerning. What else?”

“A sexy maid, of course,” I say, batting my lashes.

“Well, that I have to see,” he quips back far too quickly.

Here, I think, is where I win the laugh-off we’re pretending not to have. Shock value always wins.

“But I must insist on keeping the pirate costume, I’m afraid. You see”—I let go of the hook’s inner handle and pull it away in my left hand, revealing my smaller, less-developed right hand underneath—“I am in need of a hook.” I wave at him mockingly, my tiny, curled fingers, shorter than the first knuckle, waggling as best as they can.

He doesn’t break like I want him to. But he does grin mischievously. His eyes crackle with humour, pulling me in at a concerning speed. I’d be frustrated if his expression wasn’t so damn intriguing. Something about his amusement signals that, perhaps, he’s one step ahead of me.

“Oh, I see. Well, then… maybe we can come to some sort of compromise.” He sticks out his foot between us.

You’ve got to be joking.