Reaching the table where they all sat no more than ten minutes ago, I look around. Two couples stand close to the table, semi-using it, but mostly just drunkenly leaning on the chairs. I glance towards the bathroom, my eyes scanning all the heads, but there’s no sign of her. No sign of any of them.
Then, like someone calls my name, I abruptly twist towardsthe main exit. And fate, the dirty bitch that it is, has opened up the massive crowd in the club to give me a direct line of sight to her. She’s stopped, looking right at me, her friends fading behind her. She gestures over her shoulder, shaking her head, and even though it’s dark and we’re what feels like miles from each other, I swear I see her mouth, “I’m sorry.”
Then she’s gone, hurrying to catch up with her friends, and the room swallows her whole. Like what I witnessed was some figment of my imagination. Or maybe the entire night was.
“No. No, no, no. I didn’t even get her number.”
I’m racing then. Pushing through the crowd, bumping into people, moving them out of my way as kindly and quickly as I can. If I have an ounce of luck on my side, she’ll be in the parking lot. I’ll make it before she leaves. Ihaveto make it before she leaves.
That woman was going to get more than three dates. Less than a whole evening spent in her company and I knew she was getting as many dates as she’d give me. I can’t explain it, wouldn’t know where to start even if I did, but sometimes a guy just knows. And I know I need to get to her before she’s gone.
It takes me five hundred years, and countless apologies, to get through the crowd, but I’m finally crashing through the doors to the bar into the warm June air. The bouncers jump back, startled by me hurling through them, and then they start to reach for me.
I’m past them before they can make contact, looking towards the curb where a cab in the shape of a van is pulling onto the street. And there she is. On the passenger side, in the very back, her forehead pressed against a window.
We catch each other’s eye for the briefest second, and hers widen. Her head lifts, and her hand comes up, but then the cab is gone.
Out of sight.
Out of my life.
Showtime Dalton
“Guys,Ineedyourhelp,” I say on the video, camera lighting up my face. “I met a girl at Kickin’ Boots in Santa Rosé, California. Her name was Bryn, she was with a bunch of friends. Savanna, Jordan. She’s short, maybe five feet, brown hair to her chin. We danced the night away.” I press a hand against my chest. “Before I got a chance to get her number, she had to leave.”
“She had this incredible smile, and damn, the sound of her laugh was…I can’t even describe it.” I spin around in my spot, a view of a parking lot behind me. Lights from the bar, people coming out, loitering outside. I pan back so they’re out of view. “I have to take her out on a date. I want to dance with this woman again. And again. If she’d have me.”
“I need to find her,” I plead, hoping someone hears the desperation in my voice. “She left in a hurry with her friends, but I’m ninety-two percent sure they didn’t leave because she thought I was a psycho or an annoying asshole. We made eye contact just before she went out the door and I swear to God, she mouthed that she was sorry.”
“If you have any idea who she is, tag her. DM me. If you know her friends, tag them. They were out for her friend’s birthday.” I nod at the camera. “Socials, do your thing. I’ll return to your regularly scheduled content tomorrow. Promise.” Then I wink, and the comments roll in.
TheIntroverted.Bookworm:
Algorithm bring me back.
LoveXPieInfinity:
This is ridiculously adorable!
BittysBookNook:
I'LL GET MY BULLHORN OUT TO FIND HER
JCsSpaceCowgirly:
Where's the green flag guy?
Chapter 4
Wyatt
Irewatchmyselfgivea wink to the camera, my signature sign off. The video’s numbers were insane after an hour, but the exponential growth of social media has taken them to soaring heights over the past thirty.
Which is good news for me. Or it would be if most of my followers were from around here, but considering they’re spread around the world, I haven’t had a single person who knows Bryn contact me. Hasn’t stopped my DMs from filling up with girls saying they could be whoever I want them to be, do whatever I want them to.
Scrolling through the new comments on the video, I scour them for any sign of her. Someone, somewhere, at some point, has to know her. Has to know one of them.
I freeze my scroll, my thumb hovering over the comment that was posted three minutes ago.
