CHAPTER FIVE: Let the Universe decide...

GRIT GUILD - BLOOM WHERE YOU DARE

Hey Grit Guilders,

A new chapter in the Lulu Dare adventure. Last chapter saw Lulu arriving in Melbourne for her holiday with a gnarly hangover, which quickly devolved into sexting with the hot Butcher, and finding a slinky dress from Pascoe in her luggage and deciding she was going to step out and continue this out of character attempt at daring.

You voted on whether Lulu’s love interest was masc or femme and it was a 50-50 split of votes…so, i’ve made some decisions about the glorious gender identity of our romantic lead who you’re about to meet. You also voted for Lulu to approach them, and not be approached.

You ready to see what unravels in this installment?!

Image Description: A purple background with white and coloured text that reads: A flower blooms for its own joy. - Oscar Wilde.

---

CHAPTER FIVE

Vinyl crackles as I step into the dimly lit wine bar, a sanctuary of dark wood and muted seventies orange. A young woman with a shaved head and giant hoops dangling from her ears carefully changes the record, her movements deliberate and reverent. I sidle up to the bar, willing my hands not to shake as I order a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. The cool, aloof bartender nods, barely glancing my way.

You can do this, Lulu. What would Pascoe do?

Slowly, I peel off my jacket, revealing the slinky gifted dress underneath. It hugs every curve, leaving little to the imagination. When the bartender returns with my wine, his eyes linger a beat too long. A small victory. “Enjoy,” he says running his teeth over his bottom lip and I hold eye contact with him as I pick up the glass and slowly turn.

I’m like a duck on a pond right now. On the outside, to anyone watching, I’m confident and at peace with being a woman who holds eye contact with bartenders and drinks alone in bars with only a sliver of fabric covering her body. On the inside I am flailing about, my heart racing quickly like a wild thing, while nerves swirl about bumping into each to each other like bumper cars. I take a deep breath, summoning the Lulu I wish I were, the Lulu I’m trying to be

I scan the room, looking for a place to sit and praying I don’t trip over. Everything feels heightened. The music is warm and rich, but my mind is a jumble of blaring sounds reminding me to be better, cooler, less...me. Couples huddle around small tables, intimate and small in their cozy worlds. I clutch my glass, hyper-aware of its chilled stem against my fingers, and move with what I hope looks like purpose. Where would Pascoe sit? Somewhere in the centre of it all, I imagine. But instead of the boldness of a Pascoe, I find myself gravitating toward the shadows, keeping my head down even though I want to hold it high. I find a corner seat, perching on the edge like I belong here. Like I'm not about to crawl out of my own skin from nerves.

The crisp, citrusy wine hits my tongue, and I force myself to savour it, resisting the urge to gulp it down. My fingers itch to grab my phone, to distract myself. To not make it so obvious that I am on my own. I could just drink this wine and read my book and ignore the whole room and say I tried. I wore the dress at least and I sent Pascoe a photo before I left the hotel as proof of this out-of-character jaunt. I have nothing to prove. I can do what I want. But I don’t reach into my bag, instead, I let my gaze wander.

An older couple sits near the window, heads bent close as they share a plate of olives. I imagine they're empty nesters, rediscovering how to be alone together again other now that their kids have flown the coop. Across the room, two impeccably dressed men are clearly on a first date that's circling the drain. One keeps checking his watch while the other rambles nervously. There’s a double date where one of the men keeps checking a betting app on his phone when he thinks the others aren’t looking. He doesn’t seem happy with the results on the screen.

Across the bar, my attention snags on a small but boisterous group tucked in the opposite corner. Four people, leaning back in their chairs, with wild hand gestures punctuating their loud laughter. They look comfortable, familiar with each other, and a little drunk. Like they've been at it a while. But it's the man at the head of the table that hijacks my attention. Square-jawed and scruffy. He commands the scene effortlessly, his friends hanging on his every word as if he's the most fascinating thing they've ever encountered. I can't help but stare, he is broad, and sturdy and strong. I am mesmerized by the way his forearms flex as he reaches for his drink. I imagine those strong hands on my body, calluses catching deliciously on sensitive skin, and feel a little shocked by my imagination as I take another sip of wine. My mind wanders to my conversation with Greg back in the hotel room, his voice low and husky through the phone as he described exactly what he'd do to me if he were here. A smirk tugs at my lips. What would Pascoe do? Probably saunter over and proposition him without a second thought.