I am not a mystery novel heroine

People ask me a lot whether or not the dates I talk about on this blog are actually real. I guess some people have a hard time believing there are really that many off-the-wall guys out there. Let me assure you, there are, and I have dated them. Every single guy I have blogged about is totally real. I’m stating this for the record now because I had the weirdest experience of my life last weekend and, after telling Suze all about it, she said, “There’s no way you can post this date on your blog.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because no one would ever believe it really happened to you.”
Sadly, it did.

So, I’ve been seeing this guy for the past few weeks. At first, I wasn’t all that gung ho about it because, as I’ve mentioned here, I’m trying to find Mr. Forever. This guy had Mr. Right Now written all over him. He’s an ultimate fighter, for one thing. Yeah, as in he beats people up in those cage matches on TV for a living. Kinda scary. But, sucker for muscles that I am, once I met him, I started to dig him a little more. And, he was actually incredibly sweet. Way more than you’d think a guy that knocks people senseless all day would be.

Anyway, we went out a few times, had a good time. Then, last weekend I was supposed to meet him at his house to go to dinner. I was psyched ‘cause I just bought this really cute new outfit at the mall and was dying to show it off somewhere. So, even though I knew I’d be a little overdressed, I threw it on and added a pair of sparkly rhinestone studded silver heels to cap it off.

I get to his place exactly on time and knock on the door. Nothing. I spy the bell and ring that. I wait. And wait. Finally his roommate answers and lets me in. I go down the hall to his bedroom and see that the door is open. I kinda knock and push my way in with a, “Hello?” The TV is on, but Fight Boy’s not there. So, I make myself at home, sit down, pick up one of his books to read, figuring he's in the shower or bathroom or something. I wait a few minutes. No sign of him. I’m feeling a little odd hanging out in his bedroom like this. I mean, I don’t know him that well. So, I get up, kinda peek around the rest of the house. He's not in the kitchen, living room, bathroom, or backyard. K, weird.

I go back to his bedroom and wait a few more minutes, grab the remote and change the channel (from Terminator to America's Next Top Model – hey , if I gotta wait around, I might as well be entertained doing it, right?). I watch TV for a few minutes. He still doesn't show. It's getting late now. Like, he's 20 minutes late. So that’s when I really start checking out his stuff. His keys are on the nightstand, so is his cell phone. He wouldn't leave the house without those, right?

I try texting him, thinking maybe he has a different cell he uses. Nope. My text shows up on that phone. K, so where the heck is he?

And that’s when things went from weird to freaky.

I hear a noise. From the closet. I look up and, I swear to heaven, a body part falls out.

A. Body. Part.

It looks like someone's knee. Or elbow. Definitely flesh-like. I freeze. Has someone been in the closet watching me this whole time? I get up and walk out of the room, totally casual like, pretending I didn't see anything. I'm thinking either a) he's been sitting here watching me from his closet (creepy!), b) he was doing something totally embarrassing when I walked in and hid in the closet (double creepy!) or c) there's a dead
body in there (beyond creepy.) I wait in the kitchen, letting my pulse return to normal (and giving anyone hiding in there a chance to get out and slink away), then slowly go back in his room.

Yup, the knee is still there. Sticking out of the closet. Not moving at all.

This is where I proved that I am no mystery novel heroine. A mystery novel heroine would have investigated. She would have peeked in the closet, found out who the knee was attached to, why they were there, if they were, in fact, alive.

Me? I grab my purse and bolt. Hit the front door, run to my car, lock the doors, peel out of there so fast I burn rubber, and drive straight home.

I know. I’m a chicken. But, as anyone who has read my books knows, when my heroines investigate, someone always gets hurt. Usually them.

Needless to say, that’s the end of me and Fight Boy. Honestly, there is no explanation that will ever make me go back there. The best I can think of is that he somehow passed out in his own closet. That's best case scenario. Worst case… my fingerprints are now all over a
crime scene.

Just when I think I've been on the worst date ever (bicycle thieves, hairy wookie men, pirates…) one more shows up to top them all off.

Anyone know a nice, safe convent I could go join?

~Trigger Happy Halliday