Bars have never been my scene. They are loud and crowded and warm and everyone expects me to be social. Which I am not.

But today, I'm armed with sixty-two talking points, etiquette tips I read from Heartsbrook's highest authority, Carmina MacDonald, and the courage of two more drinks than usual. The only thing I need to complete my epic rebound is my trusty wingman. That's what you call them, right?

No. I'm not second-guessing myself. I'm right. I'm waiting for my wingman, Ernesto. But the two pints of beer I've downed are not sitting well, churning in my stomach as the electronic pop music bounces through the room. The women to my left are laughing and drinking something in a tall skinny kind of triangular glass.

The fact that I've never seen them might be surprising in a small town, if it weren't for the fact that I'm currently sitting in the new upscale hotel trying to bill itself as the New York Experience right here in rural Nova Scotia. The presence of these women beautifully dressed up with hair done to perfection might mean it's working.

The fact that I don't know them, probably mixed with the beer, gives me the courage to strike up my first conversation of the evening.

"What are you drinking?" I ask, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Their conversation pauses for a moment and then returns to normal, as though I never spoke at all. I guess that's the sign I should stop. I said something awkward again.

No. That's what the old Alexander would do. New and improved spontaneous Alexander will ask again. Girls like assertive, right?

Gah. Stop questioning yourself and pluck up the courage. You are a catch.

"Those look good ladies. Can I get you another of... what are you drinking?"

One of the women, dressed in a skin-tight bright yellow dress with small blue flowers, turns around to face me, her dark ponytail falling over her shoulder as she does. "We're fine here. Go bother someone else."

Bother? I didn't know I was going to be a bother. Yesterday Debrah said I wasn't exciting or assertive enough and today I'm being called a bother for trying to do just what Debrah said I should. I know people all have different preferences, but how am I supposed to figure out which people want what?

In all my overthinking, I forget to turn away from them. Worse still, I only notice I should have left when the woman huffs and turns back around, joining her friends in a lively discussion about the local high school's most recent football game against the neighbouring town these girls must hail from.

Maybe I'd have more luck if I learned to like football?

I put a quick note into my phone about the failed interaction and spin to face the door. Where is Ernesto?

I'm going to need all the help I can get, and Ernesto is still nowhere to be seen. I scan the crowd of sharply dressed guests just to be sure I haven't missed him in my slightly buzzed state.

The whole room is bustling with activity, music blaring through speakers I can't see, televisions with various sports — and one with darts — lining a few of the walls, and a third wall entirely dedicated to a music video of some kind. The bar is all dark granites and gold accents. White and gold tables and chairs, with red littered here and there to remind us of which hotel we're in.

Perhaps I shouldn't have picked the most upscale bar in Heartsbrook to have this little rebound adventure. People over at The Pint and Piglet are probably more receptive skills of my level. But giving myself a challenge seemed like a really good idea when I conjured it up yesterday.

Debrah, who had agreed to date me based solely on our interaction on Tea Sip, the local gossip app, had met me at the Summerset dressed in something a man only dreams of seeing in real life. She looked like she belonged on a Milan runway, not a downtown Heartsbrook restaurant.

That should have been a giveaway that I was not prepared. But still I kissed her cheek and pulled out her chair, waiting patiently while she selected a wine and ordering the bottle for the table despite the fact that she had chosen the most expensive one. I don't mind paying for nice things.

And at the end of dinner, when she leaned in for a kiss, I completely fumbled around and ended up with my open mouth against her cheek.

She tasted of makeup.

And with little more than a mumbled, "Worst date I've ever had," she left me alone with a half-full bottle of wine and a cheque worth more than my car.

Which sounds worse than it is because my car is probably thirty-five years old at this point and painfully dragging itself through every passing kilometer.

So I don't know what possessed me to follow up later and open the Tea Sip app to tell her I had a great time. We both know that's a lie, but my mother's voice rings loudly in my head telling me it's a social rule.

Debrah did not agree with my mother. She replied with some choice words and a very firm, "God, Alex, do you even know how to treat a woman?"

I may not be the most socially astute person, but that was clear enough. And it's happened enough times that I need to at least entertain the possibility that it's partly my fault things are going downhill. But I have no idea why. Or how. Or what might fix it. I need more data. 

So that's how I ended up in this bar, waiting for my best friend, ready to prove to myself and anyone who will listen that I'm not as bad as Debrah said. There's someone out there who's right for me.

I can do this.

As soon as Ernesto shows up.

* * *

I've made a miscalculation. Or, more probably, several miscalculations. I'll analyze the data later. Right now, all I know is I was definitely not ready for this.

I may owe Debrah an apology for what I said yesterday. I definitely don't know how to date. There seems to be a gulf of difference between going out with my friends and going out on a date. Which I should have seen coming.

"That last one didn't go that poorly," Ernesto says. "She actually chatted with you for a while before she politely left."

"I told her how hot dogs are made." I drop my head into my hands. "It doesn't take a genius to know that preservatives and ground meat are not exactly first date material."

"Fortunately you are a genius."

"I'm not—"

His laugh cuts me off.

"You were exaggerating for effect again."

"I was," he nods, holding up his beer as though toasting the air. "But you've actually gotten better as the night went on. Maybe you just need practice. We could find somewhere fun and go out next weekend."

The music is so loud I can't hear myself think. But maybe he's right. Practice usually helps. Maybe I'm not entirely a lost cause. Though the data isn't looking good.

"Did I hear you say you're looking to go out this weekend?" The blonde bartender asks when she slides Ernesto his beer across the bar.

"Yeah," he says. "My buddy needs something fun after his last date fell through. We were thinking a party might be fun."

"I know the guys from LJB Technologic are hosting a Halloween party here in the ballroom next weekend. I think they're selling tickets for some kind of charity or something but it's just an excuse for them to get shitfaced and dance on the tables until we kick them out."

Ernesto turns to face me, mouth agape. "You never told me your work was having a Halloween party! Halloween is like the perfect time to pick up chicks. Masks, costumes, and pretending to be someone you're not is not only allowed but encouraged. It's perfect."

I wish he wouldn't punch me in the shoulder like he's seen characters do on television. It seems wildly out of place between the two of us and draws the eyes of passing guests in this bar. Club? I'm not sure what the correct term is.

"It's not perfect, Ernesto. Because it would mean hanging out in the same space as Luther Bellsworth for longer than I'm contractually obligated to. Which is right out of the question."

"Well, if you change your mind." The bartender reaches behind the bar and pulls out a card, flipping it over to write something on the back. When she slides it across the counter, I can see the purple ink drying into the name and address.

"You want us to go to a Halloween store?"

Do I really look like the kind of guy who can't find a costume without help?

"Yes. But not just any Halloween store. My good friend works there and she's basically a wizard at picking the right costume for anyone. Sounded like you could use some help."

"No thanks," I say, leaving the card on the counter.

"Umm, yes please," Ernesto interjects, snatching it and sliding it into his wallet. "I'll take all the help I can get."

Not even a costume wizard can save us from the fact that it's my work having the party. Nothing can save me from that.

Ernesto pretty much forgets about me for the rest of the night, flitting from group to group and talking to girls about useless facts until they brush him off. I follow behind him, drinking what I'm offered to try to keep from saying something I shouldn't.

By the end of the night, I've tested all of my topics and virtually none of them worked. My sample size isn't quite large enough for statistical significance yet, but I'm confident further study will confirm my findings. I don't know how to talk to people. I really don't know how to talk to women I've never met before.

And now, somehow, I'm not in the bar anymore. Ernesto is draped over me like a scarf, dragging his feet and singing a song about fish.

"Hey, let's go to the store!" he slurs out, pointing at the street sign. "It's on Marbell Street and we're on Marbell Street."

We are. The alcohol makes something like a shadow across my brain so I can feel the small notion that there's something we aren't thinking of, but I can't access what that something is.

So I follow his lead and turn right down the street, wandering through the narrow sidewalk until we're right in front of the store. It's lit up with pumpkins and skeletons and ghosts and someone has taken the time to write 'Haunted Halloween' on the windows.

It's pretty. The writing. It's kinda swirly.

"I want to be a werewolf," Ernesto shouts, stumbling toward the door and crashing into it.

"You have to pull!" I shout, watching him fumble with the door. It doesn't budge and he stumbles backward and falls to the ground.

"Hey!" He calls into the store. "We can't get in your door."

"We're closed," a woman calls from inside. "Come back tomorrow."

"But I want to be a werewolf!" Ernesto calls again.

And then everything goes dark. 

~ * ~ Author's Note ~ * ~

Welcome to Spooky Season, friends! 

Have you ever lived in or travelled to a small town? 

I used to live in several sizes of towns and they all had such unique characteristics, so I'm really having fun creating this town with its own unique flair. I hope you love it. I'll be back next week with a new chapter.