This was the first time in her life that Belle had ever lived alone. She'd always felt alone—after her mother died and her father became a working alcoholic, she'd spent most of her free time reading. It was easier than making excuses to friends as to why they couldn't come over, or why she couldn't get a ride to their house.
No one in her small town in Pennsylvania had thought she would leave for college. Everyone, of course, thought that the bookworm would go and study books, but they all expected her to stay at home. She'd surprised the whole town by up and moving to Washington D.C., where she took out a loan to accompany her many scholarships to American University. This soon became her permanent home, because her father gambled away his savings and could no longer afford their house.
There, however, she'd always had roommates. From the dorms to the apartments she rented, to the one time she was a live-in nanny, she had been lonely, but never alone. Now, however, that she'd up and moved to Maine after getting her masters degree at American as well, she was forced to find a cheap, one-bedroom flat.
It was a cute flat, she could say that for it. The standard wall color was a soothing mint green—difficult to match, but easy to not-match with antiques, which was what Belle did. Her first trip in Storybrooke, Maine had been to the antique dealer, where she'd gotten a deal on all of the trinkets, figurines, and lace decorations. Her stove may have been off-balance, there may have been a cigarette burn on three separate walls, and her back door may have borne the signs of having once been kicked in, but her apartment was adorable, and she loved it.
Her tea kettle whistled, startling her from the essay she was reading. It was only about seven, but she was in her pajamas and prepared to settle in for the night. Ruby, a masters student a few years her junior and the only friend she had made so far, had informed her that she was going to take her out tonight because it was 'thirsty Thursday,' but Belle had far too much work to do, and so was feigning illness.
She was settled into her rosehip tea, marking up one of her freshmen's essays in purple, when there was a loud pounding on the door. She yelped, almost upsetting her cup, and then looked at the door. Her neighborhood was not the safest around, and even the landlady had suggested that she steer clear of her neighbors and buy a metal baseball bat. No one had ever knocked on her door before.
Trying not to assume the worst—that this was, in fact, the day she was fated to die—she tiptoed out of the chair and to the closet, where she kept the bat. Next, she dug the pepper spray out of her purse and, once armed, she crept toward the door, pausing only to gather herself when there was another bang.
The idea was not to indicate that she was home until it was necessary. Raising onto her toes slowly enough to suggest that the bones in them would make noise if used too quickly, she peeked out the peephole in her door.
There, to her great relief, was not a large man with a gun, but Ruby, wearing almost nothing but some strategic sequins, and another woman dressed like she didn't want to spend the night being groped. After hurrying to tuck the weapons against the corner, she undid the knob lock, the door chain, and the deadbolt, and then swung it open.
"Ruby!"
"Oh, good, I was afraid you weren't home." Up close, Ruby's outfit was even less there. Her dress went from mid-cleavage to upper thigh, and looked like a tube of sparkly lipstick.
"I am working, you know." Belle's eyes strayed toward her friend, who looked familiar. She had a pixie cut and, unlike Ruby, subdued lipstick. Her dress was teal and flared out to her knees, making her look especially modest next to the other woman.
"Tomorrow's Friday. No one even has classes. You can wait until the weekend." Without waiting for a response, Ruby pushed her way into the apartment. She was carrying a large, flowered bag as well as a black clutch. The other woman followed her in, flashing Belle an apologetic smile as she did. She looked familiar, but Belle couldn't place her, so she just smiled in return before closing and bolting the door again.
"Why don't you stay here? I think I've got all the ingredients for Cosmos." Except Vodka.
Ruby whirled to face her, hand on her slim hip, red talons tapping away. "Belle. It's been months and you've never been out with me. So we're going. Get dressed."
Belle sighed. It would be nice to not have to do all of Doctor Gold's bitchwork for a night, and she liked Ruby enough to not want to disappoint her.
"I don't have anything to wear."
Ruby looked like she wanted to hop with glee at her triumph, but contained herself. Instead, she reached for Belle's hand and started to drag her to the closet.
"Come on, we'll find something."
Two entire hours later, the three women were sitting at a table in Ruby's favorite bar, Goldmine. Belle was more made up than she was sure she had ever been—Ruby had pulled out about a hundred different eye shadow colors from her bag and applied more of them to Belle's face than she could count. Somewhere in all of the making up, she had learned that the other woman's name was Mary Margaret Blanchard and that she was the youngest faculty member in the English department, having done a joint masters and doctorate degree at the University of Maine. She was, in fact, younger than Belle, which was why she felt okay coming out with them.
Once finished painting Belle a new face, Ruby had torn apart her closet. It seemed that her method for choosing a dress was finding the thing that both Belle and Mary Margaret liked the least. She dug up a dress that Belle had bought years before, when she was more easily convinced to go out with her friends. It had no sequins, which Ruby did lament, but it was cut low enough that she forgave this fault. The dress was a golden, cap-sleeved number that went just low enough down Belle's thighs that she didn't feel the need to tug it every few minutes. Ruby paired it with some satin blue heels and all of the blue jewelry she could find about Belle's room. For the last touch, she curled Belle's hair, and then declared that they were taking a taxi—her treat.
At the bar, Ruby bought none of her own drinks, and she urged Belle and Mary Margaret to follow her lead. In the end, Ruby had been forced to go up to three different men standing alone and inform them that her friends were too shy to say anything, but they usually warmed up after a drink or three. This was how Belle and Mary Margaret came to be delivered free appletinis against their will.
"Do you go out with Ruby a lot?" Belle asked, fingering the stem of her glass.
"Sometimes." She took a small sip of her martini. "Ruby usually goes with me if I need a second person, so I figure it's only fair, right?" She chuckled and Belle smiled.
"Sounds fair." She took a sip of her own drink, and winced. It wasn't very apple-y. "Oh, this is awful."
Mary Margaret laughed. "Well, why do you think this is Ruby's favorite bar? Because they make weak drinks?"
"Belle." Ruby appeared at their table again, face flushed. "You have to come with me."
"Where?" Belle asked, wincing at her drink again.
"Over there." She pointed to a corner where there were three guys standing and drinking beer.
"But we're fine here, aren't we?"
Ruby gave her a look, like she had suggested something foolish and outlandish. "We're at a bar, Belle. You have to meet someone."
"Why doesn't Mary Margaret have to meet someone?"
At this, Mary Margaret flushed all the way to the tips of her ears. Ruby, however, just waved a hand.
"Because she's boring. Come on, let's go."
"Do you think I could get a different drink?" Belle asked, resigning herself to leaving their nice, safe, lonely table. "This one is just green vodka."
Ruby pursed her lips. "Belle, don't you know what to do with bad drinks?"
Belle glanced at Mary Margaret, who shook her head. "Um—throw them away?"
"You chug them. Come on. Live a little."
"Oh, I couldn't—"
"Chug, chug, chug." Ruby leaned toward her on the table, still chanting. Belle felt a small twinge of betrayal when Mary Margaret joined in, but being ganged up on made her resolve difficult. She hadn't had any drunk fun in years. The last few times had all been alone, and she was choosing to pretend those didn't exist. So, steeling herself, she tipped her head back and chugged.
Two martinis apiece later, the three women were standing at their table with their new friends—Gaston, Billy, and Victor. Ruby had all but assigned each man to one of her friends, claiming Billy the mechanic for herself.
"I'm in sports management," Gaston was saying to Belle. He had gone through three beers, and was leaning in closer than Sober Belle would have allowed. Drunk Belle, however, was leaning toward him as though he were divulging scandalous secrets.
"That's so interesting," she said, taking a sip of her fourth martini. "What do you do in sports management?"
"Well, I'm on the coaching track, but I think I'll go into the business side eventually. I want to own teams, you know? Owning's where the money is."
"You have to get a masters degree to know how to own things?" She tilted her head to the side, neck feeling like liquid. Her whole body felt like the bones had become stretchier, and she found it easy to swing around on the stool when she needed to direct her attention to different people.
He didn't laugh, just wrinkled his nose, but Belle laughed at her own question for him.
"This is just until I start owning. I coach some little league teams. The boys really look up to me. I'm kind of a role model for them."
Instead of nodding, Belle tipped back some more of her martini. It was easier.
"They would have to—you're very tall."
He didn't seem to get the joke, but Belle laughed again, content to be funny only to herself. She was sure that Ruby and Mary Margaret would have been amused, and probably most of the people she worked with.
"So what do you do? Do you work in the office?" He scanned the bar, like he wasn't particularly interested in her answer. Belle took his chin in her hand and turned him toward her. It was just rude not to look. After that, though, he leaned in a little closer, looking a little happier to be in her company.
"I am getting my doctorate in this language. English. And list—late—lit—books. I'm getting my doctorate in books."
"Oh, so you're like a librarian?"
"No." She shook her head. "You have to have a degree in libraries to be a librarian. I'm going to be a teacher."
"Oh, what grade? Kindergarten?"
Sober Belle would have found this tiresome to explain. Drunk Belle was just wishing there was more in her glass.
"No, you have to have a degree in elementary education to be a kindergarten teacher. My degree is in English. Besides, Doctor Gold would be very unhappy if I went into children teaching." She snorted.
At the mention of Doctor Gold, Gaston's face soured.
"Doctor Gold? That dick?"
"Yes, that one." Belle wondered if Gold knew how far is reputation stretched.
"He gave a guest lecture in my sports law class. Total bastard. Treated us like shit."
"Why would he give a guest lecture in sports? He's not athletic." The thought of Doctor Gold playing any sport made her want to chuckle.
"He's a lawyer. Worked on some case with the Patriots a decade ago."
"The Patriots? Really?" That was interesting. She made a mental note to ask him later that she hoped she would remember.
"Hey," he said, leaning toward her. Their foreheads were about an inch apart. "Could I call you sometime?"
It took Belle a few seconds to comprehend that he was asking for her number, because he liked her enough to want to call her and see her again.
"Of course." She found a cocktail napkin and pulled it over, then dug a pen out of her purse to write her number on it. When she was finished, she slid it over to him. He pocketed it.
"Cool. I'll call you."
"Hey!"
They both looked up at the sound of Mary Margaret's 'date.'
"We're getting shots. You in?"
"Yeah, totally," Gaston said. "You can put hers on my tab."
He pointed at Belle, who didn't think this was necessarily a good idea, but was too drunk to really know the difference.
"Shots it is," she agreed, downing the rest of her drink.