Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  I wish. Wouldn’t that make things simpler? Wouldn’t it be great if I could say, “This really sucked,” and go back to my life as I knew it before? But the thought of going back makes me want to cry. And my advice to him may result in that. Once he gets some real friends, why would he ever want to hang out with me?

  I know he’s looking for some kind of reassurance, though, so I say, “It’s okay. We all have our moments.”

  “Mine’s over,” he promises. “Let’s talk about something else. Not work, and definitely not exes. Movies. That’s safe enough. What’s your favorite?”

  I perk up. Movies are one of my passions. “Well, I know your favorite is Casablanca, but I really love—”

  “Casablanca? When did I ever say that?” he sputters, wiping beer foam from his upper lip. “Blimey! That’s not a bloke’s movie at all!”

  Quickly, I cover, “I could have sworn you mentioned that before…”

  “No! Never. We’ve never even had this conversation.”

  “I know that!” I quickly reply. “I just thought you said it in passing.”

  “How would that come up? I hand you a drawing to put in the post and say, ‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. By the way, Casablanca is my favorite movie of all time, because I’m an insufferable wanker’?”

  I laugh to cover my embarrassment. “Sorry. Simple mistake!”

  He glares skeptically at me but lets it go. “I interrupted you. You were saying your favorite movie is…”

  “No. You go first.” I need a second to compose myself.

  “Psycho.”

  Again I think he’s name-calling, but when I realize he’s answering the question, I’m even more disappointed. “Really? Pyscho? Of all the movies ever made, that’s your favorite? What about The Great Gatsby or… or… The Godfather or…?”

  “What’s your favorite, then, Miss Clever Clogs?”

  “The Natural,” I answer promptly.

  “A Redford fan, then?”

  “What about it?” I challenge him defensively. “He’s a great actor. And it’s a great movie.”

  “It’s about baseball,” he complains, pulling a face.

  “Only the greatest sport ever invented.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Rugby.”

  Our food arrives, but as soon as the server is gone, he picks up the conversational thread seamlessly. “For your information, I don’t think rugby is the best sport ever invented. But”—he points at me with his fork—“it’s ten times better than bloody baseball.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Like a fox.” Suddenly, he dissolves into laughter.

  “You’re just saying all this to push my buttons,” I finally realize.

  He takes another bite, swallows, and grins. “For someone so smart, you can be really thick sometimes.”

  Keeping my eyes on my plate, I reply, “Thanks and ouch.”

  “You’re so easily excitable. It’s hilarious.”

  “Glad to be entertaining.”

  “Oops. There goes the wall.”

  I glance up at him. “What?”

  “I’ve gone too far; you’ve put up the wall.” He raises his flat hand in front of his face. “The Great Wall of Libby,” he intones ominously.

  “Whatever.” He thinks he’s so smart, like he knows me.

  “Don’t be angry at me. I’m sorry.” But he’s still grinning. “I’m just taking the piss. Having a little fun.”

  “At my expense.”

  “Yes. You’re right. It’s not very nice.”

  He finishes his food and leans back in his side of the booth with his beer, which he drains in two long, smooth gulps. I watch his Adam’s apple bob once, twice. Pushing my plate away, I put my chin in my hand. Then I signal to our server to bring us two more drinks.

  A couple of hours later, at closing time, I’m feeling no pain. And Jude’s giggly and silly, at best; drunk at worst. We’ve discussed every superficial subject two people can touch on and have had several good-natured arguments about music, books, and movies.

  As we walk back to his apartment and my car, he says, “I know you like to drive dangerously, but you’re not going to attempt driving home like this, are you?”

  “I told my cat I’d be home tonight,” I say truthfully, making both of us laugh so hard we have to stop walking and support each other on the sidewalk.

  When we can move again, he says, “Seriously, let me call you a cab.”

  “I’ll be okay in a few minutes,” I insist, not quite sure that’s true. If worse comes to worst, I decide I can sleep it off in my car for a few hours. “I just need some water. Or coffee. Or something.” It’s hard to talk when your teeth are numb, I’ve discovered tonight.

  “You’re slurring your words, Libby,” he points out.

  “Remember when you called me ‘Lisa’? That made me so mad!”

  We laugh about that for a while, too.

  At my car, he says, “I really can’t let you drive home like this. I’d feel terrible if something happened to you.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I blurt.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says, smiling. “In any case, you’re a menace to other drivers when you’re sober; I can only imagine how you’d drive now.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Whatever,” he mimics. “Come upstairs for a minute. I’ll pump you full of fluids and send you on your way.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Saucy minx!”

  I have no control over my mouth. And I don’t care. It’s not like I’ve never been drunk before (give me a little credit), but I’ve always been alone. No chance for embarrassment there, until it comes time to admit to someone that you often get drunk alone. Sandberg’s not spilling any of my dirty secrets. I’m probably going to be mortified—and sick—in the morning, but right now, it’s fun to let myself go for once.

  While he unlocks his door, I lean against the wall, which doesn’t really feel like it’s completely upright. Just as I’m sliding backwards, toward the stairs, he grabs my arm. “Oi! You are sozzled. In you go!” He pulls me into the apartment.

  Once I get my bearings, I observe aloud, “Whoa, it’s clean in here!”

  “You expected a pigsty?”

  “Like your car,” I say, in defense.

  “Well, I guess I should admit that I did a little clearing up this afternoon. It’s not usually this clean. But I’m not a complete scruff. I manage to keep my manky pants and socks off the floor.” He helps me sit on the couch.

  I grab a throw pillow that has the Union Jack on it. “Nice pillow.”

  “A little bit of home.” He holds up the other one. It’s white with a narrow red cross on it. “Flag of England. St. George’s Cross.”

  “Cool,” I breathe. On a whim, I hit him softly across the face with the Union Jack pillow.

  He blinks for a second, then, without hesitation, hits me over the head with his pillow. Harder than I hit him, I think.

  We go back and forth like that until we’re swinging away with abandon, hitting each other in the face, chest, shoulders, and back. At first, we’re laughing, but as the blows get harder, all we’re doing is grunting. I’ve never had a pillow fight with Fantasy Jude. I think he’s probably too refined for that. I can’t even imagine it. But this is a blast.

  He stops first, so I get in an undefended strike before he grabs the pillow, wrenches it from my relatively weak grasp, and tosses it aside. His hair is mussed in a most sexy way. I’m sure mine just looks mussed. I tuck a strand behind my ear.

  During the pillow fight, I’ve sobered up a fraction. Not much, but enough that I’m more aware of my surroundings. And how Jude’s looking at me. Or more accurately, how he’s looking at my mouth. He leans forward slightly, so slightly that I’m not really sure if it’s true or if my drunkenness is making my eyes play tricks on me.

  “I’m a virgin,” I reveal oh-so-unsubtly. I don’t sho
ut it, but I don’t say it quietly, either (my ears are still sort of ringing from the concert). In any case, there’s no mistaking what I’ve said.

  He looks completely sober now. Then again, I still feel like I’m wearing goggles made of wavy block glass, so it’s hard for me to read his expression.

  “That’s… Well… Bully for you,” he murmurs, standing up and putting as much distance between us as he can in the narrow living room.

  I’d definitely be more self-conscious about my confession if my blood-alcohol level was anything below point-one-oh. But right now I’m treating it as if I’ve just told him, “I’ve never seen Psycho.”

  Matter-of-factly, I continue, “I know, it’s kind of weird. I’m twenty-eight. But the situation has never presented itself.”

  “That’s difficult to believe,” he says, turning his back on me. He tinkers with something on his fireplace mantle.

  “You don’t believe me?” I ask.

  Quickly he answers, “No, no. I believe you. That’s not what I meant.” Suddenly, he puts down the object he’s been fingering (a metal tourist trinket of the Sears Tower) and crosses to a closet. “Uh… I’ll make up a bed for you on the sofa.”

  Stung, I stand up. And fall back on the couch. And stand up again. “Well, I wasn’t implying that you should know because you were about to… de-flower me.”

  “You need to sleep it off,” he merely replies, not defending his intentions at all.

  “Never mind. I’m going home.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re pissed.”

  “Damn right, I’m pissed! Everything was fine until I told you I’ve never had sex. Then you got all weird. Like I’m a freak.”

  “Drunk. You’re drunk. And now’s not the time to have this conversation.” He unfurls a blanket and drapes it over the couch. “Please. We can talk about it tomorrow, right? When you’re clear-headed.”

  It’s amazing how sobering mortification is. If only it could be sold over-the-counter for its instant effects. “I’m sober now, unfortunately,” I insist.

  I pat my pockets to make sure I have everything, that nothing has fallen out during our pillow fight. Then I head for the door. He blocks my way.

  “Move!” I demand.

  “I… I don’t want you to go,” he states quietly.

  I think I know what he means, and it makes my heart race, but I’m too proud to stay, so I obtusely reply, “I’m fine. Really. I won’t hurt myself or anyone else; you won’t have that on your head.”

  I side-step him. He lets me go.

  But I don’t get far. Because when I get down to my car, I’m greeted by the sight of a bright orange traffic enforcement boot on its back driver’s-side tire.

  11

  I experience plenty of firsts when I wake up this morning.

  Waking up in a man’s apartment.

  Waking up to see a man openly staring at me.

  Waking up in the presence of a man, period.

  I sit up gingerly, evaluating just how bad my hangover is. Not as bad as I’d imagined it would be. My head only feels like it’s going to explode, not that it already has. And I’m less stiff than I would expect after sleeping on a couch all night. It’s a fairly nice couch, after all.

  From his stance in the kitchen, Jude asks casually, “Would you like some coffee?”

  I nod and wince at the pain it produces. “Oh… You wouldn’t happen to have some pain reliever, would you?”

  He brings me a cup of coffee and drops two ibuprofen tablets in my upturned palm. I ignore my screaming liver and down them.

  To my annoyance, he doesn’t look hung over at all. Just to be sure, though, I ask, “How drunk were you last night?”

  He shrugs. “Not. Squiffy, at the most.”

  I’d roll my eyes at his incomprehensible terminology, but it would hurt too much. Instead, I infer that he means “tipsy,” and say, “So you remember… everything?”

  He half-smiles. “Uh, yeah. Do you need help remembering?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I answer, sliding my feet into my shoes. The shades are mercifully drawn shut in the room, but I can see the sun peeking around the edges. It’s going to hurt like hell to walk out there. I hope I have a pair of sunglasses in my car that I can snag before walking to the nearest bus station.

  The gracious host has a never-been-opened toothbrush he lets me use. After I spit and rinse, I chance a glance at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Bad idea. “You look like ass,” I whisper to myself. Obviously, that won’t be going onto the list that goes to Dr. Marsh. Before I can overthink it as gross or inappropriate, I take Jude’s comb and run it through my flyaway hair. Now I have bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, an upset stomach, and a lot of regrets. But my hair looks sleek. And my breath is minty fresh.

  As I emerge from the bathroom, I decide to confront what we’re both thinking about. “Sorry about the TMI last night. I was really drunk.”

  “I know,” he replies. “No worries.”

  I laugh mirthlessly so he knows I feel exactly the opposite. “I wish.”

  “About that,” he begins.

  “Please,” I beg. “No. Let’s not. Talk about it, that is.” Then I blush at how that sounds. “I mean, let’s just drop it. Period.”

  He looks down into his coffee cup. “Right.”

  “Thank you.”

  I go to the door, unlock it, and open it. With my hand on the doorknob, I say, “And thanks for last night. Mostly it was fun.”

  He comes around the counter and approaches me. I open the door wider, stepping through it so that I’m standing out in the hallway with easy access to the stairs.

  “Right. Well, sorry about the parking ticket mix-up. I’ll take care of that first thing tomorrow, when the parking authority opens.”

  He goes on to explain, now that I’m sober enough to understand (and care), that he and the neighborhood parking enforcement officer “have a bit of a feud running.” He claims she tickets him for the “most minor of infractions. This time, I suppose it was because you’d parked slightly over the line separating my space from the one beside it. She must have mistaken your car for mine.”

  “Give me a break. Nobody gets booted for that.”

  “I don’t think the boot was for that particular offense.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It may be that… Well, let’s just say I haven’t quite gotten around to paying all of those other tickets. In fact, I’ve been meaning to contest them, considering some are a blatant abuse of her power.” He attempts a justified chin-lift, but his sheepish expression gives away his guilt.

  I sigh and roll my eyes at him, irritated that I’m caught between him and some meter maid on a power trip. Not to mention it’s getting extremely old dealing with the inconveniences that keep sprouting up related to the great misfortune of driving a vehicle virtually identical to his.

  And the arrogance of him, not paying the tickets! He probably thought he’d charm his way out of them with his plummy accent. Cheeky bastard.

  But I can’t summon the infuriation this situation would normally induce, because I’m too worried about the much bigger pachyderm practically prancing around the room.

  As if reading my mind, he says, “Libby… I hope you won’t feel uncomfortable around me now. Because of what you told me.”

  I laugh nervously. “Well, I think that’s unavoidable. Sorry.”

  He looks deflated. “Oh. It’s only that… I hoped you wouldn’t think so little of me that you’d think I’d think differently about you because of… that.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about this.” I fish my car keys out of my pocket. When I glance up at him again, he looks so sad that I take pity on him. “Listen, forget about it. Really. Please. You’re the only other person in the world who knows that. So I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”

  Nodding once and briskly, he says, “Of course. You don’t even have to ask.”

  “Just making sure.” With that, I turn and limp s
tiffly down the stairs, marveling at how I haven’t been completely desensitized to humiliation in the past eight hours.

  Other than when I wire the money to Hank, I spend the rest of Sunday in bed, listening to Snow Patrol on a continuous loop. Fantasy Jude tries to cheer me up, but not even I can reconcile the reality of my predicament with the ideal of him.

  Sandberg gave me the cold shoulder for the first hour after I got home. I gave him a few extra treats, though, and that seemed to placate him. I also told him, “I would have rather been here with you, buddy, believe me.” Who cares that it’s a lie?

  Monday, I have my hand on the button to call in sick to work, but I know I can’t drop the ball on my part of the Museum Board presentation. Instead, I call Wanda and tell her I’ll be late, since I have to get this thing with my car straightened out. When I call the city, though, they say that Jude’s already been there to pay the tickets, and the boot has been removed.

  I do make it a point to tell the person on the phone that it was really irresponsible of them to boot my car just because it’s the same color, make, and model of the offender’s car. And was parked in the personal parking space registered in his name. After saying all that, I feel pretty sheepish, so I say, “Never mind. I understand how it happened,” and hang up quickly.

  I take the El to the stop closest to Jude’s apartment and walk to my car. Someone, obviously when the orange metal contraption was still clamped on my tire, has stuck a note on my window that says, “Loser.”

  “Pretty much,” I can’t help but agree as I tear it off, crumple it, and throw it into my backseat.

  Jude lives a little further from work than I do, so by the time I get there, it’s close to 9:30. I put my purse in my desk drawer and sit down to check my voicemails and emails. But first, I peek over at Jude’s office. He turns from his drafting board right then, sees me, and waves his pencil in my direction as a greeting. I act like I didn’t see him. I’ll have to talk to him soon enough. But I want it to be on my terms.

  Lisa pokes her head over our shared wall. “Hey. What’s going on? Everything okay?”