Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  Had whoever sent my book to the Book Brigade asked for him by name? And why? I made a note to ask my editor what she knew.

  Who was this guy? The Midwest encompassed a huge area, but de-tasseling corn was a summer ritual for a lot of Indiana high school kids. Maybe it was common elsewhere, too. Dylan had worked on his parents’ farm early mornings and came back exhausted with callouses thicker than anything he’d gotten from playing guitar.

  The mention of The Little Prince reminded me of the first time Mrs. Moore read it aloud to us kids, and I resolved to add it to the summer children’s reading.

  I clicked the link under Silver Fox’s moniker and brought up his latest posts. Coincidentally, Pride and Prejudice was the last book he’d reviewed. It seemed odd he’d choose a book that old—a romance at that—but maybe he did more than upcoming releases. I scrolled to the post for my book and lost whatever enthusiasm I had for continuing this line of research.

  Maybe there were clues to his personality in his choice of name. I knew the phrase “silver fox” was slang for older attractive men, but he’d said he was young, so I ruled that out. I typed “silver fox” into Wikipedia and discovered that the animal was actually a red fox. Silver Fox was also a Marvel Comics character—Wolverine’s lover, a woman. Another dead end. Silver Fox was the codename of some naval exercises, an island in Newfoundland, a paint color, a bus line, and a figure in Native American creation mythology. I’d have to ask Charlie what he knew about that last one.

  For all I knew, Silver Fox was his actual name.

  I checked the clock. I needed to finish this draft before my editor’s deadline in three weeks. By this Friday really, if I wanted to give Layla time to read it. Instead, I started typing an email, feeling a little silly for wanting to respond to some random guy when we didn’t know each other at all except through a handful of emails, but he’d intrigued me with his confession. I found myself wanting to know more about this Midwestern guy who read Jane Austen alongside review copies of fantasy novels.

  Silver,

  Can I call you that? :)

  You wanted to know about this epiphany? The truth is I’ve been treading water for some time, but I’ve decided I need to open myself to dating. I hear you whispering in my ear to give it a chance. The sacrifices we make for art, right? But you gave me a push I needed, and while I haven’t yet hit on any swoopy emotions I could tap into to infuse my own characters with the drug-addled sense of overwhelming love, it’s given me a lot to think about in terms of what I personally want from a relationship.

  Best of luck with your own romantic tribulations.

  Claire

  I added a postscript to encourage another response.

  P.S. What on earth possessed you to review Pride and Prejudice?

  I hit Send, then turned on Pandora to an instrumental station and buried myself in my novel until my butt hurt.

  After lunch, I grabbed a copy of my book and headed over to see my mom, knowing at least she would express undiluted pride in my accomplishments.

  I found her relaxing on the patio with a magazine and a cup of coffee. I wished she didn’t live all alone, but she insisted the neighbors kept her company. The Becketts lived next door, and she had her gossiping ladies nights. Still, it hurt to imagine an entire life of loneliness. She never complained, though.

  I poured myself a glass of water from the tap and dropped my book on the table. Then I fell into a chair across the table from her, admiring Mom’s garden. The Virginia Bluebells were stunning.

  She cradled my novel and beamed. “Oh, Maddie. I’m so proud of you. I want to send it to everyone I know. Can you get me some more copies?”

  I choked on my water. “Mom, I need people to buy my book. If I give them all away, my publisher won’t ask me to write any more.”

  “I just want to brag about you.” She winked. “After all, you got your writing genes from me.”

  I laughed. “But I got Dad’s good looks.”

  She snorted, then sighed. “He was good looking, though.”

  He was, if the pictures showed a true likeness. Mom’s eyes would linger when she’d show them to me, a finger tracing his jawline as if he were there to appreciate it.

  “When did you know you were in love with him?”

  “Oh, dear.” She leaned her elbows on the table and brought both her hands together to rest her chin on. “I’ve told you about the night he asked me to dance, right?”

  “Yeah. You went to the prom with some guy named Shorty or something.”

  “That’s what your dad called him, but his name was actually James.” I loved that she referred to her husband as my dad even though I’d never known him. It gave me a sense of place. “He was nice, but he wasn’t Mark.” She sat straighter. “Your dad crossed the dance floor like a man on a mission. He said, ‘You look so beautiful tonight, Trudi.’” She fanned herself. “Excuse me, but it was just so damn sexy. There he was in that suit with eyes that could burn up a stone. I wouldn’t say I knew I was in love with him then. I mean, that would’ve felt foolish at the time. Looking back, though, I knew it. He only proved it with time.”

  My heart caught in my throat, and I wiped my eyes. “That’s beautiful, Mom.”

  “I wish you’d gotten to know him. He was something else.” How different might my life have turned out if I’d had a proper dad, a proper male role model instead of learning about men and boys either from books or from hanging at my friends’ houses and watching how their fathers and brothers behaved?

  She waved away a fly. “When did you know you were in love with Peter?”

  “I dunno.” I closed my eyes, trying to blot out memories of Peter, focusing on the feel of the breeze tousling my hair, the sound of a lawn mower in the distance, the warmth of the sun on my legs. But Mom’s recollection, seeing Dad emerge from a crowd, was so like my first encounter with Peter, the memory played like a movie on the inside of my lids.

  I’d met Peter in Indianapolis at my first job out of college. Whereas Layla had been happy to return home right away, I focused on growing up and growing away from Orion. I found a perverse excitement in entering the mundane world of adulthood. University had become routine and boring, but like an enthusiastic lemming, I went to the job fairs hoping to find a corporate love connection so I could get out into the “real world” and start my life.

  Next came the career clothes, the job interviews, the offer letter, the apartment hunt, the new key, the old furniture, the laminated ID badge, the impersonal cube, and the team of interchangeable coworkers. Mom helped me get settled in, then with a wistful farewell, she turned around and drove the thirty-five minutes home, leaving me alone, but not stranded, in the big city that proclaimed, “Apple is our middle name.”

  Enjoying my first taste of freedom, I’d barely scouted out the available pool of single men when I saw Peter for the first time at a corporate party. He oozed the kind of sexy confidence that would catch any woman’s attention. The premature silver streaks in his hair coupled with his Brooks Brothers elegance lent him a decade he hadn’t earned. He was so ethereally beautiful, he drew all the eyes in the room, but his eyes connected with mine, and he headed straight for me, snagging two glasses of champagne off a server’s tray.

  He approached, offering a flute. “I’ll trade you a glass of champagne for your name.”

  I resisted the urge to snort at the cheesy come on. “That’s hardly a fair exchange. The champagne was free.”

  “The courage to come talk to you wasn’t.”

  Just like that, the admission of vulnerability endeared him to me.

  “I’m Madeleine.”

  “Like in Proust?” He winced. “Oh, sorry. That’s kind of obscure. Did you know a madeleine is—”

  I arched an eyebrow at his attempted mansplaining. “It’s a small shell-shaped sponge cake.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh, of course you’d know your namesake. I shouldn’t have—”

  Vanity pricked, I shook my index f
inger at him. “If you think Marcel Proust is obscure, I’d hate to know what you’d make of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

  His face relaxed, like he’d found a way out of the quagmire he’d stumbled into. “I’ll concede your mastery of French authors, but I’ve actually read The Little Prince.”

  Pretty and well-read? “What’s your name?”

  He held out his hand. “Peter Mercer at your service.”

  Never were truer words spoken. For months, Peter pursued me in a way that gave me something to call home about. We flirted over the corporate messaging system, and he sent flowers to my cube on my birthday. He surprised me on our second Christmas with tickets to Hamilton and a weekend excursion to Chicago. He was the boyfriend Dylan had never even tried to be.

  Peter came from another world, like a character out of Fitzgerald. He had an old world confidence derived from old school money, and the taste and refinement that went along with that. He was choosy, and his approbation wasn’t easy to win. The simple fact that he’d chosen me had lent me borrowed confidence to do things I might not have dared. Like writing a novel or buying a bookstore. I might have found that courage on my own, but seeing myself through his eyes had given me a sense of power.

  Meanwhile the excitement of my new adult responsibilities was wearing off only to be replaced by droning meetings, grammatically odious emails, eyeball-blurring requirements documents, cringe-worthy jargon, and the soul-crushing day in and day out of contributing nothing at all creative to the world. I was no more nor less competent than those around me, so I was promoted. Peter and I celebrated those milestones as if they were achievements I’d always wanted. I’d come to believe the rewards had value, and for years, I filled out my annual performance reviews hoping to see Excelled rather than merely Achieved because Excelled came with a bigger wheel of cheese, and I could buy another pair of shoes, add more books to my shelves, and upgrade to a premium cable package. But corporate life was corroding my insides.

  Since cubicle conversation revolved around sports and sitcoms, Peter’s tendency to read and chat about books made him my port in a storm. Our courtship was the only thing that kept me from running home with my tail between my legs.

  As my job grew more mundane, I started to daydream dragons would fly into my managers’ meeting and carry away the shrieking bodies of my peers. Or I’d imagine a portal opening, coaxing me on an adventure, though I feared if I walked through it, it might deposit me into the middle of a budget meeting in another part of the building. When I moved to my own office, I had the privacy to work less than anyone believed. At first, I wasted some of that precious time keeping abreast of the news, but one day I opened a blank Word doc and dumped out a scene that had come to me. Then another. Soon, the daydreaming stopped being an incidental distraction and became a serious problem, an addiction. I started typing fiction into draft emails on my phone while I was supposed to be following along with a PowerPoint presentation about the new payroll software. I started writing at night when Peter and I were supposed to be sharing our life together.

  My retreat into fantasy may have been the initial blow to our relationship.

  Our communication suffered first. We’d sit across from each other in a coffee shop, Peter reading stock prices on his phone while I daydreamed about magic. Rather than appreciate him, I regretted that I wasn’t sitting at home with my characters, writing the book he’d come to resent.

  Then came the bookstore, the second blow to our relationship. Possibly the kill shot.

  At the start, we both anticipated a new adventure, and we talked about eventually marrying and settling down near town. It was all working out perfectly. He proposed to me at Christmas at his parents’ house, and we set a date for the following year, last December.

  When did I know I was in love with Peter? I thought I knew, but he didn’t prove anything with time. “Maybe I never did.”

  Mom side-eyed me. “You loved him, Maddie, but you’re working through your grief. Last January, all you could talk about were the good times, what you’d lost. Lately, you’ve started dwelling on the problems you had, but we all have problems, even in the best of times. It’s never all good or all bad. Remember that.”

  “Maybe I should have paid more attention to the bad times before.” I sucked on a piece of ice until it melted to a sliver, thinking about her words of wisdom. I wished I’d grown up watching a real couple deal with life. The Becketts were a decent stand-in, but I’d hazard a guess they were on their best behavior whenever I was over. I didn’t know what to do with imperfection. “Did you have bad times even with Dad?”

  “Even with Dad. We had a solid friendship at the core of our relationship. We could always come back to that.”

  I was well versed in their friendship.

  “But you had problems?” I didn’t know what answer I wanted from her. I liked to imagine my perfect dad, but if everyone was flawed, did that let me off the hook? Did it let Peter off the hook?

  She shook her head. “I know you want to believe in happy-ever-after, but you don’t always get an after. You have to try to be happy now.”

  How could I be happy? I’d been treading water for six months, waiting for my life to revert to what it once was. “Are you saying I should give up the bookstore and go back to Peter?”

  “Would that make you happy?”

  “That would make me feel like I’d lost.”

  She frowned, another one of those facial expressions that defied description. Her lips pinched together, twisted downward, more rueful than sad. Her mouth said without words that she wished she knew what to say, but we’d been over this ground often.

  She’d invested in Peter, had pictured her grandkids already. It was hard for her to let go and start over. It was hard for me, too.

  I asked her about her bunco game the night before, like I was throwing a stick across the yard to distract an eager puppy. She took the bait and spent the rest of our time laughing about the mistakes of others.

  When we’d run out of conversation, I borrowed her bike and rode over to Dylan’s.

  Chapter 13

  Cicadas sang in the field as I pedaled the mile to the Ramirez’s farm. I had to wave away a horsefly buzzing me, attracted to the sweat rolling down my neck from the insufferable late-June sun. I didn’t want to encourage Dylan’s seductive assault, so I didn’t even worry that I was sweaty and gross with my hair piled in a knot at the top of my head. I needed every weapon in my lady arsenal to repel him. Even at high noon on a Sunday, I wouldn’t put it past him to look sexily at me.

  My fortress would need to be well defended, drawbridge raised, alligators in the moat.

  I turned onto the long tree-lined dirt road that led to the farmhouse and the barn behind. I hadn’t ridden out this far in years.

  Dylan and I had been dating a month when we started hanging out in his parents’ barn. He’d set the guitar on his lap and play me the songs he’d been writing, insisting I’d inspired him to create the sensual lyrics he’d then sing to me. After a stanza or two, I’d lift the guitar out of his hands and straddle him. We’d kiss until we were breathless.

  He didn’t rush, but he also never hid how much he wanted to move inside me. I filled diaries with the outpouring of youthful desire he brought out: my introduction into fiction writing.

  It was an unseasonably sultry October day when he wove a magic spell so strong it pushed me from hesitation to certainty. Even then, he took his time, not worried I’d change my mind. He stripped each item of clothing from my body as he traced my skin with his fingers. I was electric.

  Our bodies weren’t a total mystery. We’d explored everywhere, but we’d never lain naked together, instinctively saving that for this moment.

  Eager as I was to finally lay my eyes on his heavenly body, I wasn’t quite so adept at helping him shed his own T-shirt and jeans. He lay beside me and touched me in ways he’d only hinted at before. I was terrified someone would walk in on us, but also exhilarated and excite
d and so ready.

  Dylan was ready, too. He produced a condom from some unknown cache, and I watched wide-eyed as he rolled it on. When he nudged my knees apart, I let my legs fall open and held my breath, braced for the pain.

  Then it happened.

  Dylan pushed himself against me. And pushed again. It was obvious even to me I should have felt something inside me. He tried again and laughed. “Um. This is awkward.”

  Neither of us had the least experience with this, and neither of us realized it wasn’t as easy to deflower a girl as books had led us to believe. He tried valiantly once more, but we were frustrated. He slid over and sat up. “I have an idea. Stay here.”

  He got up, got dressed, and left me naked in the loft of the barn. His motorbike started up, and he rode away. Confused, I waited, and then after fifteen minutes, he returned with a small sack from the pharmacy from which he produced a tube with the letters K-Y on the side.

  The next song he wrote was entitled, “Lube in a Tube,” and I’m the only person who ever heard it.

  I couldn’t honestly say that first time was glorious or even orgasmic, at least not for me. But all through that year, we learned how things worked, and we became an extension of each other, fused at the lips when we weren’t fused at the hips. Some of those nights were spectacular.

  Although we were together exclusively, and I trusted that was the case, Dylan never made promises to me. He never talked about our future. I thought I was in love with him, and it hurt that he wouldn’t commit to anything long term. I did get him to at least call me his girlfriend. That was just a word, though. It didn’t keep him from following a more compelling dream. I always knew his music would come before me.