“The girls can be very persuasive,” I say and fail to mention the impending job offer dangling from Kelly’s fingers.
“I didn’t think you’d go along with it.”
“Neither did I. It’s kind of humiliating.”
“How do you think the guys feel?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Now that I think about it, I’ve never wondered about how the girls choose the men I’m supposed to meet. It’s like ancient China where the mothers and the matchmakers joined forces and foisted arranged marriages on their children.
“It’s kind of mean-spirited. Your friends talk to these guys, but they think they’re talking to you. I’d be pissed if I found out the girl I was chatting with online turned out to be some female compendium fobbing me off on their friend who doesn’t really want to meet me.”
Well, now that he puts it that way.
“I suppose I could try harder.” I thought I was giving this a solid effort but then recall constant pessimism and nicknaming of possible suitors. I should probably lay off.
He shrugs again and pours me the rest of the water before saying, “You could ask the girls to turn things over to you, so you actually ‘meet’ the guy before seeing him.”
“I didn’t think you could get to know someone just from emails. There’s no way to tell what they really mean. No body language or facial expressions. Words are powerful, but most people couldn’t put a coherent sentence together on paper if it would stop a nuclear cataclysm.”
He reaches out and pats my shoulder, and I shake my head. This lunch has been more exhausting than I anticipated. Maybe we should have invited Carly along to relieve the tension. She would have been more fun.
“If they won’t let you talk to your matches, then you should quit. At least you tried.”
“I can’t quit,” I say, feeling miserable. “I think that’s rule number twelve.”
I get home to a message from Alicia: “Hey babe. No second date with Larry. He wrote the age difference might make things too difficult. Said he had no idea what you were talking about when you mentioned Rascal Flatts. Thought it was small town in New Mexico or something. Talk later. Bye.”
Hurray, saved from agonizing second date. Now that I have the rest of August off, maybe I can go to the Renaissance Festival I’ve had to miss every year. I find whenever I have time off, I can never settle on anything and turn back to work. Fun huh?
I settle down at my desk and pull the romance manuscript toward me. I groan, knowing many “hot embraces” and “lusty feelings” await me. Reading these pages is like watching a horror movie. I keep screaming, “Don’t go in there, you idiot! He’s in there!” Only “he” is the main character’s ex-boyfriend and not some deranged axe murderer. At this point I’m not sure which would be worse to run into.
I try to focus on the manuscript but am nagged by a tiny thought. I’m troubled by Justin’s comments at lunch. How would I feel if I joined an online dating site, hoping to meet someone trustworthy and kind, only to be unknowingly coerced into a hostile date? How have I been behaving on these dates? Tony and Tristan both agreed to second outings, so I can’t have been that awful. True, I did leave the date with Larry after one torturous hour, but that’s because we had nothing to talk about except work, and I didn’t get caught up in his lawyerly struggles, nor did he seem interested in what I do. I mentioned wanting to be an author when I was younger, and he nattered on about how he once wrote three hundred pages of a crime novel before laughing it off. He said, “a friend of mine offered to publish it if I could manage to finish, but who has the time for that kind of nonsense? I couldn’t believe I wasted two months writing it!”
If there was a way to politely stick one’s fist down another’s throat and squeeze the larynx, I would have done it. It was not a good experience for either of us, and we parted with a firm handshake after I insisted on paying for my wine and quesadilla. I only became drunk and incoherent after he’d gone, and I switched bars and wines.
Maybe it’s Justin’s spurned male ego talking, or he’s sticking up for his sex in general. Nothing like that could have happened to him…could it? Am suddenly feeling very rude and inconsiderate of opposite sex. Perhaps I can talk the girls out of this (what’s the opposite of chauvinistic?) plot. I don’t think I’ll succeed, but I’ll feel better if I try to dissuade them.
I have the feeling I’m in this for the long haul, no matter Justin’s concerns. If a few egos are bruised in the process I can hardly be blamed. I’ll point my finger at the girls and run.
That’s a good plan, right?
Wishing I could curl up in bed or take a bath with a good book, I incline my head instead, turn to the page I left off in Kiss and Tell and delve back into Elizabeth Hanks’s tale of love’s woes and triumphs. In case you’re wondering, I have yet to reach any triumphs and am wondering if finding love is all that important or integral for a full life.
Excerpt from Kiss and Tell, a novel by Elizabeth Hanks
Melinda knew the moment she walked through the door that someone was waiting for her. She resisted shaking the rainwater off her coat. Musky scents of men’s aftershave filled the foyer, and a large black umbrella rested near the door. It had to be Jack. Who else would have a key? Melinda pondered why she had not changed the locks, because she should have known he would be back, if not for her than surely for his flat screen television. He could pry it off the wall if he wanted to, but she would be sure to send him the repair bill. How dare he come into her home?
She slipped off her kitten heels and tiptoed past the living room and dining area, hearing soft voices in the kitchen. It was a lilting opera Soprano. Jack detested classical music. She smelled bread baking and heard a pan sizzle with oil. But Jack was a terrible cook. Who could possibly be in her house cooking?
Fearing it was the gardener she fired for planting azaleas instead of rhododendrons, Melinda imagined sharpened hedge trimmers and the man’s frightening laugh. Was that his voice in the kitchen or the opera’s Tenor?
Melinda turned to run but then someone called from the kitchen,
“Melinda? Is that you? I hope you like Italian!”
It was Michael! Dear sweet Michael! Melinda recalled leaving the door unlocked before she went out in case Michael stopped by to set up her new shelves. She had not noticed them in the living room. But why was he still here making dinner?
The question bright in her mind, and a long smile on her lips, Melinda ambled into the kitchen and Michael stood wearing nothing but a blue paisley apron. His perfect backside rippled with muscles, and Melinda held a hand to her blushing cheek. He said, “I hope you’re ready for heat tonight, because I made Linguine Arrabiata.”
September
Go Green Greg and Rule Number Four: Don’t sweat the small stuff.
“You did what?” I yell, and the entire bar turns to look.
“It’s not that bad,” stammers Keeley, shocked at my reaction.
“Not that bad?” I glare at her, and Alicia glances around at the gawkers, who quickly return to their pints and wine glasses. It’s like a car accident: impossible to look away. “Not. That. Bad?”
We’re having drinks at Ciao Bella in Bloomington, and despite misgivings of eating outside the Cities proper, I joined the girls for a pep talk and news of September’s online model.
Fall has finally come and chased summer humidity away. The leaves are beginning to change from bright green to yellow, orange, and red, and it smells like bonfires and rain. Autumn in Minnesota is my favorite season, mainly because I can’t stand intense heat or cold and get terrible allergies in the spring. It’s time to wind down from a hectic summer outdoor schedule and get back to school or work, although I never stop working. Maybe I do have a problem taking time off.
I finished the first read-through of the Hanks romance and have yet to make one mark on the pages. I’ll show Kelly that I can handle Melinda and Michael’s “pulsating pink sword.” How that woman found so many synonyms for gen
italia is beyond me.
“You’ll have fun,” says Lindsey. “You love Lake Harriet.”
“I love sitting next to the lake with a picnic basket full of bread and cheese and wine. What am I supposed to do on a bike? I fall off bikes!” They all get a good snicker out of that, but I don’t find it funny. The last time I rode a bike was in high school, and I fell into a ditch on the way to my boyfriend’s house. “Why did you tell this guy I liked bike-riding?”
“Because it’ll be good for you,” says Alicia. “Trying new things never hurt anyone.”
“Tell that to the Christians the Romans threw to the lions,” I mutter and take a drink of pinot noir. Autumn means red wine. Yum.
“Over-dramatic as usual,” says Keeley.
Aside: after my lunch with Justin where he crossed Keeley off his possible love connection list, I called her and explained that he wasn’t in a good place to start a relationship. She cried and asked what was wrong with her, and why did all the good men throw her out with the garbage and the bad ones come along and fawn all over her. Was it her hips? Did he think she didn’t dance well? Had she misquoted the poems she mentioned? (She mentioned poems?)
Mortified by Justin’s disinterest and sure I had something to do with it, she hadn’t called me until the end of August for this booze and gossip summit. She apologized for thinking I might have cautioned Justin against her and said she would never distrust me again. It was kind to let her know about Justin’s feelings before she got truly attached. God, that girl can bounce back like a champ.
“What if I fall in the lake or run over a small child?”
“You won’t run anyone over,” says Lindsey, but she doesn’t discount falling in the lake.
“If it looks like a collision’s coming just stop and wait for the person to pass,” says Alicia and Keeley titters in the corner of the booth.
“Does my imminent demise amuse you?”
“Only slightly.”
“You guys suck,” I say and cross my arms over my chest, lower lip protruding.
“It was a last second decision,” says Lindsey, and Alicia and Keeley glare at her, as if this wasn’t need-to-know information. I feel like a lowly private surrounded by generals deciding my fate on the battlefield. “What? She might as well know about the pre-date break-up. Could have happened to anyone.”
“The what now?” Alicia shrugs and Keeley looks crestfallen. She does not look at me but says, “Pre-date break-up. It’s so humiliating.” She puts her face in her hands. “We had this great guy lined up for September, because we know you love fall and might be in a good mood.”
“All of this,” I say and motion around the table, “makes me crazy.”
“And he seemed interested in you,” Keeley goes on as though I did not speak. “And we had a really great idea for your date, but then he canceled. He said he thought it wouldn’t work out between you two. He got really forceful about it actually.” She finishes quickly and gulps her drink, a pink Cosmopolitan. The lemon twist almost shoots down her throat, but she chokes it back out. It plops into the glass and pink droplets fly.
“He broke up with you guys before I could even meet him?” Now that’s funny. Although, if it had happened to me, I would be so mortified and pissed off that I might dive into a pint of ice cream and never surface.
They nod, Alicia and Keeley flustered and Lindsey unconcerned.
“Whatever,” says Lindsey. “Forget him. Just another dickhead. Greg will be a nice change of pace. He’s fit and likes the outdoors, just like you.”
“My idea of “the outdoors” is probably a little different from his.”
They tell me Greg Donaldson enjoys camping in the Boundary Waters and hiking through the Rocky Mountains. He’s also climbed some of the most difficult summits in the world, including K2. He sounds intriguing, but if he thinks I’m trekking my ass up Mount Everest he has another think coming.
“It’s just a bike ride,” says Lindsey. “You’re not signing up for the Tour de France.”
“And how are we supposed to get to know each other while I’m screaming at innocent bystanders to get out of the way?”
“A picnic,” says Alicia. “He’s bringing food. You bring the blanket.”
I should resign myself to this dating hell, because the girls are far more determined than I thought. I figured it might last two months, then they would give up, admit defeat. There is no sign of slowing down. I’m in for the long run, because they’re not bored yet. My constant struggling has most likely made them a stronger unit, far better equipped to deal with my antagonism than I thought.
“And where am I going to get a bike?”
“From me, silly,” says Lindsey, voice like poisoned honey. “Happy early Christmas.” She swallows the rest of her wine. “So, don’t expect anything come December.”
Instead of dressing me like her life-size doll, Keeley writes a laundry list of outfits from my closet that will work for the biking extravaganza. Hoping that she chose cotton shorts, a t-shirt, and a sports bra, I shudder when I look it over:
That cute pumpkin-colored cap-sleeve top with dark wash denim capris and wedge sandals.
Rosy short-sleeve button down with brown Bermuda shorts and suede flip-flops.
Tan hippy tunic with denim skirt and espadrilles.
She wants me to wear a skirt on a bike. I have nothing more to add.
And heels. Sorry. That also had to be said.
Lake Harriet is beautiful. Part of the Minneapolis Chain of Lakes, it spans about 400 acres and three-mile bike and walking trails encircle it. Extremely popular once winter snow melts, sand volleyball courts as well as other sports fields dot the area, and beaches cater to sun bathers and swimmers. You can always see sailboats, canoes, and even yachts careening about in the water. There’s a small collection of shops nearby described as “a small town in the City.”
I like jogging here in the fall, because the foliage is grand, but usually wait until late September or October because of the crowds. Cyclists, runners, skaters, new moms pushing strollers, dog walkers, and high school sports teams frequent the area, making it too clogged for a relaxing run.
As I find a parking space near the Bandshell and pull my shiny new bike out of the trunk, I notice a group of Indian men and women playing cricket on a grassy area. An interesting occurrence outside Europe (or anywhere that’s not the United States), I’ve never seen a live cricket match. I have no idea how the game is played or what the rules are, but the man in the middle throwing the ball is the bowler. Slender, with muscular arms and a steady gaze, the bowler runs at the batsman and hurls the ball. The speed, intensity, and grace of this small game are exciting, and I feel as though I’m in a foreign land instead of my city. I close my eyes, take a breath, and listen to the game’s sounds. People cheer, and the teams laugh and slap hands after the batsman connects with the ball and makes his run.
“Are you Cassandra?” The voice pulls me from my reverie, and I spin around, almost losing my grip on the bike. It slides away from me, and I grab for the handlebars, but another firm hand grips the front tire and steadies it. I look up, but not very far up.
“Greg?” He stands only a little taller than me, and he might be thinner, all muscle under tight bike shorts and a fitted t-shirt. (I’m glad I chose jean shorts and a simple tank top.) His brown eyes are close-set and large, giving him a startled appearance, and his lips are thin and pale. An aquiline nose dominates his face, and I think of a yellow-eyed hawk. With those biceps and lithe body, he might be able to fly. A bike helmet hangs from one hand, and his other holds my hyperactive bicycle in place.
“That’s me. Greg Donaldson.” He drops the bike and reaches for my hand. A firm shake, one pump, and he’s out. His hands are heavily calloused, I guess from climbing or doing some other manly thing, and he wears a thick woven bracelet on his right wrist.
Expecting someone different, damn girls and their lack of information, I fumble for words. “Cassandra McTiernan. Nice
to meet you?” It comes out as a question, and I feel like an idiot. The bike makes another bid for freedom, but I grasp it in time. There is no car nearby, so he must have biked here. I wonder if he lives close by.
“Are you ready to ride? We should get moving before more people show up and take our space. There’s nothing worse than trying to wade through crowds on a bike.”
Ride? Already? But I wanted to practice more. Once around my block and standing on the pedals in my apartment has not prepared me for an actual ride. I must appear skittish, because he smiles and says, “You’ll be fine. You said you haven’t ridden in a while, so I’ll go slow.” I’m not sure if he’s patronizing me, but I am grateful for the offer. I’m treating the bike like a bronco in the chute, and I think he can sense it.
“Do you have a helmet?” Not only do I have the most expensive and safe helmet out there, I also have shin and elbows guards. I pull them on and strap the helmet over my hair. That will be fun later. He grins at my appearance, which must be ridiculous, but at least I won’t get too banged up if I crash.
“I’m ready.” I straddle the bike, but it feels alien underneath me, like it might grow engines and hurl me into the atmosphere. Why did I agree to this? I find I’m saying that a lot lately.
“Let’s go! It’s only three miles so we can always go around a few times if you want.” Off he goes, pedaling slowly and weaving across the sidewalk. He’s waiting for me. Okay, hands tight on handlebars, feet strong on pedals, bike seat highly uncomfortable on butt, triple check. Whoever designed bicycle seats must have had a fat, cushioned ass, because without ample support, it’s like sitting on golf cleats.
I push off and the bike breaks to the side. My feet shoot off the pedals and steady the rampaging vehicle, and I breathe heavier. Come on, Cassie. You can do this. It’s just a bike. Once you learn how to do it, the knowledge never leaves. It’s just latent and hiding at the moment. Hoping not to make a complete fool of myself, I set off once more, and this time nothing wobbles. It feels odd to ride a bike if you’ve given it up for ten years. The foreign feeling of not being encased in a car is perplexing, and I’m not sure how to describe it. Imagine forgetting how to read after years of neglect. That would be awful.
Men of the Year Page 9