Nathan’s laugh had been deep and genuine. “She stole your number off my phone while I was in the bathroom, I swear.”
“I’m not sure that I believe you. But I can’t disappoint her, so I’d be delighted to be of assistance with the prepaid catering.”
“She didn’t tell you the catering was already paid for.”
“Oh yes, she most certainly did.”
“I’m so, so very sorry about that. But I’m glad you can come.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“His MOTHER?” Nadia exclaims.
“Yep.”
“So what did you do?”
“What could I do? I called Rachel and begged off our plans for me to come over to hang out with her family. Then I ran out to Macy’s, bought a dress and shoes and purse and industrial-strength Spanx, assaulted a teenage boy and embarrassed him in front of his friends by asking what he would want for a present, went to the recommended games store and bought a gift certificate, ran back to the hotel and got ready.”
“It is sooooo romantic.” Nadia sighs.
“It was the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I kept waiting to wake up.”
“It’s like a total fairy tale.” She sighs dramatically.
“Yeah, I guess it sort of is.” It has been a very long time since the attention of a man made me feel like this.
“I’m so proud of you for saying yes!”
“Yeah.” I blush a little, wondering why it is that I like the sound of this child being proud of me, but it makes me feel sort of cool.
“C’mon, keep going, I want the good stuff!”
“He picked me up in a cab, we went to the party, I met his entire family, all of whom were so genuine and warm and happy I was there, and we played Jewish geography and found out that his uncle did some business with my grandfather, and one of his cousins actually went to high school with my dad, so that was really cool to hear some stories about my dad in high school. We were at a table with his first cousins and their spouses, who were very nice people, the food was typical bar mitzvah food, and there were the usual speeches and we all laughed about how the boys were shorter than most of the girls, and how much we remember those first boy-girl dances, and wondered if there is a school where DJs learn their insipid patter. We danced the horah. We sat out ‘YMCA’ and ‘Celebration.’ His family seemed to think it was really great how we met, his ninety-three-year-old grandmother called it b’shert, which means fated, and none of them seemed at all surprised that he would want to bring a total stranger to such a private party. By the time we left, they all hugged and kissed me like I was part of the family, and the bar mitzvah boy told me very seriously that Nathan is his favorite cousin, and he was really glad I was there with him.”
“You didn’t freak out, did you?”
“Freak out?”
“You know how you are about the whole touchy-feely thing. I mean, all those strangers mauling you and kissing you and hugging you and being affectionate . . .” She smirks.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Only if it doesn’t put my employment or residence status in jeopardy.”
“It does not.”
“Then yeah, I’m totally giving you shit.”
“Fired.”
“HEY!”
“Evicted.”
“CUT THAT OUT!”
“Kidding. No I did not freak out, it was perfectly lovely. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never been to that kind of family event before. It was really sort of amazing.”
“And then you jumped him.”
“I did no such thing. He took me back to the hotel, we had a drink, we made plans for this coming weekend, and then he left.”
Nadia sighs deeply, shaking her head. “How old is he?” she asks.
“Forty-seven.”
Nadia looks somewhat stricken, as if I have told her that he was nearing death. “Oh,” she says.
I laugh at her. “Honey, I know that’s nearly twice your age, but I’m going to be forty next month, he is really very age-appropriate for me.”
“You’re going to be forty?”
“Yes. And someday, so will you.”
“Wow. What are we going to do?”
“Pick up some Depends and sign me up for AARP and put a deposit down at the home, apparently.”
She hits me with the pillow. “I meant we have to have a party or something.” She grins. “You can bring your new boyfriend!”
“We’ll see.”
“So this weekend?”
“Yes. We have plans for dinner Sunday night.”
“Cool.”
“I hope so.”
“Your boy story is so much better than my boy story.”
“What is your boy story?”
“You know I used to go to Janey’s eleven a.m. class, right?”
“Right.”
“But with you gone, I have been going to the evening class instead, after work.”
“Gotcha.”
“So there is this guy in the back of the room at the first class, I don’t really even notice him until we are leaving, but I dropped my mat and he picked it up and smiled at me and then ran away.”
“Interesting. Cute?” I feel sort of like an idiot, and hate myself for not being terribly interested. I wanted so much to share my weekend with Nadia, to let her know how amazing it was, to validate that I should be excited about meeting Nathan and our strange adventure, but now that the story is told and she has been duly appreciative, I want to unpack and get into comfy clothes, and check my e-mail just on the off chance Nathan has written me. I want to care about Nadia’s new boy, I want to be a real friend to her, and so, following the old adage of “fake it till you make it,” I put my best face on, and try to appear engaged.
She chews thoughtfully on a strand of lavender hair. It must be new; I haven’t noticed it before, but it complements the pink pretty well. “He’s not cute. At least I don’t think so. He is ultra skinny, not in a manorexic way, just in that way that some boys get when they forget to eat. And he has terrible glasses that don’t seem to fit his face, and shaggy hair that falls in his eyes. He is short, just a couple inches taller than me, and he isn’t very good at the yoga. He keeps falling over during the poses, or his glasses fall off during downward-facing dog.”
“But he likes you.” I smile, remembering all the times in my youth that the guy I never would have thought was attractive became irresistible the moment I found out he was attracted to me. Adoration is very sexy.
Nadia smiles. “I think so. The second night he moved up to the middle of the class, and the third night to the row right behind me, and tonight he put his mat next to mine. His name is Daniel Holst, and he does something with computers, and his clothes neither match nor fit him properly, and he seems to have a four-sentence limit on conversation, and then runs away.”
“So you like him.”
She sighs deeply and flops backward on the couch. “I feel like I should try to like him. He isn’t a musician or an artist or married. He isn’t tattooed or pierced or scarred, at least not the parts I have seen. He’s probably just normal, and I’ve never dated anyone normal, so maybe I should try to like him.”
“You should allow yourself the possibility of liking him and let nature take care of the rest.”
“But he is so nervous, and never talks, I feel like he is scared of me, so I don’t want to freak him out. He’s like some woodland creature, and I’m trying to coax him out of his lair.”
I laugh. There is no angst like twenty-four-year-old boy angst. “Then do what you would do with a woodland creature to tame them.”
“What’s that?”
“Feed him. You say he is skinny, probably forgets to eat. Next class bring him something . . . tell him you cooked too much and thought he might want the extra.”
“That is SUCH a good idea.” Nadia launches herself into my arms. Then she pulls back and tilts her head to the side.
“What should I make him?”
BANANA CAKE WITH CHOCOLATE FROSTING
Every birthday it would appear: my mom’s signature banana cake with chocolate frosting. She had gotten the recipe from Susan, a sorority sister at the University of Michigan, and it was really the only cake she ever baked. Mom was more of a cookie baker, with dozens of recipes, and Christmastime at our house was all about cookies for what seemed to be weeks, much to my delight, since I could steal the broken ones and hoard them in my room to snack on in secret late at night. She made a decent key lime pie, her brownies were terrible, cakey and not really sweet enough, and every St. Patrick’s Day she produced truly inedible Irish soda bread. But her banana cake with chocolate frosting was, in a word, sublime. Every year on our birthdays my family would wake the birthday person up with a cake, singing “Happy Birthday,” and we would eat it for breakfast. If it was a school day, we’d get a piece in our lunchbox. We’d eat it again as an after-school snack with tall glasses of cold milk, and finish it off for dinner. Banana cake never lasted to a second day in our house. And when I got old enough to bake them myself, they still never made it to the second day, even if I was the only one home.
“That was delicious, thank you.” Nathan wipes his mouth on his napkin, and leans back contentedly. “I have to say, I was a little worried, but this was amazing!”
We are sitting at my tiny dining table. It is officially our third Chicago date, and I invited him over for a late supper after I got off of work. Since tomorrow is Monday, and my day off, I figured I would be more relaxed, not thinking about the store, or what needed to get done there. But I’m not relaxed. Because this is our third date, and Nadia is at Janey’s having a sleepover, and Nathan and I have had two passionate clothes-on make-out sessions, and I know from watching Sex and the City about the third-date rule that I’m supposed to sleep with him, and I know he knows it, and I know I want to, and I’m scared out of my wits. I try to focus on conversation.
“Why were you worried?”
“Well, I know you kept telling me gourmet, delicious, good-for-you food, but in general I tend to find that people who eat ultrahealthy tend to say things are delicious when in fact they taste like lawn clippings and sawdust.”
I laugh. “I know! I can’t tell you how many times over the years people tried to give me soy cheese and tempeh fake-meat, and other ickiness and pass it off as yummy. I’m sorry but no, you cannot make vegetable protein taste like bacon, no matter how much salt and liquid smoke you put in it! I wanted to celebrate good food, prepared in ways that make it good for you, which is surprisingly easy to do if you know the basics. If you use exceptional products that have inherent natural goodness, you don’t need to swamp them in butter or cream to make them taste good.” For dinner we’d had grilled skirt steaks, spicy Thai sesame noodles from my friend Doug’s recipe, braised cauliflower, and for dessert, poached pears and Greek yogurt with lavender flowers and black sage honey. Filling, balanced, nutritionally sound.
“Well, you’ve made me a believer. If you hadn’t told me this was a healthy good-for-you meal, I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“That is the best compliment you could pay me!” I clear the dishes and put them in the sink. Nathan comes up behind me, slides his arms around my waist and kisses the back of my neck.
“I think a better compliment is that you are as delicious as your food.”
I’m melting into a little puddle in my kitchen. Nathan gently spins me in his arms with a gentle tug on my shoulder, and kisses me. He is the best kisser. An even better kisser than Andrew, who I always thought was a pretty spectacular kisser. But where Andrew devoured me, Nathan savors. He starts gently, lips full and warm against mine, strong. His lips part slightly, so that we are sharing breath, and then just the tip of his tongue, lightly exploring. He guides me out of the kitchen to the living room, and sits me on the couch.
“So, how has your week been?” I ask, trying to catch my breath.
“My week was fine, it was mostly just something to get through so I could be here with you.” He leans in and is kissing me again. And my heart is racing with excitement and fear. I am thick with desire, everything is electric, and yet, I can’t relax into it, can’t imagine actually going to the next level, despite my deep longing to do so. Nathan is kissing me, kissing my neck, his hands in my hair, his body pressed against mine. I can feel his erection against my leg, his heartbeat thudding, and I want him so much, but when I feel his hand start to go up my shirt, reflexively I sit up and move away.
Nathan looks puzzled. “I’m sorry, is everything . . . Did I do something wrong, or . . . ?”
“No, you’re great, you’re amazing, I . . . um . . . just, I’m not really . . .”
He smiles and strokes my cheek tenderly. “You’re not ready.”
I look down at my hands, and try not to feel the lump in my throat, and try not to feel so stupid and broken.
“Hey, hey, stop that.” Nathan gathers me in his arms, and I melt into the embrace. He speaks softly into my hair. “You have been through a lot this past year, and you were betrayed by a man you trusted completely. You’ve learned total self-sufficiency, and I can only imagine how scary it would be to even be considering opening up to someone new, especially someone you barely know.” He cups my chin in his hands. “I really like you, Melanie Hoffman. I like the way you think and the way you tell stories, and the way you cook. You are a beautiful, smart, sexy, spectacular woman, and I’m more than happy to let you set the pace. Because as much as I want you, I only want to be with you when you are sure. You take whatever time you need, and you let me know.” He squeezes me tight, lifts my face, and kisses me softly. “Am I still your date for your birthday party next week?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can get together again one night this week?”
“I would love that.”
He grabs his coat, and walks to the door.
“I’m sorry, Nate, I . . .” He stops me with a kiss.
“Don’t you ever dare apologize for being you, or for being honest. Thank you for a lovely evening, and a wonderful meal. I will talk to you tomorrow.”
And then he is gone.
I busy myself, cleaning the dishes, straightening the kitchen. Then I go into my bedroom, get undressed, and put on my robe. I run a hot bath for myself, and while it fills, I let the robe drop to the floor and look at myself in the mirror. I have a good face, not beautiful, at least not to me, but reasonably attractively put together, handsome. But my body bears the scars of a lifetime of obesity. White stretch marks line the front of my stomach, my thighs, striate my breasts, which were once a lush 42DDD and are now a 36D, hanging deflated, defeated. The skin of my upper arms, my inner thighs, and over my abdomen is loose, and while there is excellent muscle tone underneath, the skin, which once was taut over soft pillows of fat, now slides in waves over the space I worked so hard for so long to create. There is my appendix scar, from when I was fourteen. The four little scars from my gallbladder removal. My butt, which once loomed in a massive shelf jutting out from my lower back like the stern of a proud sailing vessel, has somehow dropped into a sad double teardrop. In clothes, I’m a fit and healthy size 6 or 8. With the right bra, I have a great rack. But naked, naked I look like a newborn bird without feathers; something is not quite finished about me. I never wanted to get the excess skin removal surgery; it is costly and debilitating. But I also never really thought about being here. In this place. Alone and wanting a man and thinking that he would be disgusted.
I never felt like that when I was fat. Because when you are fat, really fat, everyone knows it, and any guy who goes to bed with you knows he is going to bed with a fat girl, so I never thought about it. And Andrew loved my fat, apparently that was really all he loved, so I was free and easy in bed with him. I have a large sexual appetite, as with all my appetites, and all I can think about is Nat
han, his tall strong body, how good it feels to be in his arms, how much I want him inside me. But I feel like a fraud. Because however good I look dressed, however normal I appear to be in public, once you strip me down, I have essentially the body of an old woman. And what man wants that in his bed?
I turn off the bathwater and pull the drain, too tired to think about getting in. I leave my robe on the floor, slide into my bed, and turn off the light. Lying down, I let my hands roam my body, my breasts splayed to each side, my skin mobile and elastic. My hand crawls between my legs, exploring the wetness still there from my earlier exhilaration. I remember Nathan’s kisses, the weight of him on me, his hardness pressed against me, and quickly, furtively, bring myself to a shuddering, empty orgasm. The tears are hot on my cheeks, sliding into my ears, and I bring my hand to my mouth, grateful for a small taste of something.
The next day, the phone rings just as I am putting the last of the platters into the case. I grab the counter extension.
“Dining by Design.”
“Hello, beautiful.”
Sigh. “Hello, Nathan.”
“How are you this fine morning?”
“Fine. Just getting ready to open the doors.” I pause. “How are you?” I’m completely ready for him to break up with me. Last night has been replaying in my mind on an endless loop. I slept fitfully, and this morning at the gym all I could think about was sending him home and wondering how many more times I would be able to do that before he bailed on me.
“I’m great. I wanted to thank you for a spectacular evening last night. Really wonderful.”
It doesn’t sound forced or fake, but his words cut me to the quick. His kindness is salt in the wound. “Well, thank you for coming, it was really good to see you.”
“I was wondering if you were free tonight? Late supper?”
My stomach turns. It’s one thing to space out the dates, limit the time together to postpone the inevitable, but the more time we spend together, the sooner I’m going to have to either decide to sleep with him, or to end the relationship.
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