I laughed and considered his plan. It seemed harmless enough and he did strike me as a legitimately nice guy. “Okay, I’ll text you when I get home.”
“Good. Give me your phone,” he ordered.
I slid it across the bar, he picked it up, entered his information and slid it back. I looked at the display. “Psycho from Foster’s” it read.
“Cute,” I said with another laugh. I was finding that I really liked this guy, despite his questionable personal life, and was secretly pleased that I would have a way to contact him again if I got the urge.
We finished off our drinks, which he insisted on paying for, and prepared to leave. I shouted out a quick goodbye to Joe, shook my head at his raised eyebrows, and we left the bar together.
“Joe thinks you’re getting lucky tonight,” Nate said.
“Not really. Joe just likes to hope everyone leaving his bar is getting lucky. It titillates him.”
“Not many people can use a word like ‘titillate’ without laughing,” he observed as he led me through the parking lot.
“I was giggling on the inside,” I said with a straight face and we laughed together again.
“This is me,” I said, pointing to my Ford Escape.
“You’re kidding.” He pointed to the vehicle parked next to mine. “This is me.” A Ford Escape. Thankfully, they were different colors or that might have been just too weird.
“Good taste,” I told him.
“Thank you, you too.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Sherry.”
“Another fine, but incorrect, effort,” I replied, taking his hand. “And it was nice to meet you, too. Have fun at tee-ball practice.”
“I will. And don’t forget to text me. I’ll be waiting.”
“I won’t forget. Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Rosanna.”
I laughed and shook my head. He just smiled. Then we got into our matching cars, exchanged waves, and drove away.
When I got home, I hurried through taking off my shoes and hanging up my jacket, strangely excited to send my text. I had just left the guy, yet I found myself looking forward to talking to him again. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt this way after meeting some random guy. It wasn’t a thunderbolt, but it was definitely pleasant.
Thinking he might still be driving, I delayed my gratification and made a cup of tea. It wasn’t even 8:30, but the events of the past two days and the incessantly crappy weather had left me feeling exhausted. I was looking forward to my bed.
But first things first.
I wasted another five minutes then picked up my phone and started texting.
Me: I’m home. All is well. Thanks again for your help, Psycho from Foster’s.
I stared at the phone in my hand and willed it to beep, which it did within a gratifyingly short amount of time.
Nate: You’re welcome, Nameless Hot Girl. Call me sometime.
I smiled at the “Hot Girl” bit. I also gave him extra brownie points for the correctly punctuated text.
Me: Maybe.
Nate: Tell me your name.
Me: Nope. Keep guessing. ☺
Nate: If I guess, will you go out with me?
Me: Don’t know. I’ll give you a hint, though...
Nate: I’m waiting…
Me: It’s not Rumpelstiltskin. ☺
Nate: Funny girl. ☺
Me: Goodnight, Psycho.
Nate: Goodnight, Hot Girl.
I set the phone down with a smile and finished my tea. Then, still smiling, I went to bed.
Chapter 6
I woke up the next morning to the sound of yet more rain hitting my bedroom windows. Looking at the clock, I sighed when I saw it was only 5:30. I should have expected this after going to bed with the chickens, as my grandmother liked to say.
My thoughts turned to Nate and I wondered if this rain would cancel his son’s practice. Maybe it would stop before then. Maybe it wasn’t even raining wherever he was. Maybe they practiced even if it was raining.
Maybe I should stop worrying about the stupid tee-ball practice.
Despite my desire to linger in the warmth of my bed, my bladder had other ideas so I was forced to get up. After brushing and flossing, I made a pot of coffee and tried to decide what I felt like doing today.
Saturday was a scheduled gym day, but I felt too lazy to make the trip. I poured myself a tall cup of coffee and wasted two and a half hours on the computer, cruising Facebook and Pinterest and playing a mindless, but addicting, game.
Shaking off my laziness, but not really wanting to, I shut off the computer and headed for the shower.
While enjoying the long, hot shower I normally didn’t have time for during the week, my thoughts turned again to Nate and his personal situation. I was curious about his relationship with his kids’ mother and wondered if they were still together. I was annoyed with myself for not clarifying that pertinent bit of information. He didn’t strike me as a cheater, but what does a cheater look like, really? I’d run into a few and they didn’t seem to have much in common, other than a lack of morals and an out-of-control horniness.
I decided that question would be the first thing I asked when I talked to him again. And I would talk to him again. Maybe if I didn’t hear from him by Sunday night, I’d text him. I just hoped I wasn’t going to be disappointed.
Then I let myself worry, but only for a moment, about Steve’s unexpected appearance. The whole drug issue blew my mind. Never in a million years would I have pegged him as the type to get involved with drugs, yet the evidence all seemed to point in that direction.
I hoped my seeing him last night was just a strange coincidence and one not likely to be repeated. It could be he was just in town to see his parents, who didn’t live that far away. As I wrapped one towel around my head then grabbed another and started to dry off, I mentally crossed my fingers and wished him back across the country.
I lifted my threadbare, but comfortable, pink robe from its hook on the back of the door and slid it on. Wiping the steam from the mirror, I stared at my reflection and, not for the first time, cursed the crapshoot that was genetics. I had a beautiful mother, yet most of my features came directly from my father. He was a nice-looking man, but his features belonged on a man.
My father’s eyes, plain brown, nothing exotic – but my mom always told me they sparkled when I was happy. I had never noticed a sparkle, and no one else had ever mentioned it, but if my mother said they sparkled, then they sparkled. Unfortunately, I also got my dad’s skimpy eyelashes, so mascara was always a priority.
I had been hoping to get away without putting on any makeup at all today, but because my complexion looked a little splotchy, I buffed on a mineral foundation, a couple of coats of mascara and a little blush.
Then I tackled my hair, the bane of my existence, the natural curl and chestnut brown color another gift from Dad. He kept his cropped pretty close to his head, but that look wouldn’t really work for me.
My hair was long and hung just below my shoulders – and it did whatever it wanted to do, so I didn’t try to fight it. My mother claimed to envy me my hair and others had said the same, but I think they were just being kind.
I combed through some leave-in conditioner, blow dried upside down with a diffuser, shook it out at the roots and called it a day.
Returning to my bedroom, I dressed quickly, putting on some sad-looking mismatched undergarments, jeans and a sweatshirt. Catching a glimpse of the inside of my small walk-in closet, I closed the door firmly. The floor of the closet was covered from one end to the other with discarded clothing and shoes and I laughed to myself, thinking about what Jack had said about my excellent organizational skills.
Within an hour, I had already raced through my regular Saturday cleaning, leaving the floors for later, and was headed out the door to mooch breakfast, or maybe lunch, from my parents.
Pleased that the rain had stopped, but not so pleased at the numb
er of worms populating the sidewalk, I walked across the street to my parents’ house.
Yes, I said across the street. They weren’t across the street in a way where we could look into each other’s front windows; there was a long, narrow park between us. The park was mostly for kids, although it had a few benches and picnic tables scattered about.
A month before I graduated from college, my dad had called to tell me that he had talked to the woman who owned the house before me and that they were planning to sell at a ridiculously reduced price. They were what you would call “motivated sellers” in that the husband, a financial advisor, had just been accused of bilking his clients out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. His arrest was imminent and the wife was making hasty plans to get the heck out of Dodge.
Since, in my dad’s opinion, they were practically giving it away, asking only what they owed on it, he felt it was a perfect opportunity for me to become a homeowner. He had already made an offer, which had been accepted.
I liked the idea and I loved the house, so my parents bought it and when I got the job at GLC, I bought it from them for the same price they had paid. It was such a relatively small amount of money (I knew people who had paid more for their cars), that I was able to furnish and decorate it without going into further debt. It was a small house, perfect for me, and I looked forward to the day when it would be all mine.
I was very close to my parents, and not only geographically. I liked having them nearby. They were around when I needed them but they always respected my privacy.
I squished my way across the wet grass in the park and heard the sound of my mother’s music before I even got all the way to the door. My mother liked her music and she liked it loud. The pumped-up volume of Derek and the Dominoes singing Bell Bottom Blues told me two things: One, my father wasn’t home; and, two, my mother was cleaning.
Letting myself in through the unlocked door, I took off my wet shoes and screamed over the music, “Hi Mom! I’m in your house!”
“Hi, honey – I’m in the kitchen!” she yelled back and a second later the music shut off.
I walked across the house and entered the kitchen, finding my mother, wearing ripped jeans and a beat-up Santana tee shirt, standing next to a chair in front of the refrigerator which she had obviously been cleaning the top of.
“Sorry to interrupt your fun,” I said as I took my usual seat at the kitchen table.
“Not interrupting at all. My fun here is done. Want some coffee?” she asked while putting her makeshift ladder back in place at the table.
“Yeah, okay. And do you have anything to eat?” My stomach was audibly growling, reminding me that I never got around to eating dinner last night.
“Probably. Help yourself.”
She poured out two cups of coffee while I stood in front of the open refrigerator door. Spotting a long, covered baking dish, I lifted up the edge of the foil and peeked inside. Lasagna. Excellent.
“Can I have some of this lasagna?” I asked this to be polite; I already knew she’d say yes.
“Of course,” she said. “But are you sure you really want to have lasagna at 10:00 in the morning?”
“Oh, I’m sure. I could eat lasagna any time. But I also woke up at 5:30 this morning, so it really is past lunch time for me.”
“Went to bed with the chickens again?”
I laughed at her use of Grandma’s expression and confirmed the accuracy of her guess. I pulled the pan from the refrigerator, cut myself a healthy chunk, plopped it onto a paper plate and threw it in the microwave.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, returning the pan to the refrigerator.
“He’s at the dentist getting his teeth cleaned. Should be back soon.”
“Ah. By the way, did you get a chance to read that book I told you about yet?”
My mother and I shared a love of romance novels. She was the only person I freely discussed them with. She, on the other hand, discussed them with anyone. Unlike me, she didn’t care what people thought of her choice of reading material.
“Yeah,” she said. “I finished it up at about midnight last night. I really enjoyed it.”
“What did you think of the ending?” And then we were off, spending the next several minutes discussing the intricacies of the book while I finished my lasagna and she drank her coffee.
Getting up to toss my paper plate into the trash and put my fork in the dishwasher, I informed her casually, “Oh, and by the way, Jimmy and I broke up Thursday night.”
“Really?” She didn’t seem too surprised, but her expression was hopeful.
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I was starting to be afraid you were never going to get rid of that joker.”
“Actually, he broke up with me.”
“Nervy.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, returning to my seat and picking up my coffee. “But it’s done and, before you ask, no, I’m not in the least bit upset about it.”
“Well, I’m not going to lie,” she said. “I’m tickled pink to hear this. I never thought he was right for you.”
I was not surprised to learn that my mother had kept her feelings about my relationship to herself. She made it a point not to get involved in my personal life unless invited to do so. She never grilled me about who I was dating or when I was going to get married. She had never even questioned me during the two years I didn’t date, but she was always there when I needed her - even if I didn’t explain exactly why I needed her. She was interested in what was going on in my life, but she didn’t intrude in it.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “He was just filler, I guess.”
“Filler for what?”
“Filler until I could find the right one.”
She looked at me and seemed to be mulling something over. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
“Always.”
“A friend told me a long time ago that if you’ve made up your mind to marry a doctor, then you should never date lawyers. Because shit happens.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s not a good idea to get involved with people who aren’t exactly what you want. Because, before you know it, you could find yourself permanently tied to that wrong person and regretting it. And, in the meantime, of course, you’re making yourself unavailable for the right person.”
“Well, that’s true,” I agreed. “Sometimes I wonder if I just wasn’t ready to put myself fully out there yet, so being with someone like Jimmy, who I could never love, was just a way of hiding from anything more…meaningful.”
“Wow,” said my mom with a little wink. “That’s pretty insightful for so early in the day.”
“Yeah. You know me. Deep.” We both laughed and I got up to refill our coffee cups.
“So,” she said. “Are you ready now?”
“Ready for what?” I asked, returning with the coffee.
“Ready to come out of hiding.”
“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “Yeah, I think I am.”
“Good.” She returned the smile and reached over to give my hand a squeeze. “He’s out there, honey. Don’t settle for less than what you want or deserve.”
“Well, I like to think I won’t. But it’s so hard to tell. I hope it ends up being as easy for me as it was for you and Dad.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“I mean you and Dad knew right away that you were meant to be together and…”
I was interrupted by my mom’s laughter. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”
Now I was the one to look puzzled. “You mean you didn’t know it right away? Wasn’t there like a thunderbolt to your heart or something when you met?”
“Oh, God, no!” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t stand your father when I first met him.”
I let that settle in for a moment. “Well, now you have to tell me the whole story. I think I may have been misled.”
“You weren’t misled. You�
��re a romantic, honey. You expect things to happen the way they happen in romance novels, and real life doesn’t always work that way. You see the happily ever after your father and I are living now and probably just made certain assumptions about how we got here.”
“Maybe,” I said with a laugh. “But now I’m dying to hear this story. So start talking.”
“Okay.” She rearranged herself in her chair, settling in and getting comfortable. “The summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I went to a 25th birthday party for a friend’s brother. It was nothing fancy, just a whole lot of people hanging out at the brother’s house.”
I waited patiently while she paused to take another slug of coffee. “So, anyway, I was just sitting on this ratty old couch, eyeballing a really good looking guy across the room and wondering what I could do to get his attention. And then in walked your father – so drunk he could barely stand up straight.”
“Dad?” I exclaimed, disbelieving. The dad I knew was a very moderate drinker and I had never seen him so much as tipsy, let alone falling-down drunk.
“Yes, Dad,” she confirmed. “Apparently he had spent most of the day at some other party, which is how he got in the condition he was in. I noticed him when he came in but didn’t really pay too much attention – there were quite a few other drunks in the crowd – until he came over to where I was sitting and sat himself down right next to me. I was not pleased.”
“Because you still had your eye on that other guy?”
“Yes, of course. I didn’t need his drunk ass sitting there and cramping my style,” she said with a laugh. “So, I tried my best to ignore him, without being rude, and he looks at me and says, ‘God, you’re cute.’”
I grinned at that, because my dad sometimes still said that to my mom.
“I politely thanked him for the compliment,” my mom went on. “And then very pointedly turned my head away. Any normal person would have seen that I wasn’t interested and moved along. But not your father. About every two minutes, he would repeat that. ‘God, you’re cute. God, you’re cute.’ It was so irritating and I wanted him to knock it off so badly, that I started to make small talk with him – just to see if he was actually capable of saying anything else.”
Isn't It Time Page 5