CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  “A dentist?” Disbelief sharpens my tone. “She knows how much I hate going to the dentist.”

  “Ella?”

  A strained smile pulls my lips higher than intended as I try to hide my surprise by my boss’s presence.

  Mr. Hakes is old enough to be my grandfather, yet has a charm that makes him seem timeless. Being mentored by him leaves a similar impression to when I first went to Disney World as a child: I forgot about expectations and who I was supposed to be, and my imagination began to wander freely, wonderfully. I attribute much of my professional success to his guidance and inspiration, especially when I know he took a risk by hiring me opposed to a more qualified candidate.

  Smiling kindly, he taps the packet of information I shared at the meeting with a strong hand that doesn’t reveal his age. “You did a really good job today. This might be your best work yet, and that’s saying a lot.”

  My smile climbs higher. “Well, that means a lot.”

  “You’ve got the dedication and talent to go places. Keep up the good work, Ella.”

  With a firm nod that means even more than the smile he gave me at the meeting—because it shows his confidence in me—he turns, leaving the strong scent of his aftershave in my office.

  I don’t have the time to consider the significance of his approval though, because I’m taking a final look at the face I’m going to be meeting.

  Finding Mr. Right and getting married is at the bottom of my priority list.

  The very bottom.

  Yet the closer my approach to thirty becomes, the more intent everyone around me has become to me finding him. Thus, for holidays and birthdays, rather than receiving something fun and indulgent, or even practical and possibly useless, my parents buy me subscriptions to online dating sites and speed-dating events. They even got me a ticket to a singles cruise once.

  I leave the file with my date’s information in the top drawer of my desk and head out into the early heat of a North Carolina spring day where I get into my car and make the short drive to the restaurant noted on my calendar.

  Before asking the hostess if my date has arrived, I stand near the doors and look around. I prefer to get my initial impressions out of the way so I can think clearly through the introductions.

  “Brandon. Brandon. Brandon,” I mutter, peering around the small café, looking for a match. “Are you Brandon? You’re certainly a liar if so.” I study the only dark-haired man sitting alone, noting that he’s at least ten years older than his picture. Upon starting online dating, I quickly learned that is not uncommon.

  “He might be, but I think you’re looking for me.”

  Startled, I turn around, my cheeks reddening as I come face-to-face with the man perfectly matching his picture.

  “Hi,” I croak. The hoarse unevenness of my voice makes me cringe and my cheeks to burn brighter.

  He chuckles, like he finds my nerves endearing, or maybe since he’s a dentist, he just enjoys inflicting discomfort. “You must be Ella.” His teeth are bright and perfectly square. It’s hard to look away from his grin to notice the rest of him.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I offer my hand. Some first dates want to hug while others try to be European and kiss cheeks, and occasionally I’ll run across men who don’t know what to do, thus creating a strange and uncomfortable dance of limbs that requires a good ten minutes of recovery time where conversation becomes brutally uncomfortable and forced. I don’t have ten minutes to waste because I need to leave in forty minutes for work.

  “This place looks great,” I tell him.

  “Well, let’s get a table. Their food’s amazing.”

  I appreciate that he doesn’t try to touch me or offer his arm. It’s easier when those obligations aren’t presented and we’re allowed to see if there really could be any natural chemistry.

  The hostess seats us by a large window where Brandon makes the request to sit in the bench seat, offering me the chair. Within a second, I realize what appeared to be chivalrous was anything but as the sun blinds me and makes my blouse feel like a parka.

  Strike one.

  Our server approaches within seconds, used to the lunchtime rush with customers needing to get back to the office on time. We listen to the specials, and then Brandon asks for tonic water while I order an iced tea.

  “So, you’re in advertising. Is that right?”

  Keeping my eyes on the menu for a second, I question what date I am for Brandon as I replay his routine question that lacks any genuine interest. When I look up, he’s going through his cell phone.

  Strike two.

  “Yeah, I work at Wild Waves, over on Third.”

  “Yes,” he states automatically.

  My eyebrows rise with question. “Sorry?”

  “You said yeah, but it should be yes.” Slowly, he looks up from his phone, his lips tipped upward with hesitancy. “Sorry, old habit. I had this teacher in elementary school who drilled it into me to never say yeah.”

  I force another smile, feeling like it’s become a mandatory dress code for the day. “Good grammar is an excellent quality. Thankfully, I have really great editors who sound like they might have gone to school with you.”

  He laughs and the creases by his eyes reveal he’s older than I am. His age doesn’t bother me, but the fact that I should be interested in his past and the experiences that gained those lines does bother me. I should be asking questions about him to keep the conversation running smoothly and to give this a fair shot. Yet the idea of doing either is more painful than the shoes I mistakenly wore today.

  I take a deep breath and push the smile that I’ve been struggling to maintain firmly back into place. “How did you get into dentistry?”

  “My father’s a dentist, and so are my brother and my sister. I guess you could say we’re a family of dentists.”

  “I bet you guys have some nice Christmas cards.”

  His brow furrows. “Sorry?”

  “You know, with all your nice teeth.”

  Sadly, it’s not my worst attempt at grasping for conversation. Brandon’s rounded eyes tell me it’s nearing the top of his, however.

  “Here you are.” Our server breaks the strained awkwardness by delivering our drinks with a smile that exudes pity. It leaves me briefly wondering how apparent it is that I’m on a first date that seems to be heading in a direction that will have me insisting on paying my half to make it less formal.

  “Are you guys ready to order?”

  I glance back at the brief menu, considering what will be both fast and easy to eat while trying to hold a discussion.

  “You should order the mussels. They’re amazing,” Brandon says.

  “I was thinking of trying the manicotti.”

  “No, you definitely want the mussels over the manicotti.”

  “I don’t … actually … like seafood.”

  His eyebrows nearly get lost in his hairline, making me feel nearly guilty for my admission. “Then you haven’t had good seafood. Trust me, these will change your mind!”

  “I’m sure they’re delicious—”

  “You aren’t a vegetarian, are you?” Judgment is louder than his actual words, and for a few seconds I consider lying and saying I am. “You know, your body needs protein. It’s what our ancestors ate.”

  “You really think cavemen ate mussels?” I don’t think either of us can clearly decipher if I’m joking.

  “Really, you need to try these.”

  “Really, I won’t eat them.”

  “At all?”

  “I don’t like seafood.” This time, my words are punctuated with finality.

  “But maybe—”

  “I’ll have the manicotti with the roasted red pepper sauce,” I say, turning to the server.

  “I’ve never tried that. It might not be good. I’ve only tried their seafood.”

  My uniformed smile is becoming too tight and restrictive. “That’s all right. I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “You
might hate it.”

  “I might love it.”

  “You really should try incorporating seafood into your diet. It’s so good for you.”

  “So are Brussels sprouts, but I can’t convince my taste buds to like them either.”

  He looks up, his lips set in a frown.

  Strike three.

  I sit through the rest of lunch with my eyes squinted due to the bright sun, likely ruining my makeup, but don’t complain. Instead, I work to avoid anything that will lead to a deeper conversation than the required yes or no answers.

  Hopefully out there somewhere is a woman who will inspire Brandon not to be so … him. But I have no interest in that role, so when the check finally arrives, I’m quick to pull out my credit card and instruct the server to charge me for my half.

  The rest of the afternoon passes quickly with updating statistics and numbers to ensure all the information due to be presented to the account owners in a few weeks is current and accurate. With Hayden at practice, the idea of staying late and getting some additional work done runs through my mind, but Rachel will only find my absence as another reason for me to consider taking a few steps back with my fast-paced career, so I pack up and head to her house.

  “Can I borrow those?” Rachel asks as I kick off my shoes.

  “What?”

  “Your shoes.”

  I glance back at the offending leather that has rubbed at least three raw spots on each of my feet. “I might give them to you.”

  “If you wore something besides flip-flops on the days you work from home, you might learn to love heels.”

  “I don’t want to be told what I should be eating, wearing, or trying.” I collapse on the couch, the unforgiving material of my work clothes constricting with the maneuvers they weren’t created to support.

  Rachel follows, lounging on the small love seat beside the couch I’m fully occupying. “Was he really that bad? I mean, some guys think it’s romantic to order for women.”

  My eyes widen with disbelief. I called her as promised and gave her a play-by-play of how badly the date had been. “That went out of style in the sixties along with Donna Reed!” I cry. “He was a dud. A dud minus in fact. Trust me.”

  “I don’t understand why you insist on paying when you hate the dates.” Rachel toys with the corner of a throw pillow.

  “I go Dutch,” I clarify. “And I do it because I want to make it clear I have no interest.”

  She giggles. “It probably makes them more interested.”

  “Thankfully, it hasn’t yet.”

  Rachel extends a jean-clad leg and softly kicks me. While her pants are likely as restrictive as mine, I’m jealous she’s wearing denim.

  “Any dates this weekend?” she asks.

  I sigh, working to remember the calendar I stared at in an attempt to memorize the rest of this week. “One.”

  “A good one?”

  “It’s another one you chose.”

  “The veterinarian?”

  I nod. “The one and only.”

  “Are you excited? He’s cute!” She looks toward the front window. “Speaking of cute, the new neighbor is really attractive. And did you see his friend? Maybe…”

  “No.” I swiftly shake my head. “Not a chance.”

  “Well, it looks like fate is saying otherwise.” Rachel stretches her neck in the direction of the front door.

  Turning, I see the men in question making their way toward Rachel’s porch. “I’m going to raid your closet! Tell me when they’re gone!” Not having the energy or patience to deal with more unwanted men, I disappear upstairs.

  2

  Coen

  “You’re going to pony up and pay a renting company next time,” Justin warns, slamming another box into my chest.

  “Kristy and the captain will be thanking me. You’re out of shape.”

  His chin dips low, the sun highlighting how sweaty his hairline is. “She’ll probably hate you because I won’t be able to get off the couch tomorrow.”

  I should probably try to hide my smile from my best friend, but don’t. The captain has been nagging him to work on his cardio. In our line of work, being out of shape can kill a person. Maybe this dose of reality will help him realize it.

  A low whistle comes from my oldest friend who didn’t have a beer belly, or traces of gray hair when we met twenty-five years ago while in the same kindergarten class—and certainly not an obnoxious and overbearing wife who I can barely stand. “Is that your neighbor?”

  He isn’t giving a damn about me laughing at his weakened state—he’s distracted by the blonde getting out of her car in the driveway over. I don’t have to turn to know it’s her. I’d seen her when my realtor showed me the house and then again when it was being inspected. His distraction can’t be blamed; she’s beautiful with summer-kissed skin and legs that look invitingly toned, but the idea of dating my neighbor has placed a permanent black mark over her. You know those rules about not eating where you shit? It’s something along those exact same guidelines. Living beside your ex guarantees the chances of ugly retaliation when things end badly.

  “Are they roommates?”

  Justin’s question has my head turning like a well-laid trap. The blonde is there as expected, but beside her is a brunette I haven’t seen before, wearing clothes that tell me she works in some sort of office and a pair of heels any man would love to see worn with nothing but a smile. Her side profile is obscured by her short, dark hair that ends barely above her shoulders, making my hands itch with the desire to tuck it behind her ear so I can see her better.

  “We’re moving poker tournaments here.” Justin has moved closer, likely to get a better view. “Turn around,” he whispers my thought aloud. “Come on! Come on!”

  Look back! Look back! Spin around just a little!

  The brunette is on the very last step when she turns her head just enough that I catch her hair move and a glimpse of not one, but both eyes looking in my direction. I can’t tell the color from here, just that they’re wide and friendly. They, along with the laugh she’s sharing with her friend, are laser copied to the back of my eyelids.

  Score!

  “I think you might need a lot of help with unpacking.”

  I turn to Justin as the women disappear inside, my eyebrows rising, making my hat slide up. “Even you don’t like your wife.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Coen.”

  Chuckling, I turn toward my new front door, wishing I would be willing to consider changing my rules about the proximity of how close I live to a girl I date.

  “What’s in this thing?” Justin drops the offending box several inches from the ground, emitting a loud thud as it connects with the tiled floor, the women forgotten.

  “What the hell, dude? You’re going to break whatever it is!”

  “You pack like Kristy and don’t balance the weight. You’re not supposed to pack all the heavy stuff in one box!”

  “This isn’t a production. I moved three blocks; it’s just about getting my shit moved so I don’t have to live with my eighty-year-old landlord.”

  “You’ve moved more than anyone I know. You should have this down to a fine science.”

  “I do. It’s called bringing you with me.” I wink.

  Justin’s eyes become slits as he glares at me. “This is the last time, asshole.”

  I hope it is. At thirty, I’ve moved more times than years I’ve been alive. I’m ready to finally unpack all these boxes and see what I actually own.

  “You going to do a barbecue so the station can come and see your first big-boy house?”

  “Stop looking for reasons for me to invite you over to gawk at my neighbors. You know my rules.”

  “You’re sticking to them?” He sounds incredulous, like I’m personally offending him.

  “Do you not remember the time I dated the girl who lived just a block away? She ruined my yard! Burned threats and obscenities in it that cost me my left nut to have fixed. Then she
mutilated my mailbox and broke the living room windows.” I shake my head, trying to think of the other headaches she caused. “I was evicted from that house.”

  “I told you she was psycho that first night.” He did, but I’m not going to admit to recalling it.

  “Psycho doesn’t cover it.”

  “You remember that other one who went batshit crazy? The one who parked on the street so she could watch you?” Justin pauses for just a second, allowing the memories to flood my thoughts. “She lived twenty miles from you. It’s your taste in women you need to change, not your radius to where they live.”

  “Hilarious, especially when this comes from the guy who married the woman who legally changed her last name before you guys got married.”

  “Yeah, but Kristy’s just impatient. Once she gets her mind made up, she gets things done. You, on the other hand, find women who want to lock you in the basement and have ten babies,” he says as we make our way back out to the truck for another load.

  I laugh out loud, picturing the scene he’s just created. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It really doesn’t.” He laughs, but his attention isn’t on me—it’s on my neighbor’s house.

  “If they call the cops because you’re out here leering, you’re going to have to get a whole lot more than just ice cream to make up for those headlines,” I warn him.

  “I was just noticing her chimney looks like a hazard.”

  “You’re the worst liar.”

  He sets the box he had lifted back down. “We should offer to look at it.”

  “You’re out of your mind.” I refuse to put my own box down, hoping it will deter his need to flirt, though I know it won’t. The day I met Justin, he was outside of the girls’ restroom, offering to check them for millipedes. There’s no doubt someone would feel a millipede on them, but he had a system set up that allowed him access to lift every girl’s shirt or skirt up in school, and he hasn’t changed a bit.

  He moves swiftly, ignoring my objections as he adds his signature swagger to each step.

  If I hadn’t bought this house with the intention of living here for the next sixty years, I’d watch from beside my truck with a five spot in favor of them slamming the door in his face. Instead, I’m racing to keep up with him before he can ring the doorbell and deliver a ridiculous version of the knight-in-sooted-armor routine he loves to use.