by Carla Ryan
Huh. There's an idea.
So say we all.
Nothing says "Hey, remember me and how charming I am?" like a sci-fi quote.
It's almost nine, which means she's probably on a gig, so you prepare for a long wait and head to the kitchen to make a frozen pizza. You've barely closed the freezer door when your phone chimes. Tossing the pizza on the counter, you dive back onto the couch.
So say we all.
Ha ha! It worked!
No gig tonight? you ask.
School work.
Your half-typed response is interrupted by a second message from her.
Are you back?
She cares whether you're in town! That's a good sign. You delete what you had and replace it with, Just walked in the door. I was about to make a pizza. Want to meet somewhere instead?
As soon as you send it, you worry that it's too forward. She clearly wants to be in the driver's seat right now. Maybe you should have left it up to her to suggest meeting.
The little bubble with the waving dots appears, showing that she's typing, but no text manifests. Soon the bubble's gone too.
She's probably trying to figure out the best way to let you down. Maybe she even met someone else, someone who can remember her name.
How about brunch tomorrow instead? she asks.
Woo hoo!
Sounds delicious. Where and when?
The Grilled Garden at 10:30. The reservations will be under Marigold JEMISON.
Joking about your transgression? That's another good sign.
I'm never going to live that down, am I? you ask.
Signs point to no.
Fair enough. See you tomorrow.
Signs point to yes.
You send her a thumb's up, then put the pizza in and go to the bedroom to change out of your travel clothes. As you pass the mirror, you're surprised, and a little worried, to see a wide smile still on your face.
Laughing at yourself, you shake your head. No, you are not falling for her. It makes sense that you're happy. You averted a major crisis and are one step closer to getting Marigold in bed -- which is the ultimate goal here. The fact that she's funny and smart and talented and generous just makes it easier to deal with the waiting. No need to worry. You've got everything under control.
* * *
The next morning, you're getting your shoes when Marigold calls.
"Hey," you answer. "Everything okay?"
"No. My car won't start."
"That sucks. Can I give you a ride somewhere?"
This might turn out to be a good thing.
"I need to get it towed," she says, "so I should probably stay here."
Nope. Bad thing. Definitely bad.
"But..." she adds, "I am really hankering eggs, so I guess I could call for a tow after."
Good thing! Really good!
"I'll be right there. What's the address?"
Marigold's apartment is in a big complex that consists of several three-story taupe buildings all clustered together between a golf course and strip mall. Not particularly scenic, but the kids on the playground and the tree-lined walkways give it a wholesome feel.
You pull up to the sidewalk where Marigold is waiting. She's a bit more dressed up than usual, in an off-the-shoulder top and asymmetrical knee-length skirt. Her copper key bracelet is still her only piece of jewelry, and you're glad to see no trace of makeup other than lip gloss; you like her face the way it is. With her hair pulled back in a low bun, she's showing more skin than you've ever seen before. That, combined with being so close to her in such a private space, immediately gets your blood pumping.
Just kiss her already. All women love a spontaneous kiss. Maybe you won't even make it to brunch.
"Do you know how to get there?" she asks, her innocent gray eyes landing on you.
Stick to the plan. You are sticking to your plan to take it slow -- no matter how much you want to kiss the curve of her long, graceful neck...
"You look beautiful," you say.
She blinks a few times before smiling bashfully and looking at the road. "You too."
She thinks I'm beautiful!
Fireworks go off in your chest, blinding you with giddiness.
"So," you say, rubbing your eyes to bring back your vision, "where to?"
The restaurant is across the street from a large grassy park that's been taken over by a pop-up carnival. Even this early in the day, families are streaming in and enjoying the rides.
"I love carnivals," you say, pulling into the restaurant parking lot. "I went to one with Jabir when we were in high school and bet that if I won the giant stuffed unicorn he would have to carry it around. I did win it, but he immediately gave it to the first kid he saw. Punk."
"My favorite part was always the tall ride that drops you super fast. I love that split-second when your body goes weightless."
"How about we go after brunch?" you ask, turning off the car.
"Really?" she asks, but almost immediately her excitement starts to dim. "I need to deal with my car though."
You wave away her concerns. "There will be plenty of time for that. What would you rather do: sit around and wait for a tow truck, or get tossed around until we puke?"
"Well when you put it that way..." she says with a laugh.
Brunch is great, but every now and then the smell of hot dogs or the shrieks of thrill seekers drifts in from across the street. You both eat quickly, and in less than an hour you're eagerly walking through the gate to buy tickets. When you get to the booth, Marigold cuts in front of you.
"I'll take twenty," she says to the cashier.
"I don't think so," you say, getting your credit card out. "You have to fix your car, or maybe even get a new one. I'm paying."
"You paid the last two times. Besides, I can spare forty bucks."
"You're a public school teacher and a jazz musician; I'm surprised you can afford more than one outfit."
Your joke falls flat as she takes obvious offense. Even the cashier cringes.
"I am paying," Marigold says, handing the cashier her card. "End of conversation."
Oh no. The last thing you want to do right now, or ever, is piss her off again.
"I'm sorry," you say as you both enter the carnival. "I was just teasing, and trying to be polite."
"You were trying to show off how much money you make," she snaps, tearing the chain of tickets in half.
"No, that's not it."
She gives you a hard look.
"Maybe that's a little bit it," you confess, "but I wasn't making fun of you or anything. I already told you I think teachers are the best, and the world would be awful if there weren't any music."
"Even jazz?" she asks.
"Well, you know, some people like it..." You stop floundering when you notice the glint of humor in her eyes. "Oh, that was mean," you say, laughing with relief. "That was just plain mean."
She shrugs playfully, then gives you half the tickets and starts to make a beeline for the Stomach Slammer, but stops after only a few steps.
"Can you hold these?" she asks, offering you her tickets.
"Sure. Are you okay?"
She undoes the clasp of her bracelet and drops it in her purse. "My old chain broke," she says as she zips it closed, "so I bought this new one the other day, but the clasp randomly opened this morning when I was getting ready and the whole thing fell off. I almost didn't wear it..." She rubs her now bare wrist, eyeing it anxiously. "...but it feels too weird without it on."
"I remember that from the night we met," you say as you hand her tickets back.
"Really? Why?"
"Most women wear a bunch of jewelry, but it was the only piece you had on. I've still never seen you wear anything else. What's the significance?"
She starts walking again, slowly this time. Every now and then she gently touches her wrist as she talks.
"My mom bought it for me when I was little. We would spend almost every weekend cruising yard sales, searching for
deals on clothes and furniture and all sorts of stuff. Mom would even buy my Christmas presents right there in front of me. I'd beg her to let me play with them, but she'd hide them away and I'd forget all about them until I unwrapped them."
She chuckles, staring ahead into her memory. "I was in middle school before I learned that 'shopping' meant something very different to other people."
Lowering her voice, she gets in line for the ten-story drop tower. "Even though I was pretty young, maybe six or seven, I knew we didn't have a lot of money, so I didn't usually ask for things, but one day I saw this --" She wraps her fingers around her wrist. "I saw a tiny key sitting on the table, sort of hidden among a bunch of glass animal figurines. It was probably a jewelry box key at some point, but I was sure that it went to a treasure chest, or maybe a door to a secret garden. I asked my mom to get it for me, and for some reason she said yes."
Even though the memory is clearly a fond one, her eyes are filled with sadness.
"Are you and your mom still close?" you ask.
The ride attendant opens the gate and lets in the next group of people, closing it before you and Marigold can go through. "You'll be next," he says, and goes to help the people strap in.
Marigold looks up towards the top of the ride. "She died five years ago."
"I'm so sorry," you say. "What about your dad?"
She leans on the metal gate, watching the people buckle up. "He did his best. He still does."
The attendant returns to his post at the controls, a few feet away from the gate, and presses the button to lift the car.
"What about your parents?" Marigold asks. "Are they still around?"
I don't want to talk about it.
That's what you really, really want to say. You very nearly say it, in fact. But Marigold just opened up to you, and if you don't do the same, you might ruin any chance of getting her to trust you.
You glance at the teenagers behind you in line, hoping to use them as an out, but they're too obviously absorbed in their own conversation to overhear.
"My dad --" Your instinct to guard your secrets kicks in, cutting off your words. You've never told anyone except Jabir about your dad. Sure you want Marigold to trust you, but can you trust her?
"It's okay," she says sympathetically. "Family stuff can be hard. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Yes! You're off the hook!
As Marigold shields her eyes from the sun to watch the ride reach its summit, something twinges inside of you. A tiny ache gnaws at your heart, making you regret your choice.
"My dad left when I was in fourth grade," you say.
She turns back to you, her eyes full of compassion.
"We were... I thought we were close," you say. "I didn't see him again until I was in high school, and then I wasn't in the right head space to be anything but angry at him. He hung around for about a year and then got sick of me and my mother being awful to him, so he left again. His wife called last year and said he had cancer, so I went out to see him. He apologized, and so did I. He died a month later."
You brace yourself, waiting for Marigold to give the standard "I'm sorry" reaction. Instead, she wraps her arms around you and pulls you into a tight, silent hug. You're so surprised that it takes you a second to return the embrace.
When was the last time you hugged somebody? Your mother hugs you all the time, but they're quick and light, a formality, nothing like this. The only time you're this close to someone is during sex, but right now that's the last thing on your mind after picturing your father's gaunt body in the hospital. The memory was painfully vivid while you were talking, but Marigold's nearness softens the edges, making it tolerable.
The ride drops, and the riders' screams of excitement race towards you. As the gust of wind caused by its fall blows past you, Marigold relaxes her hold. Reluctantly, you do the same.
"Thanks," you whisper, feeling as stunned as if you had just fallen ten stories.
"Thank you," she says with a gentle smile.
"You're up," the attendant says, startling you both.
After handing over your tickets, you and Marigold take the seats closest to the end. The attendant helps you and the rest of the riders buckle all of the harness straps, and then sends the car upwards.
Marigold kicks her legs like a little kid. "This is going to be awesome!"
The Golden Gate Bridge slowly rises into sight in the distance, a shock of orange against the glimmering blue of the Pacific Ocean. It's no Zakim Bridge, but it's not a bad view.
A tap on your leg draws your attention away from the landscape and back to Marigold, who's giving you a mischievous grin.
"What?" you ask, nearly shouting over the loud clacking of the ride.
She tilts her head as close to you as she can and says, "Come closer. I want to tell you something."
You tilt your ear towards her, but all she says is, "Look at me."
The car jolts into place, as high as it's going to get.
Confused, you obey her request. "I thought --"
Her lips press against yours, cutting you off.
Mmm. Cherries.
Weightless, you hover in the air a hundred feet above the earth. Your heart and your stomach leap within you. All the blood rushes to your head, making you dizzy.
The metal clamps release, and the ride plummets back to the ground.
You hardly notice.
Chapter Fifteen
Between finding office and warehouse space, meeting with local school districts, and flying back and forth to Boston, the next month passes in a blur. With the warmer weather, Marigold's busy playing weddings almost every weekend, so you only see her about once a week, and then it's usually on a weeknight when she's either tired from school or busy prepping the next day's lesson. There are a couple nights in there where you get some quality hot and heavy make out time, but overall progress on the bedroom front is abysmally slow.
The crazy thing is though, the more time you spend with Marigold, the less you think about sleeping with her. Not that you don't want to, which you do. Really bad. But whenever you're with her, you learn about some fascinating new slice of her personality or her history that distracts you from the fact that you're both still fully dressed.
Like last week, when the two of you were in Golden Gate Park. You went for a stroll after dinner and saw a bench with a plaque on it that read Memoriam Senda Evert Mulier scientes tenere. Marigold had paused to read it and smiled, saying, "I love that song."
"What song?" you asked, searching for familiarity among the gibberish.
"'In memory of Senda Evert,'" she translated, "'a woman who knew when to hold them.'"
Turns out she competed in a lot of spelling bees as a kid, and learning Latin is standard practice if you want to win.
You're dating a woman who knows Latin. That's bonkers.
It makes you wonder what kinds of hidden quirks and talents all the other women you've known may have had. Do any of them know Latin? Or play an instrument? Or keep their chocolate in the freezer?
Yes, Marigold keeps her chocolate in the freezer.
Getting Spare's West Coast operations running is going great. The San Francisco School District approved your preliminary proposal within weeks of receiving it, and assembled a small group of department representatives to work with you on hammering out the logistics and other details. The first team meeting is scheduled for early June, and you arrive at the administration building feeling as excited as when you and Jabir first started building the company. The secretary points you to an empty conference room, and as you set up your laptop, the group starts to trickle in.
Ten minutes later, when the meeting is scheduled to start, everyone has arrived except the faculty and parent representatives. You're chatting with the facilities manager when you hear Marigold's laugh from the lobby. She and Ophelia walk in together, both chuckling at some unknown joke.
Seeing them side by side is an odd collision of worlds, but then you rem
ember Marigold mentioning that your matchmaking paid off, and that Ophelia and Willa have started seeing each other. Maybe the three of them have been hanging out. But when? Marigold's so busy with all of the end of school year activities that it's been over a week since you've seen her.
Marigold smiles at you from across the room before being drawn into a conversation with the principal of one of the high schools. Ophelia waves and comes right over.
"It's so good to see you," she says. "Gus says hi."
"You too," you say, trying to smile despite feeling flustered. Having Ophelia here is one thing, but at least you know she's not going to be all over you like she used to be. But Marigold? That triggers some serious alarm bells. "I didn't know you were on the committee."
"You didn't?" she asks.
"No, the superintendent only said what departments or groups would be represented. He didn't give me any names."
"The school sent an email out to all the parents and guardians to see who wanted to volunteer, and originally I wasn't going to throw my name in because I didn't want to spend the time away from Gus, but when he found out it's your company, he told me I had to do it. Luckily they picked my name. He would have been really disappointed if we weren't a part of this."
She glances around at the others chatting in their seats, then turns back to you, lowering her voice. "I should sit down, but I've been meaning to stop by to thank you. We've only been on a few dates, but Willa is..." She trails off, her face radiant. "She's a breath of fresh air. Thank you for bringing the two of us together."
"I'm glad it's working out," you say sincerely. Ophelia smiles and takes a seat next to Marigold.
You launch into your presentation, outlining the program and your ideas for how Spare can help the district and world at large, but having Marigold watching you the whole time is very distracting. Every time you hit your stride, you notice a mischievous glint in her eye that seems to say I'm picturing you naked right now, and you lose your train of thought. You're feeling a little edgy by the time you open it up to the group, and it only gets worse as they begin to suggest improvements to the program.
Knowing you're not in the right head space, you write down all of their ideas and save the objective evaluation process for later. While that will make more work for you, the group appreciates it, and when it's over several of them make a point to let you know how "heard" they felt.