by Denise Wells
Chance: :-)
Chance: Is that the condition?
Me: No.
Chance: ?
Me: You accept my apology as well.
Chance: Already done, beautiful.
Me: And, we go on that second date.
I hesitate hitting send. Yes, this isn’t reality, it’s a bet. But somehow it still feels like there is so much at stake here.
Fuck it.
I press send.
And wait.
Almost a full minute goes by before he responds.
Chance: When are you free this week?
Me: This week? Like during the week?
Chance: Yes.
Me: Never. During the week is terrible for me. I have to work.
Chance: Every night?
Me: Yeah.
Chance: So, you won’t be doing girls night with Kat and Lexie?
Me: No, I’ll still be doing that.
Chance: So, not every night.
Me: Well, that’s different.
Chance: How is that different?
Me: It’s a standing date, every week.
Chance: So, make me a standing date every week.
Me: Every week??
Chance: Every week. But I want a weekend night too.
Me: We don’t even know if we like each other.
Chance: We don’t?
Me: And we don’t know if we’re sexually compatible.
Chance: I can fix that tonight. Send me your address.
Me: Ha!
Chance: I’m serious.
Me: One day at a time, big guy.
Chance: That’s not a no.
Me: Uh, it’s NOT a yes.
Chance: I’ll still take it.
Chance: How about Tuesday night?
Me: As in two nights from now?
Chance: Yeah, we can do Tuesday and then maybe Saturday.
Me: Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself there, simpleton?
Chance: I don’t understand. Can you explain what you mean?
Me: You aren’t as funny as you think you are.
Chance: So, you think I’m funny?
Me: I can do lunch or after-work coffee on Tuesday, only an hour regardless. Then a ‘date’ on Saturday. How’s that?
Chance: I’ll take what I can get.
Me: Desperation is unbecoming.
Chance: Don’t be a hater.
Me: That made me laugh.
Chance: Then I will end this on a high note. Good night, beautiful.
Me: Good night.
I turn out the light, get re-situated in my bed, and try to ignore the smile on my face.
And the fact that I’m looking forward to seeing him on Tuesday.
Chapter 17
Chance
Remi and I agreed that I would meet her at her office, and we would walk down the street for lunch. When I get there, I’m surprised to see that it’s a controlled access building with some serious security. Technically, I don’t know exactly what she does for a living, but I didn’t expect it to require such safeguards.
I get buzzed into the lobby after mentioning I’m there for Remi. The receptionist waits until I’m standing in front of her before looking up from the pad of paper she is doodling on.
“Oh! Um, well, hello,” she says, perking up when she sees me.
“Hi, Chance Bauer here for Remi Vargas,” I say giving her a big smile.
“For, Remi?” Her head snaps up and her eyes widen.
“Yes, for Remi,” I confirm.
“Huh, ok. I’ll let her know you are here,” she says. “May I tell her what it’s regarding.”
“She knows,” I say. The receptionist continues to look at me, expectantly. She looks vaguely familiar. But I’m not sure if it’s because she’s kind of checking me out and sorry to say I’m used to that look. Or because we’ve met before.
“I’m picking her up for our lunch date,” I say. She looks a little disappointed at that but calls Remi anyway to let her know.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?” she asks.
“No, thank you.”
I look around the lobby, it’s nice. Lots of large green plants, dark tile floors, and large tinted windows. After a few minutes, I sit on one of the plush couches they have scattered about. The receptionist keeps stealing glances at me, so the next time I see her from my peripheral, I turn and wink.
The look she gives me in return stuns me for a minute. But also clues me in as to why she looks familiar. She has the same face shape and mannerisms as my ex, Helen, just different hair. I’m still staring at her, mouth hanging slightly open when Remi approaches.
“Same tricks, same dog,” she says, her eyes narrow and her mouth pinched.
“Icy, nice to see you too,” I say, turning to take her in; ignoring the comment. She looks stunning, not that today is an exception to any other day. She’s wearing a full skirt with flowers on it, a black cap sleeve tee with crisscrossing across the V-neck, and little ballet slippers. Yes, I know what cap sleeves and ballet slippers are, I have three sisters.
“Connie, can you mark me as out for the next hour, please? Thank you,” she tells the receptionist. I take Remi by the hand and lead her out the doors.
“Sure thing. Have a nice lunch, Rem,” Connie calls after us.
“Is there a woman that you won’t flirt with?” she asks as we walk toward the end of the block. “She’s my friend. You’re shameless.”
“I wasn’t flirting with her,” I say. “I just winked at her. And I’m not even sure why I did that. There is no reason to be jealous. Plus, it’s not her I’m taking to lunch.”
“Oh, I’m not jealous.”
“Then why the comment?”
“Why the wink?”
“You look very nice today,” I say, changing the subject. I have to wonder if there is anything in her closet that she doesn’t rock the hell out of.
“Thank you.” She looks me over. “So do you.”
“This old thing?” I say gesturing to jeans, t-shirt, and biker boots, my typical off-work outfit. And sometimes my typical at work outfit as well.
She laughs. And, I notice, still hasn’t let go of my hand.
“So, where are we going for lunch?” I ask.
“Greek,” she says. “That okay?”
“Absolutely. How’s your day going so far?”
“It’s good,” she says in a way that almost belies what she’s saying. I give her hand a little squeeze.
“Yeah?” I confirm.
“Better now.” She smiles and squeezes my hand back. But I’m not sure if she thinks it’s better because of me or because we are about to have lunch.
“Here we are.” She points toward a carved wood door connected to a small building that looks slightly out of place amongst the other modern glass structures on the block.
I open the front door for her and follow her inside the restaurant.
The man behind the counter greets Remi as we walk in, as though they’re long lost friends.
“Bellisima, you return to me. Lovely, lovely, please sit.” The older gentleman motions to the seating area. His eyes crinkle as he smiles at us and nods his head, covered in salt and pepper hair, thinner on the top, and too full around his ears. He’s taller than I’d expected but still portly. And his mannerisms make you feel at home.
We pick a table and get situated, the place is small but most of the tables are full, and it looks as though the guy is the only one working here.
“He doesn’t sound Greek,” I say to Remi.
“He’s Italian. But he makes the best dolmathes and avgolemono you’ve ever had.”
“Then I’ll try both,” I say.
The man comes to our table. “I choose for you, bellisima?” He looks at Remi.
“Yes please, Adamo. Thank you.”
“He’s picking our food?” I don’t think I’ve ever not picked my own food. It makes me a little nervous.
“Yes, are you okay with that?”
“If you are, then I am.” I clear my throat and feel my pocket for the list of questions I brought with me, unsure how to bring it up. “So, I was thinking… I mean… I have this list of questions.”
“A list of questions,” she laughs. “For what? Where’d you get it?”
“Questions for us to get to know each other better. But they’re for both of us to answer. And I got them from one of my sisters.”
“Where’d she get it?”
“From some girly magazine. Cosmo, I think. Hey, see how well we are already asking and answering questions? It’s working.” I grin.
She giggles. That’s a sound I’ve not heard from her often. I like it.
“You game?” I ask. She nods, a small smile on her face. One that makes me feel warm on the inside.
A feeling I’m going to ignore for now.
I pull the paper out of my pocket. It’s on a regular sized sheet of paper, but the picture of the questions my sister, Audrey, scanned and sent, only covers a part of it. I smooth it out on the side of the table, only a little bit nervous about doing this.
“Is that your cheat sheet?” she laughs.
“Yeah, I can’t remember all these questions on my own.”
“How many are there?”
“Total? Fifteen.”
“Okay. Let’s do this.
“Are you a morning person or a night person?”
“Neither,” she says.
“How can you be neither?”
“Well, I hate mornings, so I’m clearly not a morning person,” she says. “But I also don’t stay up late at night. So, neither. I’d say I’m more of a sleep person. What about you?”
“I’m a morning person. I love getting up before the sun, dragging Hudson down to the beach, and running ‘til we’re pumped. Then coming home and getting a jump start on my day.”
“That sounds awful.” She shudders. “Who is Hudson?”
“Hudson is my dog.”
“I love dogs. What kind?”
“Siberian Husky.”
“Oh, Lexie has huskies too. Like seven of them, I think.”
“That’s a lot of fur.”
“Totally. She loves them though.”
“If you hate mornings, what are your thoughts on morning sex?” I ask, going off script.
“It’s great, as long as it ends up being worth waking up for,” she says. “But then let me go back to sleep after.”
“Sex makes you tired?” I ask, trying not to appear as though I’m already imagining us having sex.
“If it’s good sex, yeah. Really it’s orgasms that make me tired.”
“Would you like to be tired now?” I ask.
She throws her head back; a full belly laugh resonates in our little corner of the restaurant.
Laughing is good.
“Sex amps me the fuck up,” I say as she quiets.
“How annoying.”
“Not really, not if you’re expecting it.”
“Okay,” she says. “So it’s morning, and we’ve had sex.”
I attempt to subtly readjust when I feel myself getting a little hard at the idea of sex with Remi. Especially morning sex with Remi, because that means I’ve already spent the night with her.
I clear my throat a bit. “Yeah?”
“And you’re pumped, and I’m tired. What do you do?”
“Well, clearly, I let you sleep. Because you can be a real bitch when you don’t get enough sleep—”
She scoffs. I continue, “And so I go on my run with Hudson, come back home, shower, make you coffee, then wake you up. Gently.”
“What if I don’t like coffee?”
“Who doesn’t like coffee? That’s like saying you don’t like sex. But, ironically, that’s actually a question on the list, coffee or tea? So, which is it?”
“Coffee,” she says.
“Phew,” I say. “Crisis averted. For now.”
“What about you?”
“Was I not clear? Coffee, all the way. The grittier, the better.”
“What makes coffee gritty?” she asks.
“You know, when it’s been sitting on the burner all day, and the bottom of the pot is slightly scalded, and the coffee gets that bitter taste?”
“No.”
“Or when it’s a fresh pot and you’ve put twice as many required grounds to the ratio of water?”
“Can’t say I know that either.”
“Well, that’s gritty coffee. Puts hair on your chest.” I punch my chest to accentuate my point. “What kind of coffee do you drink, anyway?”
“Organic Blue Mountain in a French press,” she says. “You?”
“At home? Instant. At the precinct? Whatever they’ve got that’s hot.”
“You can never make me instant coffee.”
“So, I get to make you coffee?” I wink. She blushes slightly.
Adamo brings our food, it’s enough to feed twice as many people.
“Bellisima, I make your favorite, no? And the rest to feed your man. You got a big boy, eh? Big appetite, no?”
“Thank you, Adamo,” I say. “I do have a big appetite.” He winks at me. Which I have to laugh at. Remi thanks him as well and we dig in.
For Remi, he has prepared the dolmathes and avgolemono that she loves so much, along with an array of hummus, pita, olives, and cheese.
For me, he has a large portion of gyro, pita, tzatziki sauce, rice, and spanakopita. And it looks amazing.
“So, do you think we’re actually going to go through all fifteen questions while we’re at lunch?” she asks.
“No, but over the next few dates we will.”
“We’re going on other dates?”
“At least one more, remember? Saturday?”
“I do, actually.”
“And, if I have my way, more after that.”
“You’re very persistent,” she says. “Why is that?”
“Isn’t everyone persistent when they see something they want?”
“Are you saying you want me?”
“I thought that was obvious, Icy.” Her eyes widen, and she holds my gaze for a few seconds. Then goes back to eating and not meeting my eye for the next few minutes. So I ask another question from the list.
“How often do you visit your family?”
“Is that another question from the list?” Her body stiffens.
“Yep. Our third question. See how great this is going? Just like a normal cordial conversation.” I smile to show I’m joking, but she has yet to look back at me. I’m hoping this makes her uncomfortable because we are connecting and not because there’s something weird with her family. “So, what is it, once a week? Once a month?”
“I don’t really visit with my family.” Her face goes completely impassive when she says this, her eyes showing no emotion.
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. Did something happen?”
“That’s another question, and I’ve already answered the first. So, what about you, how often do you visit with your family?”
“We talk a lot, more on the phone than in person. But we get together at least every other week for Sunday dinner. And sometimes more often than that if it’s a holiday or someone’s birthday.”
“Every other week? As in twice a month?” she asks.
“Yeah, and sometimes that doesn’t seem like enough. My niece is growing so fast I feel like I’m missing everything. And I have another niece or nephew on the way, and I want to see that one grow. And my parents aren’t getting any younger. So, yeah, at least twice a month.”
“Wow, I would have no idea what that’s like. I’m not sure if I’m jealous over it or relieved I don’t have to do that myself.”
I wonder what happened in her past to make her say that. I always assume people get along with their families and visit them. That’s just what you do. I forget that not everyone is like me.
“Why don’t you visit your family?” I try again.
“What’s the next question?” The stony look on her face clearly tells me the conversation about her family is over.
“Ok,” I mutter. “Tabling the family discussion.”
I pause to eat some more of my gyro. Which, I have to admit, is the best one I’ve ever had.
“What’s something you’ve never tried, but are dying to do?” I ask.
I like the way she scrunches her mouth when she’s thinking. I doubt she realizes she does it.
“I don’t think I have one. Whenever I want to do something, I pretty much do it.”
“That’s such a bullshit answer,” I laugh.
“No, it’s not,” she says. I look her in the eye and wait. Because we both know it’s a cop-out.
“Fine,” she says. “I have issues with heights.” I stay silent, there’s got to be more to the answer since she hasn’t really answered the question. She takes a deep breath, and then apparently decides to share something about herself with me, because she adds, “I’d like to get over it. So, maybe do something that helps with that.”
“What kind of heights are we talking about? Empire State Building? Seattle Space Needle? Skydiving?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?” I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders a bit, then says, “Ladders, balconies, bridges, glass elevators.”
That’s a new one.
“Ladders? Like how tall?” I ask.
“Honestly? I don’t even like my step ladder at home. Anything more than two steps and I’m having a hard time.”
“What about stairs?” I ask.
“Enclosed stairs don’t bother me. But I don’t like open stairs, especially exterior open stairs.”
“So, it’s the feeling of having nothing around you that you don’t like?”
She takes another bite of her lunch before answering. “I think so. If there’s nothing around me, I’m always tempted to jump.” She covers her face in her hands as though embarrassed.
“From exterior stairs?” I try to get a gauge on what we are really talking about here.
“From anywhere high and exposed: ladders, bridges, rooftops. It all has to do with the height,” she says.
“So, heights make you want to jump?”
“Well, want is a strong word. I would say it’s more like an inkling. Not so strong as an urge, but not just a fleeting thought either.”
I reach over the table and take her hand in mine. “Are you… okay? I mean, is it because you want to…?” I’m a trained fucking law enforcement official and I can’t bring myself to ask this girl if she wants to off herself with some kind of suicide jump.