How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  “So, Eloise Kahn, are you an actual football fan? I’m impressed you recognized the jersey. Most of the guests here wouldn’t know Mike Singletary from Mike Douglas.”

  “Yeah. My uncle and my dad shared season tickets when I was growing up, so I got to go to a lot of games.”

  “Anything after October?” This is a total Chicago test. Soldier Field, where the Bears play, is an outdoor stadium. If you go to games in cold weather, that is the mark of a die-hard fan.

  “You mean like Christmas Eve Day against the Packers in a blizzard? You are talking to a woman who knows how to layer . . .”

  He laughs. “Good girl.”

  “I take it you’re a fan?”

  “Lifelong. Football in general and the Bears specifically.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing about these Negronis, they do make a guy hungry. I’ve seen the buffet stations and things are looking pretty delicious over there . . . and I think your lobster isn’t going to cut it for real sustenance, so can I escort you around the nibbles and see what tempts us?”

  “Absolutely.” I know what is on the buffets and I’m hungry as a real bear.

  Shawn takes my elbow and deftly guides me through the crowd of revelers. Alex has done a great job, as usual, of setting everything up, and all of our prep of the last few days is out in its glory. Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.

  “One thing about Lawrence, he does know how to put out a spread,” Shawn says when we have filled our plates and found a quiet corner to eat in.

  “Well, I suppose I should thank you.”

  “Why is that?” he says, deftly stripping a rib bone of its succulent meat and rolling his eyes in pleasure.

  “I’m his chef.”

  Shawn raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m pretty sure I saw some guy in the kitchen barking out orders and sweating over a pan when I got here.”

  “Yeah, that’s Alex. Lawrence is very nice about letting me be a guest at the party, so I do all the menu planning, prep, and setup, and Alex executes night of.”

  “Be still, my heart, the woman can cook. This mac tastes like love from my aunties.”

  “Thank you, that is the best possible compliment.”

  Marcy plops down next to me and picks up half of a taco off my plate. “Great food, El, as always.” She turns to Shawn. “Hi, I’m Marcy.” She puts out her hand, showing an epic amount of side boob in the process. She should know better than to bother at a Lawrence fête; she could probably be doing naked jumping jacks and Shawn wouldn’t bat an eye.

  “Shawn. Pleasure.” He shakes her hand, but I notice does not kiss it.

  “So, Shawn, you’ve been monopolizing my date.”

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize she was spoken for.” A strange look comes over his face.

  Marcy laughs her throaty laugh. “Not date-date—good Lord, no. You know how Lawrence feels about ‘the lesbians.’ Just my bestie and wing girl.” Sad but true, for all his wonderful qualities, Lawrence does seem to have very old-school queeny ideas about lesbians and can let slip little phrases like, “They’re great if you need your landscaping done, but not really fun at parties.” I let it go, considering his age, although it does make me a bit uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, I have heard him mention something about the ‘comfortable-shoe, Subaru-driving girls.’” Shawn makes air quotation marks and does a passable impression of Lawrence’s lilting speech pattern, complete with a femme-y eye roll.

  We all laugh, and Marcy continues to pick things off my plate, while the three of us hang out. Shawn, as it turns out, is a former client of Lawrence’s; he had him design his condo when he moved to Chicago three years ago from California. Shawn is also a doctor, orthopedic surgeon to be specific, and apparently one of the go-to guys for not only the Bears but the Bulls as well. He is part of a sports medicine private group operating out of Northwestern. Very impressive. This is his first Lawrence party, so he really doesn’t know anyone here, and seems grateful for me and Marcy and a quiet place to hang out. Guess the husband couldn’t come.

  “I have to go check on Alex, I’ll be right back,” I say, figuring the two of them can manage without me, and I head to the kitchen.

  “Chef,” I say to Alex, who is sending out a server with a fresh batch of chicken and waffles.

  “Chef, you look awesome!” Alex says, winking at me.

  “You are killing it in here,” I say. “Everything is completely soigné.” Alex laughs at my use of the French term, which means cared for, and which for a while was terribly overused by chefs to mean that food was really on point. I had a professor in culinary school who said it probably forty times a day.

  “I’m just your hands; you’re the one who killed it with this menu. And I hope you know I’m stealing the mac and cheese recipe.”

  “I’m happy to share. You need anything in here?”

  “I think I’m good. I’m sending out the Frango mint brownies and the Dove ice cream sandwiches in a little bit.”

  “Perfect. Just yell if you need me.”

  “Stop. Go to your party. I got this.”

  “So you do.”

  I leave the kitchen and stop at the bar to get another round of Negronis, and somehow I manage to carry all three back to the corner we’ve staked out.

  “My savior goddess!” Marcy says, accepting the glass happily.

  “Thank you, Miss Eloise. You should have let me take care of that,” Shawn says.

  “Not a problem, I was right there at the bar.”

  Marcy gets pulled up to dance with a tiny little guy dressed as Al Capone.

  Shawn and I make eye contact.

  “I don’t dance,” we both say in near-perfect unison, which makes us crack up. We sip our drinks.

  “Why don’t you dance?” he asks me.

  “Bum knee, Doc. Blew it out in high school.”

  He nods. “Basketball?”

  The natural guess, given the size of me. “Nope, shot put. Pre-Olympic.”

  “Wow. You know, that is kind of badass.”

  “Yes, yes, it is. And you?”

  “Two left feet. I have rhythm, you know, being a brother and all,” he says in a jokey, extra-deep Barry White voice, “but I cannot seem to translate it to the dance floor.”

  “No dancing for us, then. What about you—dare I ask if you played football?”

  “Guilty as charged. High school, college, got drafted, and then took a bad hit during preseason and busted out my shoulder. Two surgeries and a year of physical therapy and my time was officially done. Never played a single regular-season game in the big show.”

  “Ugh. Were you drafted here?”

  “I wish. Vikings.”

  “Oooh. Rivals. Still, very impressive.”

  “Yeah, you’ve never heard the crunching noises my joints make when I move. Anyway, I really liked the docs who put me back together, figured it would be cool to do what they did, and I’d been a biology major undergrad. Thought I might do research stuff, when I was in school, you know, not figuring on football being any sort of guaranteed actual career path, but then the surgery made me think that maybe actual doctoring might be good.”

  “That is amazing. Seriously. I mean, I knew that a life of professional shot-putting would be glamorous and make me wealthy, so it was hard to let go of t
he dream, but I did have some cooking skills to fall back on.”

  “Hey, you knew how and when to pivot. That is half the battle in life.”

  Shawn is easy to talk to, and while periodically people come up to say hello to me or comment on my costume, and Marcy comes to check in between bouts of shaking her groove thing on the dance floor, we stick pretty much to ourselves. He just makes me feel completely at ease. So when he asks for my number, suggesting we hang out sometime, I’m delighted, figuring that a new friend will help me check off some of my social bet obligations. Shawn seems like he would be up for going to a class or something. He hasn’t mentioned his significant other, so maybe things are rocky there. I don’t feel like I should pry.

  Marcy bops over. “Hey, my good man, can you cover me with this tall drink of water if I take off?”

  “What, abandoning your date? I’m hurt and shocked.” I’m neither, just mostly amused.

  “Yeah, sorry about that, lovebug. But I just got a ping that there is some after-hours madness going down with the Bannos boys at the Purple Pig, and I know you are not going to let me drag you down there, no matter how I beg.”

  I shake my head. “You tell Jimmy Senior and Junior that I adore them, and that I am expecting an invite to ziti night at the house one of these days. Have a great time.” I tend not to go to too many chef events around town. I think I’m always a bit sheepish that I have spent so many years away from restaurant kitchens, off the line, cooking quiet and private.

  “Not to worry, Marcy, I’ve got you covered here. I will get your mermaid home in one piece.”

  “I owe you one.” Marcy bows to him, nearly having a wardrobe malfunction, and kisses my cheek before heading out.

  “She seems fun,” Shawn says, watching her take three twirls across the dance floor during her exit.

  “She’s a great girl.”

  “And you really didn’t want to go out with her? I go to the Purple Pig all the time—the food there is amazing. I would have thought you’d want to go, especially if you know the chefs there.”

  “Yeah, the late-night chef scene can be a little much—too much booze, too much food . . . I’m sort of a boring house mouse, really. I love this party of Lawrence’s. It’s a fun night, but really, I’m a total ‘Netflix and hang out with my dog’ kind of girl.”

  “I appreciate that. My ex was very much about the social scene, the right parties, endless charity events. I have to say, I don’t miss that about L.A. at all. I’m glad to be back in Chicago, where people like dinner parties better than house parties, and I only have to break out my tux for rubber-chicken dinners three or four times a year instead of three or four times a month.”

  Hmmm. So it’s an ex after all. Poor guy. Wonder if he left the former hubby in sunny California.

  “Was it the breakup that brought you back here?”

  “Sort of. My ex was very committed to staying in L.A., but I had an offer from my current group in their San Francisco office that was really appealing, especially since I have a lot of friends in the Bay Area and some family. And they said that if I joined the group in San Fran, I would have first dibs on any job that opened in Chicago, which I knew was ultimately what I wanted, a chance to really come home. The vibe in Northern California was much more my personality. When I said I wanted to seriously consider the job and the move, that was the end of the marriage.”

  Poor guy.

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been really hard.”

  He shrugs. “We’d been growing apart for a while. Probably got married too fast to begin with, and probably for the wrong reasons. One of those good-on-paper situations, looking back at it. The job offer just crystalized things for both of us.”

  “I get it. My last relationship ended because my dad got sick and I had to come home from working abroad to help take care of him and my guy couldn’t come here, and said he just wasn’t up for waiting for me.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think your guy was an idiot.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think your guy was too.”

  “What guy?” Shawn looks puzzled.

  “Your ex.”

  Shawn barks out a laugh. “Damn, woman, so much for my game. Here I am giving you all my best charms, and you are sitting here thinking I’m gay?” He pauses. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that . . .” And he winks.

  I can feel all the color drain out of my face. “But . . . you . . . you just . . . I mean . . . Lawrence . . . and you’re . . . so . . . I mean . . . you smell good . . .” I’m sputtering like a complete fool.

  He laughs again. “Well, thank you for that. My mama is a very big ‘cleanliness next to godliness’ woman, so I’m glad I’m not some big stinky fool up in here.”

  I can feel the blush burning my cheeks, and I stare into my lap.

  Shawn takes one finger and raises my chin to meet his gaze. “Let me start over, pretty lady. My name is Shawn Sudberry-Long. I am a good man who loves his mother. I am a doctor, and I have had a tremendously fantastic time getting to know you a bit tonight, and would very much like to take you on a date and continue to get to know you, if that is something you think you might be up for.”

  I nod and manage to choke out, “Yep. Yeah. Okay.”

  “Okay, then. Now, would you still allow me to escort you home, or at least escort you into a cab if that makes you more comfortable?”

  I want to crawl into a hole. Ten minutes ago I had a new gay best friend. Now I have some ridiculously good-looking man who likes me. I have no idea what to do with that. Ten minutes ago, on Marcy’s direction, I would not have thought twice about letting him take me home, but now, I’m just too mortified.

  “A cab, a cab would be really totally fine, you know. I mean, you live downtown, and I’m all the way up north . . .” Now I sound like I’m making excuses to not have him take me home because, what, I’m afraid?

  But he nods sympathetically. “I get it, no problem. Shall we get you organized?”

  I nod my head yes, and we stand up. He places a firm hand in the small of my back, which now sends some very specific tingles to some parts of me that tend not to get many tingly times, and we wind our way through the crowd to Lawrence.

  “Darlings, you found each other. I hoped you would!” He kisses my cheek and shakes Shawn’s hand. “Thank you both for coming, and enjoy the rest of your evening, whatever that brings.” He winks lasciviously.

  I can feel the blush coming back. “I’ll see you Tuesday, Lawrence. Thanks as always.”

  “Great party, Lawrence. Really appreciate the invite.”

  Shawn and I head out and downstairs and into the brisk night air. He pulls out his phone. “Address, milady?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to, I mean, I can Uber . . .” I’m fumbling in my purse for my own phone. Shawn places his large warm hand over mine.

  “Allow me.”

  So I do. I give him my address and he plugs it into the app.

  “Look, Eloise, I didn’t mean to shock you, and if you don’t want to go out with me . . .”

  “No!” I say much more vehemently than I mean to. “I mean, yes, I was surprised. I just assumed based on context that you were gay, but I’m really—I mean, I really had a good time tonight, and you are a very nice guy and I’m just—I mean, I really would very much like to go out with you.” I’m not quite getting my sea legs back under me, but at least I’m not a complete drooling idiot.

  “That makes me very happy. By chance would you be free this coming Friday night?”

  I think ahead. The Farbers are going out of town, so I have the whole weekend off, except for brunch with Glenn on Sunday. “Yes, yes, I am.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll pick you up, let’s say, seven?”

  “Sure. That would be lovely.”

  “Is it okay if I call you, between now and then?”

&n
bsp; “Of course. That would be nice.”

  A black Lincoln SUV pulls up. Shawn goes to open the door for me. “I’m going to text you when you pull away, so that you have my cell number in your phone. Would you mind texting me back when you get home so that I know you are safe?”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  “Well, then, I’ll talk to you soon, and I’ll look forward to Friday night. Good night, Eloise.”

  “Good night, Shawn.”

  And then he leans forward and kisses me very gently on the lips, closed mouth, firm and with definite purpose, but not aggressive. It makes my breath catch. He closes the door for me and taps the side of the car to let the driver know that it is okay for him to pull away.

  My head is reeling. Nothing like this has ever really happened to me. It was never the really handsome guy who singled me out for attention at parties. I was sort of always the girl the nice average guys might end up with after the hot girls shot them down.

  My phone pings.

  Get home safe, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.

  This makes me smile with my whole face.

  And when I walk into my house, after giving Simca a good head rub, I text him back.

  Home safe and sound with my attack corgi. Thanks for a really lovely evening. I’ll look forward to talking to you soon. I think for a second and then add, P.S. In the interest of full disclosure, it is important that I tell you . . . I’m not really a blonde.

  I see three little dots blinking right away.

  Thank you for letting me know. In the same spirit, I should tell you that I’m actually a five-foot-two Vietnamese goatherd. I have a really great costume guy.

  This makes me laugh. I reply, I love goat cheese, so that should work out fine.

  Three dots again. Glad to hear it. Talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well, Eloise.

  • • •

  I swoop down and pick up Simca, cuddling her in my arms. I might not dance in public, but what no one knows? I’m a serious secret-solo-dance-party girl. I waltz my confused dog around the living room laughing, and wondering if maybe, just maybe, I’m more ready for this whole dating thing than I thought.