by Jenn Faulk
“All I really meant to say was that I don’t want you to talk down about yourself. You’re the only one thinking that way. The only one in this car, at least.”
“You sound like Andrew,” he murmurs under his breath.
“Andrew sounds like a smart guy indeed,” I say.
Peter is holding a hand in front of the air vent again like he did the last time we rode together. After a moment he puts that hand back on the steering wheel and holds his other one up to a vent.
“Why do you do that?” I ask him.
He glances at me furtively and then quickly puts both hands firmly on the steering wheel.
“I mean, I just wondered,” I say. I’ve never seen him look so uncomfortable, and that’s saying a lot.
He doesn’t seem to be able to speak so I ask him gently, “Is it because you’re nervous?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I mean . . . if it is,” I assure him, “I understand completely. I’m nervous, too.”
This seems to help the state he’s in.
“You, um. You’re nervous?” he asks, glancing back at me uncertainly.
“More and more the longer I sit here,” I say, biting on my lip.
He seems to think about this.
“I just noticed you doing it the last time we rode together,” I explain. “And I just wondered.”
“It’s hard to explain,” he finally says, glancing my way again.
Neither one of us says anything for a long moment. I don’t know what in the world he can mean by saying that, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate.
That might be a good thing. This topic doesn’t seem to be good for either of us right now.
“So, your brother, Andrew,” I begin, trying to start a different conversation. “How old is he?”
“He’s seventeen,” Peter says, obviously relaxing a bit at this question. “He’s graduating early this winter.”
“Is he your only brother? Do you have others? Sisters?”
“Nope,” Peter says. “It’s just the two of us . . . at least until he goes off to school. Then I guess it’s just going to be me.”
I’m about to comment on this when I hear what he didn’t come right out and say.
“So do you live close to your parents?”
“Well, yes and no,” he says. “My mom died when I was little, and my dad travels a lot. So I live with him and Andrew so Andrew’s not alone when Dad’s gone. Like, he’s in Austria right now for the next fourteen days. I mean, it’s not like Andrew can’t take care of himself or whatever, but . . .” He gives his shoulders a little shrug. “Well. You know. He’s only seventeen.”
He looks at me as if he hopes I understand this.
“That’s admirable,” I say softly, thinking of my own family, of how I haven’t stayed close at all. “The two of you must be close.”
“He’s my best friend,” Peter says simply. “I’m really going to miss him when he goes away.”
That’s maybe one of the sweetest things I’ve heard him say.
“Tanner, my brother, is getting married in the fall. I feel like I’m going to lose him a little,” I say. “I mean, I like his fiancée, but I get what you’re saying about missing Andrew.”
“Do you have any other brothers or sisters?” he asks.
“Do I ever,” I say with a grin. “I have a whole army of them. Livi, Ethan, Charlotte, and Avery.” I smile thinking of them. And then, I add, almost belatedly, “Oh, and Ky.”
“Well, poor Ky sounds like you almost forgot about him,” Peter notes. “Him? Her?”
Completely unintentional, but Ky has always been on the fringe. I frown at this, thinking about Emma.
“He’s my dad’s son,” I say softly. “My half-brother. Well, the others are, too. Mom married Seth after my dad died, so Tanner and I got more half siblings than we could handle.” I bite my lip, thinking about this. About Ky. About Emma. About what it must be like to be the child of the other woman and how Emma is going to be treated the same way Ky was and how neither of them are the ones who did anything wrong . . .
“How old were you when your dad died?” Peter asks before glancing at me worriedly as if he shouldn’t have.
“I was five,” I say. “He had cancer. Had being the important word there. He was in remission, but his body was just pushed to its limits. It was a big shock. Or so everyone tells me now. I don’t remember much. I was so little.” I pause for a moment. “I don’t remember much about him, actually. Just some fuzzy memories of him at church, preaching.”
That’s really all I have. I suppose if I only got a few memories of my dad, these are pretty good ones to have.
“My mom had cancer,” Peter says softly. “That’s how she died.”
I look over at him, hearing the sadness still in his voice. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
I know that’s a dumb thing to say because it was cancer and clearly nothing that I did or Peter did or anyone else. How many times have I heard other people say the same dumb thing? People just don’t know what to say, but they want to say something reassuring. I know better than most what’s reassuring, though.
“What’s your best memory of her?” I ask, thinking about my own dad, about how he sounded up there at the pulpit, his Bible in one hand and his finger in the air, making a point.
“Every night before I went to sleep,” he says without hesitation, “she’d lay in bed next to me and read out loud. Long stories . . . epic novels—or at least they seemed that way at the time. I loved it when she read to me.”
I smile at this. “That’s a good memory,” I murmur. “How old were you when she died?”
“I was eight,” he says. “She got sick when she was pregnant with Andrew.” He puts a hand in front of the air vent again, but I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “There was almost nothing they could do without hurting him, so that’s what they did—almost nothing. After he was born it was too late.”
I swallow back tears, thinking of when I was pregnant with Emma. It was strange, how unexpected and unwanted she’d been when I took that first pregnancy test. But it didn’t take long for my heart to change, and then, I’d been so protective of her. I’d never even seen her face, but I was sure that I’d die for her.
“Mothers put their babies first,” I say softly. “Even before they’re born.”
“Sometimes,” he replies absently. Then he says, “They knew. My parents both knew she wasn’t going to make it if she kept Andrew. But that’s what they decided to do. They chose Andrew.”
~Peter~
After we’re seated in the restaurant and have ordered our drinks, Maggie and I begin looking over the menu.
“I’m sorry that I picked such a greasy spoon restaurant,” Maggie says. “I mean, I like the food, but I know it’s not the classiest place. This and the Waffle House are about all I can afford these days, though.”
“You’re not paying for your meal,” I say, looking at her, surprised she doesn’t know this. But then I realize it sounds as if I’m telling her exactly what she is and isn’t going to do and that’s not what I meant at all and . . . “I mean you can, uh . . . I just mean that I was planning on buying you dinner.” I pause, then add, “If that’s okay.”
“Oh,” she says. Then, she smiles. “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”
Sweet. Not chauvinistic.
The waitress comes to take our orders, and I get the calamari because that’s exactly what I had two days ago when I was here with Crystal and there were no problems. I’ve got enough to worry about without dealing with messy burgers or crab legs. Maggie orders a garden salad.
“That’s all you’re going to get?” I ask.
“Um, yeah,” she says, looking over the menu. “It sounds good. I’m not a fancy person . . .”
“Don’t you at least want some chicken or shrimp on it or something?”
She studies the menu a little longer. “Well, how much would . . .” Then, she stops hersel
f. She shoots a quick, uncertain glance my way. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You can’t just have a salad for dinner.”
“Sometimes I do,” she says, closing the menu. “But not tonight. I’ll get it with shrimp. Thank you, Peter.”
“Fried or broiled?” the waitress wants to know.
“Fried,” Maggie says, grinning. Then as soon as the waitress leaves, she leans in closer to me and whispers, “What kind of question was that? Always go with fried, right?”
“Says the person who was just going to get a plain salad,” I note, and she grins again. Then I say, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah,” she says.
I can’t believe I’m about to ask her this. Andrew’s going to have a coronary if I live to tell about it.
“Um, uh . . .” I clear my throat. “Is, uh, is . . .”
She watches me quietly as I struggle. Then, in a very tender, understanding voice, she says, “It’s okay, Peter. Take your time.”
So I do. I take my time. I think about everything Andrew and I talked about, and I think about the fact that Emma isn’t here with us. I think through the worst case scenario that could possibly happen, and I decide that I want to know no matter what.
“Is this a date?” I finally ask. “I mean, like, either way it’s fine, but I just wasn’t sure and I was wondering and everything and . . .” She’s looking at me with an expression that I can’t quite read just before I add, “I mean, I’m planning on paying for your dinner even if it’s not. I just kind of wanted to know.”
She gives me another small smile. “Yes, it’s a date. Or, at least, I hope it is.”
“You do?”
She nods and laughs just a little, still smiling at me.
“That’s, um, that’s what I was hoping, too,” I admit.
“Well, then,” she says, taking a breath, “I’m glad we cleared that up and that we both know what’s going on.”
I nod back at her, hardly able to take in what has just happened . . .
Andrew’s never going to believe it.
Now that I don’t need to obsess anymore about whether or not Maggie and I are out on a date, and now that I know that—for some strange reason—this is what she actually wants, I am almost like a normal person. We spend the next hour talking rather easily about our families and our jobs.
Maggie talks a lot about Emma, of course, but she also tells me about the job she has filing and the classes she takes at the college. She tells me how she just wants to finish her degree, maybe move up in the company she’s at now, and buy a house someday soon with a backyard where Emma can play.
I tell her about my dad and how he’s a professor of music theory and composition. I tell her all about Andrew and how he’s going to Monterey in January and how he’s going to study psychology. I tell her that I’m so proud of him and so excited for him and happy for him, but dreading it all at the same time. She puts her hand on my hand like she did last night and tells me that she understands. I believe her.
Despite how nice our evening goes, on the drive back to her apartment, I start obsessing about walking her up to her door. It seems like it’s the safe thing to do—that a woman shouldn’t be out, alone, at night. But that’s probably an archaic thought process. Women today don’t need men to protect them, do they? For all I know, Maggie’s got mace or a handgun tucked away in her purse and could protect me from a mugger better than I could ever protect her. Plus, Naples isn’t exactly the crime hub of Florida. I’m fairly confident that Maggie can make it from my car to her front door without any trouble. I could watch from my car and make sure she gets inside safely . . .
But wouldn’t it be rude to just pull up into her driveway and not walk her to her front door? It seems to me that walking a woman to her front door after a date—and this is, after all, a date . . . an official date—is the only polite thing to do.
Yes. I will walk her to her front door. But then what? Is that going to come across as if I’m expecting a kiss goodnight? I would like a kiss goodnight, but I’m not expecting one and I don’t want her to think I’m expecting one and I certainly don’t want to get one if the only reason she gives me one is because she thinks I’m expecting it . . .
“Why do you do that?” Maggie asks again, pointing to my hand that’s in front of the air vent. I jerk it back, put it on the steering wheel, and swallow hard.
“I just wondered,” she goes on. “I mean, you go back and forth and back and forth and . . .” She hesitates. “Are your palms sweaty?” she finally asks with a little smile. “Are you getting nervous on me again?”
I’m definitely getting nervous on her again and my palms probably are sweaty, but . . .
“That’s not why,” I say, still gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“Well then why?” she asks. “Why can’t you tell me?”
It’s not that I can’t tell her. I can. And like Andrew pointed out, there’s no way she doesn’t already know that I’m weird. If I really want to have some kind of relationship with Maggie then she’s going to have to get to know me. She’s going to have to know what’s going on sometimes inside my head.
“It’s uh,” I begin. “It’s like, um . . .”
I hesitate and then try again.
“You know the sensation you get on your hand when you go like this?” I ask, sticking one hand out—the one that needs it—and put it in front of the air vent to try to explain. She nods as if she understands what sensation I’m talking about, so I go on. “Well, um, then the other hand doesn’t feel like that,” I say, switching hands. “And so I want this one to feel the same way, so I hold it there and try to make it match.”
I put that hand back on the steering wheel, look at her, and can tell that she doesn’t get it.
“But,” I continue, “now that hand got too much, so I have to do this hand again, and unless I do it just right then it has too much, and . . .”
I glance at her again and am pretty certain I’m not getting a kiss tonight, no matter whether she thinks I’m expecting one or not.
“And sometimes it can be really hard to get them even,” I finally finish with a sigh. When I finally dare to look at her again, she is tilting her head at me and biting her lip. “You, uh, you don’t ever do that?”
“No,” she says slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t think so . . .”
“Or like if you step on a rock with your left foot when you’re walking,” I venture hopefully, “and then you have to step harder with your right foot a few times or try to step on a part of the pavement that’s uneven or something to make them feel the same?”
I look her way again, and can see a small smile playing across her lips.
“That’s really cute,” she says, the smile staying on her face.
Cute?
I’m definitely going to walk her to her door.
Except that maybe I’m not. Because by the time I pull my car into the small parking lot in front of her apartment building, I’m not so sure anymore. I’m not anywhere near as nervous as I was, however, and I decide that since the honesty thing seems to have been working pretty well for me so far, I’ll try it again.
I turn off the car and look at her.
“Can I, uh, can I ask you something?”
“Of course . . .”
“I mean, I already asked you if this was a date but I wanted to ask you something else. I mean, it’s not about us, really, I mean, I guess it could be, but . . .”
As my voice trails off she looks at me sympathetically and promises, “It’s okay, Peter.” And then—just like earlier—she says, “Take your time.”
Instead, I take a deep breath.
“How does a guy know,” I begin, “when it’s okay for him to do something and when it’s not okay?”
A puzzled look crosses Maggie’s face and I realize that all sorts of things are probably racing through her mind. I scramble to explain.
“Like how does he know if she’s go
ing to think he’s being romantic or if she’s just going to think he’s . . .” I hesitate, but finally say it, “weird?”
Now a little smile crosses her lips and I get the distinct impression that she might find this cute, too. “I mean,” I say. “Like, for example, when a guy stands on a woman’s front lawn and holds a boom box over his head, how does he know that she’s going to come out and kiss him . . . not call the cops? Or when he fills her apartment with flowers and candles, how is that not breaking and entering?”
I get a definite smile from her now and—feeling rather emboldened, I go on. “It just . . . it just seems like the only difference between a stalker and a suitor is . . . well . . . I guess that’s what I’m talking about. I don’t really know what the difference is. I don’t get how people know when something’s okay and when it’s not . . .”
“The difference,” she says, smiling, “is that she likes him. If she didn’t, yes, that would be like a stalker. But she does, so it’s romantic.”
“But how—”
She cuts me off, answering my question before I even finish it. “And if you can’t tell whether or not a woman likes you, you should probably just come right out and ask her if she does.”
“They don’t have to ask in the movies . . .” I point out.
“No, they don’t,” she sighs. “But real life isn’t like the movies. Not all the time, at least. And no offense, Peter, but most men in movies aren’t like you. And I have a feeling that it would do you a world of good if you defined things and clarified things with a woman before you made a move. Not because a woman couldn’t be interested in you . . .” She smiles at this. “Because she definitely could. But because you’d need it spelled out in huge, bold, screaming letters.”
She is right about this, likely, but I’m not about to ask her if she likes me or not or if she wants me to fill her living room with flowers and candles. I could, maybe, however, get some clarification about something else . . .
“Okay,” I say, nodding slowly. “Well, what about like, uh, like at the end of a date? Like, when we pull up into the driveway and it’s time to say goodbye?”