“A Ph.D.?” Marcus asks, and then whistles disingenuously. Danny purposely ignores him, but glances at me in silent conversation that would probably involve some colorful language if it weren’t so blessedly silent. My boyfriend is a grown man who certainly doesn’t need me to defend him. But I brought him into this situation tonight, and now I’m regretting it immeasurably.
Sheryl looks a little uncomfortable, but begins again. “Did Sarah tell me you hope to have it completed–”
“I’m just curious,” Marcus interrupts. “Do you typically impress a lot of younger women with that Ph.D.?”
My ill-timed swallow of beer goes down the wrong hole.
I want to kill Marcus.
And may still do it, if only I can stop wheezing and gasping for breath.
As I struggle to recover, Danny looks across the table flatly, his sharp green eyes locking squarely on equally sharp brown ones. Then, in a calm and controlled voice, he says, “I don’t know you, Marcus. And I’m not especially concerned with what you think of me. But you do realize that you’re being disrespectful to Sarah, don’t you? Since she’s the one who invited me here?”
Marcus glances quickly at me, and then back to his beer. Glowering would be an apt description. The rest of the table is dead silent. Sheryl is suddenly very occupied by an invisible speck on her sleeve, and Selene seems to be watching the entire spectacle with no small amount of amusement. If she had popcorn, her whole night would be complete. When she meets my gaze, she raises her eyebrows in an unmistakable ‘I told you so’ expression.
Finally recovered, I give peace one last try.
“So, Danny, Marcus is developing a K-through-8 app that enables teachers to track a student’s progress in common core subjects, and provides differentiated learning options. It’s a phenomenal platform.” Looking eagerly between them, I suggest, “Maybe you could give him some feedback?”
Danny’s enthusiasm for my idea is underwhelming, but out of respect for me, he finally responds coolly, “Be glad to, if that’s what he’s looking for.”
This offer is met by a similar underwhelming level of enthusiasm from the other side of the table. And after another awkward moment of silence, Danny nods his head towards the dance floor.
“Care to join me?”
This is not at all the way I had hoped this evening would go. Still, at the moment, I’m selfishly glad for any excuse to get away from the table. So I take Danny’s proffered hand and rise to my feet. As we turn to leave, I lean in to Marcus and whisper fiercely, “You’re being an ass.” I’m livid. And he damn well should know it.
He doesn’t respond, but he looks a little shamefaced. Good. He deserves to.
The dance floor is fairly crowded. When we reach an opening in the masses, Danny pulls me in close to his body, and kisses me briefly, but thoroughly. His expression still carries the remnants of Marcus’s unexpected ambush.
“I’m really sorry. I should have warned you properly about him. As you can probably guess, he doesn’t have a lot of friends.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Danny laughs sardonically.
“I know,” I sigh. “But he’s been really good to me.”
“That kid’s a punk. He just wants to get in your pants.” He holds eye contact as though he’s challenging me to disagree.
Fine. Challenge accepted. I’m suddenly filled with my own righteous indignation–that kind of comment being so typical of a man. There may be an element of truth to his observation, but there’s a lot more to our friendship than just a crush.
“First of all, that kid is my age. Is that the way you think of me?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Mmm, hmm. Well, you sound very condescending. And second of all, that is not why he’s been good to me. I really don’t appreciate the implication that Marcus is only my friend because he wants to get laid.”
Danny holds his hands up in surrender and changes his tactic immediately.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I meant no offense to you.” He strokes my face with a gentle hand. “I know he cares about you as a friend. Of course he would.”
He appears a little chastised, which he also deserves, so I let it go. I certainly don’t need to be fighting a battle with him, while trying to referee one between the two of them. It’s exhausting.
I lean my cheek against his solid chest, and he tightens his arms around me. We just sway together for a bit as I sort out my next words. When I lean back to meet his gaze, he lifts his brows expectantly–like he knew there was more coming.
“Tell me,” he invites.
“You need to understand about Marcus. After that whole mess with John, it was hard sometimes being around Selene and Kevin. So, Marcus and I spent a lot of time together. He always made me laugh, and he made me feel good about myself again. He used to tell me his most humiliating stories–times when he was bullied; epic fails with girls–really awful stuff. But he would tell them in such a funny way that we’d both end up laughing until we were in tears. I think he knew that hearing his stories would make my own humiliation a little easier to bear.”
Danny looks down at me sympathetically, and caresses my cheek with his thumb. His eyes soften, and he looks like perhaps he feels a twinge of guilt for his assumptions about Marcus.
“I wish it could have been me to do those things for you. So, I guess I owe him a debt of gratitude for being your friend when you needed it.”
He takes my hand and brings it to his chest, covering it with his palm. His heartbeat is solid through the soft fabric of his shirt.
“He’s not a bad guy.”
Nodding slightly, he leans in and gives me a quick kiss.
“Okay. I’ll try harder to get along.”
His other hand strokes my hair, and he nestles me close to his body. His arms come around me again, enveloping me in his warmth. I squeeze him tightly around the waist in return, feeling the roped muscles of his back. He smells so good, that familiar laundry detergent smell that I inexorably now associate with the man I love.
Just as I begin to relax into the moment, a voice to our right calls out, “Hey, Redwood.”
I feel Danny take a deep breath. “Please tell me he’s not talking to me.”
His tone makes me giggle. I lean back to see his incredulous expression.
“I think he may be,” I cringe slightly.
Dan closes his eyes momentarily, breathing deeply again, and then looks at me like he’s trying to summon the patience of Job. He’s likely to need it.
Before Danny turns to answer, Marcus continues, now standing closer to where we are.
“Do you know anything about playing pool? Or are you more of a live-at-the-gym kind of guy?”
He wears a slightly wicked, yet conciliatory smile, and I’m pleased at the very least that his tone has lost some of its bite.
Myriad of things cross Danny’s face: strained equanimity, annoyance and gallantry–all fighting for mastery in his expression. He seems to weigh the information I’ve given him, and, finally, he offers a slight nod–decision made.
“I know a thing or two.”
His lips have compressed into a thin line, but there’s hint of resigned amusement there as well, and it appears the high road has been chosen. For Marcus’s part, while his approach is no less offensive, he’s making an effort in his own weird way. And I’m sure, like Danny, he’s only doing that for my benefit.
So, I leave the two of them to sort things out as only men can do, and head back to our table, taking a sip of my beer. No one says anything for a long time, although both of my friends seem to be silently inspecting me for any collateral damage.
“Well, I think tonight is going quite well,” Selene finally smirks, breaking the quiet of the moment.
I press the palms of my hands into my eyes and release an exhausted moan.
“Sweetie,” she says gently. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
What
did I think was going to happen? I guess I had that stupid girl fantasy that they would like each other. Or at very least that they would get along well enough that we could all do things together from time to time without the threat of bodily harm.
“You can’t force things, Sarah.”
“I know, but I don’t want my relationship with Danny to exist in a vacuum. I don’t want it just to be this isolated thing that I keep separate from the rest of my life. I want my friends and family to know him. And I want your opinions on whether he’s as great as I think he is, or if the phenomenal sex is just clouding my judgment.”
“Oh, God, sometimes I really hate you,” Sheryl groans.
I laugh. But, then, glancing in the direction of the pool table, the humor fades. “I just wanted Marcus’s take on things.”
“His take may be somewhat biased. Maybe your expectations are a little too high.”
This is yet another one of those times when I appreciate Selene’s directness. She doesn’t say ‘He’ll come around’ or ‘It’ll be better after they have a chance to beat each other with pool cues.’ She just lays it out there. My expectations are too high. Apparently, they are.
“Well, hell,” I say, grabbing one of our communal fries. “The male ego is so tender. These are grown men, for Christ’s sake.”
Selene grabs a fry as well, and with her mouth half full she laughs. “Grown men with matching hard-ons for you. So what comes next–a fist fight, or will they pull their dicks out to see whose is bigger?”
Sheryl clinks bottles with Selene. “I would personally lobby strongly for the latter. I say we go watch.”
With some reluctance, I join my friends at the pool table. When Danny sees me walk up, he smiles, and gives me a wink. Marcus looks ecstatic–apparently pleased with his current odds of winning.
As Marcus is racking up the balls for their third and final game, an older, scruffy-looking man approaches Danny. He appears to be well into his sixties, but it’s hard to know whether that’s accurate, or if it’s simply the effects of hard living. He’s tall and very thin–his frail appearance accentuated by his loose-fitting jeans and t-shirt. His deeply lined face is partially hidden behind a full grey beard, but his blue eyes definitely sparkle.
Danny turns and, with instant recognition, smiles broadly. The two men share a manly embrace, punctuated by some hearty thumping on the back. I hear the older one say something in a British accent.
“What are you doing here?” Danny asks. “I thought you never left the Boar.”
“Ah well, the bartender here is a mate of mine. I come every so often.”
Danny waves me over and introduces his friend as Callum. The older man grasps my hand. And, in a practiced and elegant way, not particularly in keeping with his unkempt appearance, he lifts it to place a delicate kiss on my knuckles. I smile at the gesture, which is far more reminiscent of the 18th century than the 21st.
“She’s a beauty, this one.”
“She’s that and more,” Danny says emphatically. And then turning to me, he explains, “This guy is the best pool player I’ve ever met. He taught me everything I know about the strategy behind the game.”
“The instincts were all your own,” he says warmly.
Marcus clears his throat, and Danny steps away to resume play, leaving Callum and I standing together.
The game appears to be close. Danny isn’t saying a lot, just methodically taking his shots when his turn comes. Marcus, on the other hand, is more verbal–fist-pumping when he sinks a ball, and cursing bad luck when he doesn’t leave himself a shot.
“Is this kid a friend of yours?” Callum asks.
“Yes.” He just nods knowingly, still intent on the game at hand.
Danny’s next shot lands just left of the pocket and Callum whistles to himself as though he’s taking all of this in with great amusement. Finally, he leans over, and whispers conspiratorially in my ear, “You must be something special.”
I turn to him curiously. “What do you mean?”
The corners of his mouth pull up in an eloquent smile. “I’ve seen him make that shot with his eyes closed, love. It takes more skill to miss it like he just did.” Then he laughs to himself, takes deep draught of his beer, and heads for the bar.
“Yeah!!” Marcus shouts in the background. “How’d you like that shot, Redwood?”
I don’t need to see the end of this game to know how it will play out. And, as I watch the joy grow on Marcus’s face, my love for his opponent grows in equal measure. The high road indeed.
§
“So Callum seems to think you’re quite a pool player,” I mention to Danny on the ride home.
He glances at me sideways, and laughs a little. “Well, if that’s true, it’s a dubious honor. Let’s just say I spent too much time in bars when I was younger.”
“After your parents died?” I watch him closely, remembering his telling me that Dr. Frick pulled him by his collar from a bar during the time he was completing his credential at Stanford.
He nods subtly. “Yeah, that’s how I got to know Callum. We hung out a lot together. He was a bit of a drifter, himself, then.” He shrugs. “Maybe he still is.”
I reach over and take Danny’s hand, resting on his leg. He lifts my hand to his lips, and kisses me softly, then rests our clasped hands back on his thigh over the worn denim.
“Thank you, by the way.”
He looks over again and smiles tenderly. “Not necessary.”
Chapter 13
Sarah
I DON’T USUALLY LOVE MONDAYS. But today, I had a breakthrough with my patient, Joseph, who leaned his head into mine at the end of our session in an astounding gesture of affection. When you work with kids with autism, you learn to appreciate every milestone in their journey, every small victory like this one. They are extremely literal, but they can’t always find the words to communicate. So, you have to be sensitive to their body language, and to listen, even to the words they can’t speak. Sometimes those are the most profound.
Texting Danny with the news, I smile at his instant response.
I might have to kick his ass for making a move on my girl! Xoxo. So proud of you, sweetness. And proud of Joseph, too.
I head out to my car, well aware of the idiot’s grin plastered on my face. And I’m just about there when my mom calls. It’s shameful to admit, but I hesitate before answering. We haven’t spoken in a while, and I instantly feel bad about that. I need to make a point of checking in with her more often but…it’s complicated.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Sarah, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but I never seem to be able to reach you.” Her tone is dripping with guilt.
“I know. I’m sorry. I haven’t been home much.”
“What have you been doing? I know the clinic isn’t open 24/7.”
I haven’t actually told her about Danny yet. I know I should, but I find it easier not to get her involved in my life until I know exactly where things stand. It was a month before I told her I’d moved out of the apartment I shared with John. But things with Danny are pretty serious, and it’s time she knows. I gather my courage, and tell her the truth.
“Actually, I’m seeing someone.” Long pause. “You’ve met him.”
“I have? Who is it?” She sounds surprised.
“Dan Moore. Do you remember him from McKinley?”
“No, was he in your class?”
I squinch my face up at the question I’ve been dreading, preparing myself for what comes next. Then, I take a deep breath for courage and forge ahead.
“No, Mom. He was my teacher. My junior year.”
The silence that meets my words is deafening. I don’t have to see her reaction to know it’s not good.
“How on earth did this happen?”
Yep. Not good at all. I close my eyes and continue.
“It didn’t happen, Mom. We ran into each other, and he was nice enough to help me with my scholarship essay, which was really gen
erous. And, as it turns out, he’s a great guy who makes me very happy.”
And to top it off with a cherry… “I love him.”
“Sarah, how long has this been going on?”
“A few months. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t know what you’d say.”
“I think you knew exactly what I’d say. How old is he anyway? Thirty-five? Forty?”
“He’s 33. And it doesn’t matter. He’s brilliant, and he treats me well, and we have so much in common.”
“I swear, Sarah, sometimes I don’t what you’re thinking. What do you suppose your father would have said about this? You work yourself to the bone to get in to Stanford, to prepare for a career that you’ve always talked about. And, now, here you are ready to throw all of that away? For a man?”
“What are you talking about–throwing everything away?”
“What do you think a 33-year-old man wants? He wants a wife. He wants kids. He’s at a totally different stage in life, and he’s not going to want to wait around while you finish school and start a career. What if you get pregnant, Sarah? Then what?”
“I’m not getting pregnant!”
“You should be living the life of a 22-year-old, not the life of a 33-year-old. You should be focused on your career, and on enjoying this stage in your life. You don’t need to rush into a serious relationship.”
“Funny, Mom. You were fine with my living the life of a 33-year-old when I was sixteen.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. My mother and I have many weapons in our respective arsenals, and we both wield them with surgical precision. Guilt, especially, cuts both ways. I close my eyes, and blow out a long breath.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean it.”
“I think you did,” she responds quietly.
“I just wish you would be more open-minded about this. Danny is a really good person, and he cares about me. And he’s very supportive of my career.”
“He’s old enough to know better, Sarah. Men like the idea of a younger woman because the chase is exciting, and it’s flattering to their egos. But trust me on this: If marrying you isn’t on his near-term agenda, then he’s just having a good time. Eleven years is too much of an age difference to remain a non-issue for very long.”
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