My phone vibrates again.
“That’s a lot of texting. New boyfriend?” he ribs.
I continue painting.
“You’re not giving me a lot to work with here, Alison. Do you want me to break into song? ‘Kiss the Girl’? . . . ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight?’ . . . ‘Love Is an Open Door’? I’ll take requests.”
“That would be lovely!” I say with false sincerity. “Though I wouldn’t have taken you for a Disney-soundtrack-loving kinda guy. I guess you’re just full of surprises, huh?”
Juan Pablo shrugs. “I got kids. What else do you sing with them?”
“Wait—you have kids?” I turn my attention from the ceiling overhead to look at him.
“Yeah. One son, one daughter.”
“You have two kids?”
“Yeah. Why is that so surprising?”
For three years I’ve been working in St. John the Divine; for three years I’ve seen Juan Pablo on a weekly—sometimes daily—basis. We get along swimmingly, and though we haven’t ever had “deep” conversations, we make a lot of chitchat: about our weekends, about TV shows, about Monday-night football, about buildings we’ve worked on or in.
I generally like all the contractors I work with. By nature, they tend to be easygoing, funny, life-loving types. But they’re not always smart. Which is fine. But Juan Pablo, and most of the guys on his crew, are more interesting, more curious. They don’t just want to know which treatment to perform, they want to know why we recommend it. They want to know where we’ve used it before. Also, most of them went to college.
“You’ve just, never mentioned having kids. Are you married?”
“Pssssh, me? Don’t you think I’d have mentioned if I were married?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t mention you have kids. Is their mother your girlfriend?”
“Nope. No girlfriend. Don’t you think I’d have mentioned that, too? I wouldn’t two-time you.”
I roll my eyes at his come-on.
“I’ve got baby mamas,” he says nonchalantly.
Go figure. The only smart, playful, attractive guy I’ve ever met through work has a baby mama. Two baby mamas. Worst still, he actually refers to them as “baby mamas.”
During my lunch break I text James back.
March 7 at 12:03 p.m.
ALISON: GOOD. COLD. JEALOUS? YOU’VE CALLED ME BEFORE, SO ALTHOUGH I HAPPEN TO BE A VERY GOOD DETECTIVE, IT WOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN MUCH TO FIGURE OUT WHO THAT TEXT WAS FROM. . . . ALISON
JAMES: YOU’RE MEAN. BUT I FORGIVE YOU. WANT TO GET TOGETHER NEXT TUESDAY WHEN I’M BACK IN TOWN?
March 13 at 9:08 a.m.
Hey,
Look what I found in my coat pocket this morning! I thought I should give this whole “email” thing a try and see what it’s all about.
Hope you had a quick flight home and that you’re rocking a pretty sweet golfers’ tan this morning.
Cheers,
Alison
March 13 at 9:31 a.m.
Wow - a communication breakthrough!!
Sadly, I am pretty much the same color as I applied a lot of SPF 30.
Do you have any movie requests for tomorrow or would you like to go out somewhere?
James
March 13 at 12:50 p.m.
A couple things:
1.
I’m sick. I feel it is only fair that I warn you in the event that you prefer to be healthy for your weekly Florida trip rather than let me infect you with my germs. . . . I’ll try not to be offended if you choose your health over the opportunity to see me. ;)
2.
Should you decide to tempt a sickness-riddled fate, I’m happy to do any of the following: go to your place and watch you play guitar (hint, hint); go to your place and watch a movie; go to my place and watch a movie. I brainstormed the options, you pick.
Cheers,
Alison
March 13 at 1:29 p.m.
Thank you for the enticing list of activities. I will let you know what I decide on! A movie at your place might be a nice change of pace. I don’t want to intrude on your roommates though . . . or show too much public affection. . . .
I’m sorry you are sick. I am definitely looking forward to seeing you, and I am not concerned about getting sick.
I began my morning workout regimen today and am going to try to follow up with it tomorrow at the gym . . . the goal is for a 6:00 a.m. wake up and 6:10 a.m. gym arrival!
Jim
“Ha! This is your ‘not super-fancy studio’? This is, like, twice the size of my three bedroom apartment I share with Nicole and Cassie. And!” I gasp, “Those windows!” I rush toward the nineteenth-century casement windows. “These are amazing. They have to be original!”
James shrugs. “Well, I’m glad you like the place.”
“Like? I love. Your apartment is gorgeous. You totally undersold it.”
“Thanks. You wanna order dinner now? It will probably take a while to get here.”
“And someone has to be up at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, I must remind you.” I smile.
He reaches over and pinches my side playfully. “I’m glad someone’s on top of my workout regimen. Don’t want me to lose all this muscle tone, huh?” I never really sized him up before, so I take this opportunity to, narrowing my eyes as I blatantly let them travel up and down his torso and then his legs. Nice. Lean.
We turn on The Verdict and sit on his couch watching while we wait for the delivery to arrive. Once it does, it is the best Italian food I’ve had in New York. The buffalo mozzarella is like a little pillow of perfection, the lemon-cream sauce on the shrimp and gnocchi is heavenly. I say as much.
“Yeah.” James shrugs. “I order from here three or four nights a week. Or, rather, most nights when I stay in the city.”
“That must be nice.”
“It is.”
“So you don’t cook? Ever?”
“Have you seen my kitchen?” He points his fork at his minibar refrigerator. “Besides, I don’t really know how to cook.”
“Oh, following recipes is easy. It just takes practice.”
“Well, you’ll have to teach me one day. Or cook for me one day. Or both. You know, my birthday’s coming up?”
“You want me to cook for you as a birthday present?” I ask, as I fork a gnocchi into my mouth.
“You don’t have to. We can go out, or something. But if you wanted to, that would be nice.”
“Sure!” I nod. “Of course I’ll cook for your birthday. I just can’t promise it will be good when I’m confined to your single-burner stove. So go light on the judging marks.”
“Awww, you’re just a regular Martha Stewart. I’m lucky,” he says and leans in to kiss me. Except he misses and somehow ends up kind of kissing my eye.
“Bleh!” I flinch, laughing, though a little grossed out, too. “Slobbery eye . . . kiss-thing.” I wipe at my eye with the back of my hand. “You’re so weird!” I blurt out, not meaning to. But once it’s out there, it seems easier to play it off as teasing, rather than to apologize.
He pulls his face back and searches my eyes while smiling. “Do you think I’m weird? I told my buddy Ross after our first date that I thought you found me weird.” He says it half in jest, half-seriously, so I can’t decide if he’s being facetious or actually expects an answer.
I wobble my head from side to side as if debating. “I don’t know. . . . Yeah, maybe a little weird.” I wrinkle my nose and nod, smiling.
“I totally weirded you out with that whole stair thing, huh? It was really funny to me at the time. Actually, it’s still funny to me now. Those weird,” he shakes his head, “lacquered stairs to nowhere. . . .” Then he perks up. “But I totally weirded you out when I pretended to walk up them, right? I could tell. You looked kind of panic-stricken.”
“I did want to pull my turtleneck up over my face and pretend I didn’t know you, but . . .”
“But? . . .”
“But,” I sigh, then pep up with a smile, “I’m here now
, aren’t I?”
March 23 at 6:58 a.m.
ALISON: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! HOPE IT’S A GREAT DAY AND THE START TO AN EVEN BETTER YEAR.
JAMES: I CAN SAY WITH SOME SURETY THAT THIS WILL BE THE BEST BIRTHDAY YET. I’M REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO SPENDING IT WITH YOU TONIGHT, AND I REALLY APPRECIATE THE FANCY MENU YOU’RE CONCOCTING.
March 23 at 9:02 a.m.
ALISON: AWW, SO NICE YOU ARE! LIKEWISE! . . . JUST DON’T DEVELOP LOFTY CULINARY EXPECTATIONS. THIS FORAY INTO COOKING IN A BACHELOR KITCHEN MAY NOT GO AS PLANNED.
After we finish the raspberry pavlova, I get up to clear the dishes. As I’m scrubbing the pan from the lamb chops, he asks, “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” I say from the sink. “Or, maybe . . . how would you feel about providing background music?”
“Sure, let me set up my speakers.”
“No.” I look over at him while I continue scrubbing. “You be the background music. You still haven’t played guitar for me. And you make it sound like you practice a lot.”
“Sure.” He retrieves his guitar from its case against the wall, tunes it, and starts strumming. It’s a song I’ve never heard before, and I don’t recognize the lyrics, but he’s good. His voice is smooth and melodic, the song has a nice hook, and as I’m rinsing the plates, I feel a strange sensation, like a fist welling up inside my chest. I’ve never understood when girls swoon over musicians purely because they’re musicians, but with this song, with James singing and playing this song, I think I get it.
I’m drying the dishes as he finishes the song and lowers his guitar. I applaud softly. “Wow. You are . . . really good. And that was really good. Encore?”
Without a word, he starts in on another song I don’t recognize. I put away the dishes and sit on his floor cross-legged, my back leaning against his bed frame, and I watch him strum on his chair across the room. He goes through two or three more songs and my mind wanders, but I feel intensely calm, and sated, at the same time.
He claps his guitar strings with one hand. “Okay, okay. I’ve spoiled you enough tonight. And besides, I’d rather be spending time with you than practicing my guitar.”
“That was amazing. I mean it. I’m not just saying that because I have to.”
He puts his guitar down, walks across the room, bends down and lifts me from under my arms to a standing position, and he kisses me.
“Thanks for indulging me. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.” I nod. “Do you want to stay over tonight?”
“I . . .” I dread this conversation. “I do and I don’t,” I say slowly.
“Ohkaaaay.”
I search for the right wording. “I do want to keep spending time with you . . . but I don’t intend to let you get in my pants tonight. So if that’s what you . . . anticipated when you said ‘stay over,’ then I . . . should probably go home.” I quickly add, “Which is fine. Sorry, I know it’s your birthday and all . . . I don’t want to have any ‘talks’ or bring up any serious junk tonight.”
His hands are still on my shoulders, and he grips them while staring into my eyes with a directness that makes me slightly uncomfortable. “I do not care. I asked you to stay over, not to do anything that would ever make you uncomfortable. You can be the pace leader.”
I nod a couple times, smile bashfully, and mumble, “Cool, thanks.”
March 24 at 10:17 a.m.
JAMES: THANKS AGAIN FOR A WONDERFUL BIRTHDAY. THAT’LL BE HARD TO TOP. I FORGET WHICH DAY YOU LEAVE FOR DISNEY WITH YOUR COLLEGE FRIENDS. . . . DO YOU HAVE TIME TO HANG OUT BEFORE YOU GO?
March 24 at 12:03 p.m.
ALISON: IT WAS MY PLEASURE! WEDNESDAY NIGHT, SO NOT MUCH TIME BETWEEN NOW AND THEN. WEEK AFTER?
March 30 at 9:52 p.m.
Dear Alison,
You always tease me about my “weekly trips to Florida,” but look who’s the big traveler now!
Are you getting to fish? (I think you said you and your friends might go fishing. . . .) Binge on turkey legs and then ride Space Mountain until your stomach aches?
Desperate to hear all about it,
Jimmy
March 31 at 9:40 a.m.
Hey there,
Yes, I am a very big traveler indeed. It’s tour-as-many-countries-of-the-Epcot-arena-as-possible-in-6-hours or bust. With Mickey ears. That’s always been my motto at least. . . .
Goin’ fishin’ tomorrow.
How are things up North? Or, I forget, you’re probably in Florida this weekend too, as usual. Yes? ;)
Alison
“Someone’s nice and tan!” he exclaims when I turn the knob and step into his apartment.
“Yeah, I didn’t do too badly this time. This might be the tannest I’ve ever been. Which, I guess, is really sad. But . . .”
“No, you look great. Shimmery with your tan skin in your white sweater . . .” He hurries toward me from across the room, practically skipping, and envelops me in a bear hug. “I missed you,” he practically yells in my ear before pecking my lips. “Did you miss me?” he begs.
I laugh. “Inside voices,” I chide pedantically.
“Huh?”
“You’re yelling in my ear.” I playfully bat his face away and guard my right ear with my palm. “So how were things here?”
“Good.”
I settle into the couch while he moves about unpacking his briefcase, plugging in his cell phone, folding clothing.
“I went home to spend some time with my brother.” He folds a shirt and pauses, looking up. “Have I told you about my brother?”
I shake my head. “Not beyond the fact that you have a brother. Two,” I correct myself.
“Yeah. So. It’s kind of a long story, but my brother’s got some problems. . . .”
I nod, not sure if it’s appropriate for me to ask the logical follow-up what kind of problems?, so I keep silent.
He nods to himself. “He’s . . . well, it’s not a big deal. But he’s thirty and he still lives at home, and he’s had a lot of drug problems, been in and out of rehab . . .”
“Oh,” I say softly, nodding.
“Yeah, so . . . I think it kind of sucks for him. Being cooped up with my parents all the time. I mean, my parents are great and all. My dad is basically my best friend, he’s so wonderful. But, my brother’s single, and he can’t drink because of his rehab program, so I think he probably gets a little stir-crazy living in his parents’ basement in suburbia.”
“Yeah, that would be . . . tough, I imagine.”
He nods. “So, anyway, since he’s been home the last year, I try to go home once in a while just to hang out with him.”
“So what’d you guys do this weekend?” I ask, upbeat, hoping my upbeatness conveys that I’m not judging and agree with him that it’s not a huge deal.
“We golfed.”
“Oh? It runs in the family?”
“Yeah. Well, he and my dad golf. Not my mom and my other brother.” He picks up a picture frame and hands it to me. “This is me golfing with them last summer.”
I study the photo. “Wow. You look nothing like them. You’re like me and my siblings and mom. My dad and I look pretty Nordic, but everybody else looks Mediterranean. Same goes for you . . . except more so.”
“Well, that makes sense. I’m adopted, you know.”
I turn to him. “Wait. Really? No, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s not something I really talk about. But. I’m adopted.”
“Oh. Cool. What did . . . uhhh . . . how did . . .” I shake my head back and forth, hoping he’ll proffer an explanation of the parts he’s comfortable sharing, since I clearly don’t know which questions are off-limits or on.
“Yeah,” he jumps in, saving me and the conversation. “So my parents tried to have kids for a really long time. Like, years. And finally doctors gave up and told my mom that she couldn’t get pregnant. So she and my dad adopted me.”
“Do you know . . . anything about your . . . biological parents?”
<
br /> “Kind of. Not really. My birth mother was a graduate student in New Mexico. She got pregnant, wasn’t married, and didn’t feel . . . equipped to raise me, I guess? So my parents found her through an agency.”
“Were you really young then, when you were adopted?”
“Yeah, I was less than a week old.”
“Have you ever . . .” I pause, debating whether to proceed. But he brought it up, right? “. . . talked to or had contact with your biological mother since?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Are you curious about her?”
He shakes his head again. “She knows my parents’ names and knows they live in Connecticut. She could try to find me if she wanted to. But since she hasn’t . . . I guess I don’t feel a great need to find her. Besides,” he adds, “my mom and dad are the best. I totally lucked out, and they’ve been my family for as long as I can remember. Obviously.”
“That’s nice,” I say. I turn my eyes back to the framed photograph. “But it’s funny, your brother here actually looks like your dad. Is it like that thing where they say couples grow to look like each other, or dogs and their owners start to resemble one another?”
He chuckles. “No, but that’d be really uncanny, right? Since they basically look like twins. After I was adopted, my mom actually got pregnant. Twice.”
“Awww, that’s like a medical miracle!”
“Yeah. It was kind of a big surprise. A big surprise.” He laughs. “But . . . I got brothers out of it. So that was cool.”
I nod encouragingly, smiling.
“So. You want to go out tonight instead of order in?”
“Sure.”
“Mexican?”
I’m panting on the treadmill beside Cassie again the next morning. “But, when we saw Evan and Hannah on the way to dinner last night, I just felt . . . I don’t know how to explain it. Like, kind of . . . embarrassed by him?”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. It’s like, he was . . . too peppy. He’s always too peppy. And loud, like he can’t modulate his own voice. So . . . when we first bumped into them, I was internally panicking, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass me in front of them. And they’re my friends! . . . I don’t want to be embarrassed to bring someone I’m dating around my friends.”
Match Made in Manhattan Page 13