by Anna Martin
I mumbled and grumbled and pulled on shoes, combed my hair, and found a nice jumper to go over my shirt.
“Are the kids coming?” I asked.
“They’re already in the car. As is Marley. Waiting for you.”
“All right, all right,” I muttered, taking the hint. Glanced in my wallet and winced at its contents, or lack thereof. Frowned at the scrappy napkin that had been tucked in behind my driver’s license. Left the house as Adam smacked me around the back of the head to hurry me along.
“Hello, girls,” I said. “Why am I always surrounded by girls?”
That made them laugh.
“We could pick up your daughter if you like, add another one to the mix,” Marley offered.
“I’m seeing Chloe later,” I said as I climbed into the backseat of the car, between Mia and Charlotte at their request.
“Good, you don’t see her enough,” Marley said as she leaned through the gap between the front seats to give me a kiss. Marley used to be the great Marlene Caron, ballet dancer for the New York City ballet. Adam had convinced her to give up her life on the stage when she fell pregnant with Charlotte, and move to somewhere quieter to raise their family. She was sassy and cool and I loved her dearly.
The first time I went out with Adam’s family, I felt like a third wheel, intruding on personal family time that I had no right to intrude on. That soon passed, though. Marley was too warm and loving for me not to warm to her, and other friends joined us often enough.
As we settled into our table at the diner, I pulled my wallet out again, determinedly looking for that bloody napkin. While inspecting it further, Adam began to laugh.
“I’m glad you hung on to that,” he said, still chortling.
“What is it?”
“Some guy gave you his number.”
It came back to me in flashing, still images: a young blond man, pushing Adam off his barstool, tattoos. “If you wanna know, call me.”
“Oh bloody hell,” I muttered, dropping my head to the table, making the girls laugh.
“Let me see,” Marley said. I passed her the paper without lifting my head. Her fingertips threaded through my hair and gently massaged my neck. “What does C.J.F. brackets one mean?”
“It means,” I said, summoning the shards of my dignity and sitting up again, “Christopher something-beginning-with-J Ford, or Frost, or… no, I think it was Ford, the first.”
“And only,” Adam helpfully supplied.
“Yes. The first and only.”
“Are you going to call him?”
“No!” I exclaimed. “Absolutely not. He thought I was Gerard Butler.”
Marley winced in sympathy. She knew Butler was older than me, by quite a bit, and that I hated the comparison. Especially when people said things like, “Oh, I thought you would have been about the same age….”
“Butler is rather dashing, though, Robert. You should start taking it as a compliment. All the girls like him.”
“Yes, well, I’m not particularly interested in having all of the girls liking me.”
Mia looked up from where she’d been stirring her orange juice with a straw. “Uncle Robert, why don’t you want all the girls liking you?”
“New topic of conversation!” Marley said loudly and enthusiastically, clapping her hands and smiling brightly. Adam leaned over and whispered something in Mia’s ear, making her frown, then violently start stirring her juice again. I suspected he’d told her the truth.
The waitress came shortly after that and took our orders.
Later that evening I settled down with takeaway meal from the local Chinese restaurant and tried not to think of Chris and his number and the paper that was burning a hole through my wallet into my ass cheek. Arse cheek. Eventually, as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I removed the slip of paper from my wallet and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tomato. I stared at it for long moments, wondering what the hell I was going to do with it.
Two days later I closed my eyes and dialled his number blind, letting the beeps tell me that I was pressing the right numbers. I gritted my teeth as it rang. Felt like I was going to throw up.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, um, Chris? This is Robert.”
“Mm. Robert. Robert, Robert… oh! Gerard Butler.”
This was a bad idea. “Yeah.”
“Hey! I was hoping you would call.”
“Oh. Well, I did. How are you?”
“Good, man, I’m good.” The sound of him rummaging around. It sounded like he was still in bed. It was nearly two in the afternoon! I was calling from my lunch break! “What are you doing?”
“I’m actually just on my lunch break.”
“Cool. Wanna meet for a beer later?”
He sounded so casual, like asking someone to go for a beer later was just something that happened. Not a monumental, life-changing type of decision.
“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.” I did a good impression of someone who was cool. Casual. (I was neither of these things.)
“Awesome. Well, I’ve got your number now. I’ll text you when I move.”
“Okay. I’ll speak to you later, Chris.”
“Yup. Later.”
Then he hung up. I stared at my phone for long moments, in complete shock. I had a date. On a Tuesday night. I slammed my laptop shut and raced across campus to try and find Adam.
There was no time after my last class of the day to go back to the apartment and change, so I was forced to go out still dressed in my suit (although I did take off my tie and leave it in the car, with my jacket. It was an attempt at casualness at which I fear I failed.)
We were settling into a beautiful early autumn, the air still warm but there was a sharp chill in the air in the mornings. As the day progressed it warmed up further and I really didn’t need my jacket any more. And there was something about Chris that made me want to be less uptight. Less stuffy.
Chris had sent me a text saying that he’d gone to a coffee shop; I was relieved it wasn’t another bar after our last encounter. I parked just a few doors up and compulsively wiped my hands on my thighs a few times, trying to dispel the nerves that were gnawing at my stomach. I hadn’t been on a date in… too long.
Chris stood as soon as I walked through the door and waved me over.
“I was starting to worry you were going to stand me up,” he said, teasing, though his expression told me he was maybe at least a little worried.
“Oh, no, I would never do that,” I said. “I got caught up at the office. I’m sorry. Let me get drinks.”
“No worries,” he said, flashing me his boyish grin and settling back into his deep leather chair.
He was more handsome than I remembered, or maybe he just looked better with the warm afternoon light spilling through the windows than he had in dubious bar lighting. For our date he’d dressed in nice jeans, a T-shirt with a band name I didn’t recognise, and a thick cable-knit cardigan that was at least a little reminiscent of Kurt Cobain. I wasn’t sure if that was intentional and wondered whether or not to mention it.
I bought him a refill and me a decaf in an effort to calm my nerves. The hot liquid scalded my tongue as I sipped at it, forcing me to hide my grimace of pain.
“Where do you work?” Chris asked as I sat down in the chair opposite his.
“I’m a professor, actually, at the university.”
“Oh yeah?” He sounded interested. “What do you teach?”
“Colonial literature, with a particular emphasis on Kipling. Please tell me you’re not a student.”
Chris laughed easily. “I’m not a student, Rob.”
“Robert,” I corrected automatically, then cringed. “Sorry.”
“I had an uncle called Robert,” Chris said, waving off my apology. “He was a pervert and an alcoholic. Rob sounds… younger.”
“I don’t generally let people use that as a nickname.”
“I’d gathered that.”
“I suppose I could make an e
xception for you.”
I was treated to another smile. Suddenly I didn’t mind him calling me ‘Rob’.
“And you?” I asked. Sipped still-scalding coffee. “What do you do?”
“I’m a percussionist,” he said.
“A drummer?”
Chris frowned, rolled his eyes, and threw his hands up in the air. “No, not a drummer, a percussionist.”
“I’m sorry.” The distinction seemed to be important to him.
“It’s fine. Well, to be fair, I do own a drum kit. But I also work freelance for orchestras and symphonies and that sort of thing too.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “How long have you been doing that?”
“Drumming? Since I was eight. I started on everything else when I realised how much money there was to be made doing all of the highbrow shit as well. I’m in a band,” he added, bragging, but it suited him. “Yeah. That’s how we ended up here. We’ve been on tour for about a year and a half.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Florida, originally,” he said, leaning forward to collect his mug from the table and stretching the thin T-shirt he was wearing tight over his back. “Moved about some when I was a kid, ended up in Tallahassee, where I met the guys. We played out the South over a period of a few months, then decided to get on the road.”
“Where have you been?” I asked. “Sorry—I don’t mean to bombard you with questions, I’m just interested.”
“Nah, I don’t mind,” he said, smiling again. “I’m an arrogant little shit, I like talking about myself. We hit most major cities on the East Coast on our way up here. Atlanta, DC, Baltimore, New York… then Boston, and here I am.”
“Boston isn’t nearly as impressive as where you’ve been before,” I said, trying to phrase the next question not like a question at all.
“Ah, John’s sentimental,” Chris said. “Our strings man. He grew up here and wanted to come back, play some gigs, catch up with people he used to know. We’ll be here for a few months yet.”
“Sounds good.”
“Can I ask you something?” Chris asked, and I nodded. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two,” I said.
“Oh. That’s not so bad.”
“You’re going to destroy me if you say you thought I was older.” I could feel a telltale flush creeping up the side of my neck.
“No, not exactly,” he lied. “Just… you’re really cute, Rob, you know that?”
“No I’m not,” I mumbled, flushing even more.
“Ah, maybe you just need someone to tell you it more often.”
I nodded and fiddled with my coffee cup. “Why?” I blurted out.
“Why what?”
More blushing. I could feel it. “Why me?”
He laughed—not at me, it wasn’t malicious, but almost as if he was mocking my naïveté. “You’re interesting,” he started, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’ve got to admit, I think the accent is very sexy. You’re… strong-looking. Composed. I like that.”
No one had ever pulled me apart like that before, highlighting what I was sure were my faults and turning them into compliments.
“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m… older?”
“What, by nine years? No, it’s nothing.”
“Really?”
I knew, logically, that the age difference between twenty-three and thirty-two wasn’t that much, not in the grand scheme of things. And I also knew that I wasn’t really old. I was just boring. And that was so, so much worse.
“Look, Rob, I like you, but I’m guessing you have a problem with me, and that’s cool, I promise. This was just a coffee date.”
“No, no.” I scrambled for some kind of control over the conversation. Did I ever have it in the first place? “I do, I mean, I like you too, but I just… I don’t know how…. Oh, shit.”
Chris’s frown softened. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You’re really not very good at this, are you?”
“I’m really not,” I said miserably.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“I’d like to see you too. Would you like to come out to dinner with me on Friday night?”
He smiled again, his pretty blue eyes sparkling at me. “Sure. Sounds good.”
“Excellent.” I smiled and let out a long, relieved breath. “I’ll call you when I’ve made reservations.”
“Do people still make reservations?” he asked. “I thought they only did that in the movies.”
It took a moment, but I realised he was teasing. “Fuck off,” I told him, surprising myself. “You need reservations to go to nice restaurants. I’m not going to take you to Wendy’s.”
“Fuck off,” he said right back, laughing too. “I’ve been to nice restaurants before. Do I need to dress up?”
“No,” I said, desperately trying to think of a nice place to take him. “Just be yourself.”
“My usual self won’t get served in fancy places,” he said.
“We’ll be fine.” I stood, stretched, and smiled. “It’s been good seeing you again, Chris.”
He stood too. “You too. I’ll speak to you soon.”
It was too early for kisses, or even a brief hug, and the low table was between us, making it hard to lean over, anyway. A handshake was too formal. In the end I smiled again and left, the knot in my stomach starting to make its presence known once more.
Chapter 2
I decided on a Chinese restaurant for our date, mainly because it was one of my favourite places to eat, and also because who doesn’t like Chinese food? Though I worried that I should have checked if he had any food allergies, or if he was vegan… every other damn person was vegan these days.
I felt more nervous than I’d been in years, probably because I hadn’t been on a date in years. Even the normally tedious task of dressing myself became something nerve-wracking. I pulled nearly every item of clothing out of my closet, discarding one thing after another before settling on a pair of worn jeans and a white shirt, and a pair of comfortable boots. I wanted to take my glasses off, and get a haircut, and change all sorts of things about the way I looked. It was a frantic phone conversation with Marley that settled my nervous stomach, and her reassurances that Chris already liked who I was and that I didn’t have to change for him.
Although I offered to pick Chris up from his place, he just asked for the address of the restaurant and said he’d meet me there. Still, I was early and parked a block or so away, hovering by the entrance to the restaurant and trying desperately to not look like someone who had just been stood up.
I did not expect Chris to pull up on a motorbike. The rational side of my brain, the dominant part to the point where I didn’t realise I even had an irrational side, disapproved. The newly discovered irrational side shot a hot thrill to the base of my spine.
“Hey,” I called as he pulled off the helmet. Thank God he was wearing a helmet.
I wasn’t sure if Chris had dressed up or dressed down for the occasion. Clearly I hadn’t seen enough of him yet. It was the “yet” that sent another little thrill through me. He was wearing wool pants, dark charcoal grey, and a soft, soft blue cotton shirt, loose at the throat and with the sleeves rolled up to display his brightly tattooed forearms. It was stuck somewhere between formal and casual, and I wanted to reach out and touch him.
“Rob,” he said with the slow, confident grin of someone who knows how amazing he looks. His stride across the sidewalk was long and casual, and he came right up close to me, leaning in and brushing his lips over the corner of my mouth. I reached out blindly and grabbed his upper arm, loving the strength in his lean muscles as I curled my finger around his bicep.
I desperately wanted to take his hand as we entered the restaurant, but I didn’t know how open he was with his sexuality and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. It became clear pretty quickly, though, that he was happy to be affectionate in public, leaning in close to me as we walked inside.
I felt him inhale from behind me, breathing in the scent of my cologne. It seemed—however unlikely it felt— that he was attracted to me too. As we were led to our table, he dropped back, out of respect to other diners or to make me feel more comfortable, I didn’t know. I didn’t ask.