by M. Mabie
I loved getting a woman turned on before I ever touched her.
But it was our first date, so I took a firm hold of the reins and didn’t let the fantasy continue.
Well, I didn’t dwell on it anyway.
Her curly light-brown hair was perfectly disciplined as if each curl were one twisted ribbon. She had brown eyes and a petite frame that made my mouth water.
When she arrived at the table, she apologized, “Sorry, I’m so damn late. I couldn’t get a cab, so I walked from about ten blocks down. I guess it wasn’t as close as I remembered it.”
She still looked mildly out of breath, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I could respect someone who wasn’t comfortable waiting, for a cab or a date. Whatever the case may be, I liked that she walked, instantly going to Plan B when needed.
I got over her tardiness immediately as she regretfully smiled at me.
“I hate being late, too,” I admitted, but in a nice way. I hadn’t been waiting to have dinner with someone only to turn around and be a dick to them.
I stood to kiss her cheek, then helped her with her wool coat. I’d see how the night went to decide if I wanted a second date. Nevertheless, I felt optimistic from my attraction to her.
“Thanks again for inviting me out. I rarely go anywhere,” she confessed. She placed her hands together on top of the table, and then, when she noticed it, took a drink of her water. She seemed parched from her walk.
“So, Lauren, are you from Chicago?”
She nodded as she swallowed before talking. “Kind of.” She gingerly sat the water glass back down on the white linen tablecloth. “I’m from about an hour south of here, but I’ve been coming downtown all my life. So I’m familiar, but I didn’t grow up in the city.”
Her lips turned up as she spoke about both her youth and the city. I could tell by the way she spoke, she liked Chicago; and she’d had a pretty good childhood if I were a betting man.
Body language, for a man like me, was a second language.
“Makes perfect sense. I hope you like Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“Thank you, I do,” she admitted and tipped her head. She was cute. Beautiful, but in a very classic way.
“You’re welcome. You look lovely,” I told her, hoping she’d know there weren’t any hard feelings. Besides, it was the truth, and women should be told they’re beautiful when it applies. I’d seen her many times in the building, but always after work and probably not at her best. I’m sure I looked like hell on some nights after a twelve or fourteen-hour day, too, but that evening she looked refreshed.
Flattered, she harbored a bashful smile.
The waiter arrived, and I motioned for him to offer her the taste. He obliged, and she approved. After our glasses were filled, he bowed and left us two single-sided menus.
“You look nice, too. All dark hair, dark eyes. I mean, I don’t want to sound silly, but I was surprised you wanted to go to dinner with me.”
She wasn’t blowing shit, and in that honest moment, I saw something in her face that reminded me of my younger sister, Blake.
It chilled my attraction, but at the same time relaxed me.
Maybe settling down, the way my job wanted me to, would be like that. Comfortable and mild. Tame. I took a deep breath and recognized it could have its merits. I was a lot more laid back with my family than I was at work, and therefore it would probably be good for me.
I undid the button on my coat, sat back in my chair, and took a drink.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m a confident woman. You’re just so... I don’t know... you,” she confessed. I liked the way she was candid with me, and how at ease she was.
I smiled as I tipped the green mouth of my beer bottle toward my chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
We’d ridden the elevator down together on a few occasions, exchanging names on the third or fourth time. That led to intermittent small talk about weekend plans, which then turned into me asking her out the day Justin informed me what the partners were really looking for.
It felt like the right time to do the right thing, and sitting there with her was pleasant enough.
She took a deep breath and exhaled quickly. “I thought you were way out of my league.”
“I’m not out of anyone’s league,” I reassured her. Although, if I wasn’t going to get physical with her that night, a firm stroke of my ego was a welcomed alternative.
Then, I considered changing my mind about the physical bit.
I’d never really liked sleeping with a woman on the first date, even with the casual women in my past. Sure, if I met someone in a club or at a bar, and I wasn’t seeing someone exclusively, then sex wasn’t off the table. But going to dinner and having a date, of sorts, was different in my book.
Besides, I’d learned that in those cases, when a woman was respected on the first date, it resulted in them trusting you that much more when things did get heated.
I liked being trusted—with all things.
Plus, it was like it turned them on even more. I fucking loved a turned-on woman who handed herself over to me.
“What do you like to eat? They have an excellent prime rib here,” I said, changing the subject. I enjoyed praise, but I wasn’t a narcissist. I knew when enough was enough.
“That sounds good,” she answered and picked up her menu to read over the selections.
We ordered dinner—she chose the prime rib on her own—and everything went very well. Barring the fact that she was late, I’d had a good time and planned on asking her out again.
When I pulled up at her building, which was kind of a haul, all the way up north of Wrigley, I put the car in park and turned it off to let her out. Still, I had no plans of going inside.
“Lauren, I had a really nice time tonight,” I told her as I helped her out of my passenger seat.
I appreciated how she waited to get out, and in doing so, she let me get her door. It meant she could anticipate me. If she wanted a second date, I’d let her know how much I valued that intuition.
“So did I. Again, thank you for inviting me.” She didn’t bat her eyelashes, nor did she shift nervously. Instead, she leaned in and planted me with a rough kiss.
That’s where it all ended for me. Full stop.
Her mouth swallowed mine. She stuck her tongue inside and lunged it around.
What in the hell?
Who kissed like that?
Never mind her taking the lead, which I admittedly didn’t like, but it was a God-awful kiss. Waiting for it to end, I didn’t offer much in return. I didn’t even close my eyes because I was so shocked by it.
When she pulled away, obviously feeling differently than I had, her eyes were all lit up, but, sadly, that was our first—and last—kiss.
A shy kisser can bloom, opening up to a phenomenal kisser.
A kisser like Lauren was a mess. All movement, no feeling. Almost mechanical. There were no dynamics to it, unlike with most girls. No working your way to the good part. Which I can admit gets a little steamy, even wet sometimes.
Simply going from not kissing to car wash like she had, well there was no helping that.
Not interested.
“It was a great night. I’ll see you,” I said, leaving the statement noncommittal. She may not have been out of my league, but her mouth was out of control.
You see, I loved control.
She’d been late. That was forgivable.
She was a terrible kisser, which was not.
Time to move along.
ANOTHER DATE.
Another girl.
Another night in a club, and taking someone home to scratch an itch. It was unsatisfying.
Some dates were good and led to a second date. Some dates were good, and the women launched our relationship right into picking out China patterns.
What was with that?
Maybe I was meant to be a bachelor, I thought as I looked out of my corner office window. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for a
relationship.
Who the fuck knew?
The facts were: I wasn’t finding anyone who I was drawn to, and I wasn’t getting fucked on a regular basis because of the search. Realistically, I wasn’t getting promoted anytime soon; I’d just made junior that year.
After some thought, I decided I was going back to my old ways for a while. I’d just be quieter about it.
I’d spent months of going at it from the gentlemanly approach, I wasn’t finding success. Besides, I didn’t have much time to dedicate to it anymore. I was moving into my new apartment soon, and I’d acquired my first large commercial account.
The timing for a new relationship was off, and timing was everything.
FOUR
PAST
NORA—Saturday, February 9, 2008
What time was it anyway?
Hell if I knew. It didn’t matter, it was well past midnight.
I sat in the posh suite I’d booked myself into while I sorted the final plans, tweaked the last few table changes, and made notes for reminder calls the next morning. The Harbor Hotel-Los Angeles was hosting the Smithson/Andrews wedding, and I was overseeing the event.
This particular job had been endless. A bride who could never make up her mind. A groom’s mother coming to terms with her last son being married off. Everyone had a vested interest, including the groom who insisted on being copied on every single email—down to the chair covers.
Controlling prick.
However, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. All I had to do was get through this weekend, then I was headed to Chicago. I was going to blow the socks off the manager there, and hopefully, swoop in and snag their open position.
The Los Angeles location of the Harbor Hotel chain was where I’d presently been working, but each hotel oversaw their hiring, respectively. The Chicago branch was without an event coordinator, and while it only looked like I was volunteering to help them in their time of need, from a corporate standpoint, I was really hoping I’d be a good, permanent solution to their needs.
I’d liked Los Angeles for what it was, a city where anything was possible. A city where every lifestyle had a club. Where a woman like me, who was firm in her beliefs, could find other like-minded people to associate with.
But, fuck, it was hot. It barely ever changed, and they didn’t have real seasons.
Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall.
Kind of hot. Hot. Hell. Hot rain.
I could handle summer, warm weather, but I craved the bite of a cold snap. The crunch of snow under my feet. Boots. Wearing a scarf because I needed one, not because it was trendy and ironic, like in Hollywood.
So while I did a good job, and loved the hospitality business, I’d secretly been pining away for a colder location to transfer to.
It could be downright frigid in Chicago, but hopefully I’d already spent my last balmy Christmas on the Pacific Coast. I was ready for the change. I’d been in one place long enough.
Time to move on.
Chicago wasn’t much different from LA. I could buy anything I wanted. I could eat the best foods money could offer. I knew a few people in the area, and since Janel and Ives were already relocated there, I could tag along with them socially. Another reason I was so dead set on Illinois.
Janel had been my best friend since our first year in college, and I’d introduced her to Ives when she’d come with me to Zurich, where my father lived. I loved them both, and I was happy they found happiness with each other.
They’d even be at the Harbor in Chicago on Friday for the party. Coincidentally, Ives worked for the corporation who was throwing it.
I welcomed the change of pace. New places to see and faces to learn. Janel and Ives—newlyweds, but still active in the lifestyle—knew firsthand what I was into. Soon, I’d find company to keep in the middle of the country, just as I’d done on the Pacific Coast when I moved from Aspen, where I grew up for the most part.
It would take some patience, but what hurry was I in? And since when had I even had the time to socialize, in any capacity, anyway? I’d been too focused on work.
I checked off the last item on my to-do list and decided to relax for the last few minutes of my night. After all of my work things were put away, I slipped into my pajamas, grabbed the extra blanket I’d had sent up and a pillow off the bed, and then settled down in the chair.
The hotel bed was huge, and no doubt more spacious, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get any viable sleep there.
I was a chair kind of girl when staying in a hotel. Any hotel. Even one of mine.
I’d never slept well in a bed that big. The world was lonely enough without all the extra leg room and empty mattress.
I picked up my book from the table where I’d left it the night before, slid out the bookmark and started reading.
Appetizers. That made me happy.
I’d never gotten into fiction. It was too much of a commitment. Demanded too much emotion. Horror books freaked me out—I’ll die having never watched a scary movie. Romance was too predictable and unrealistic. Crime? No thanks.
Cookbooks were my chosen guilty pleasure. The decadence without any of the guilt. The variety made appetizers, in particular, my favorite. There were no rules with that type of food, and even things you wouldn’t think to pair together made something unique and different. Something unexpected and delicious, at least in the perfectly proportioned amount.
A little of this. A little of that. A lot like my sex life.
I suppose it’s no surprise, small bite-sized teasers and samples excited me. I could try anything; whatever my heart desired. Have a taste of it all.
Why anyone ever tried to live a satisfied life having the same thing for dinner every night made no sense to me. It sounded so depressing.
There was no question where my thoughts on commitment, whether it be food or relationships, came from.
Vivian Suzanne Maxwell-Stout-Jennings-Howe-Potter-Davis. My mother.
She and I were alike, I’ll give her that. It must have been genetic, but unlike her, I was aware of the truth. Aware of our tendencies. She knew but tried to hide it.
Whatever. She had to live her life.
What did I know about wearing someone else’s shoes?
If she was happy with the choices she made, then I could be happy with mine. Where she paired off with everyone, knowing there was no exclusive soulmate out there, I paired with no one. Pairing off wasn’t my thing.
She insisted that she could fall in love over and over, but I think we both knew it was never about love. It was about what her man of the moment could buy her. Where he could take her. Who she could rub elbows with, and eventually find the next man up for grabs.
I didn’t subscribe to her methods, but her logic was true enough. There wasn’t one person for everyone. There were many, and for me, fighting that reality was foolish.
I only made it four pages—quiches and tarts—then my eyes started to water, and exhaustion started petting me to sleep.
With the bookmark replaced, I set the book next to me, scooted down into the club chair and fell off into nowhere in particular.
SMILE.
“Of course I’ll take the picture.”
Check the seats, the flowers, the cake, the kitchen. It was my job—and I was on.
“Nora, the band is here.”
Smile.
Check the servers and bartenders. The photographer showed. No announcer.
I stepped up and spoke into the microphone. “I’d like to congratulate the happy couple...”
Smile.
Go to the bathroom. Look at email.
Check-in for my morning flight.
Get through tonight, Nora.
Smile. Take three more photos.
Where’s that photog at anyway?
Tell the bartender to stop serving the dude with the camera. Make a note for his file. Don’t use him again.
I need a drink.
Announce the first dance.
/> “Yes, she’s stunning.”
“Yes, the cake is magnificent.”
“Yes, the hotel is happy to accommodate any of your future event needs.”
Midnight snacks are a hit.
The cab service is here.
My feet hurt.
Smile.
Dole out the checks. Take the business card of a photographer who’s interested in referrals. Make a note to look him up, possibly add him to the contractor directory replacing the lush working for us now.
Cleaning crew showed up on time. Perfect.
Take shoes off in the elevator.
Take a shower.
Take a minute to look over wrap-up checklist.
Smile for real. I did it.
Fall asleep and dream of the cold lake wind on my face and the sound of it as it rushes past my ears.
“THE HARBOR,” I TOLD the taxi driver as I got into the cab at O’Hare, headed downtown.
I hadn’t been to Chicago in a few years, and as we pulled out into traffic, the skyline appeared before me. I said a silent prayer that they’d ask me to stay after the event.
It had been an early flight, and my feet still hurt from the long day and night before, so I was glad for the slip-on flats I’d chosen that morning. I’d packed enough clothes to wear last week, not even bothering to leave the hotel—even in the city where I lived—and came straight from LA to Chicago without even going home to water my probably-dead-by-now plants.
Don’t buy me plants. I’m herbicide.
I couldn’t be responsible for the survival of foliage. I didn’t even like dead flowers, why would I want a terminal plant to nurse? I couldn’t be held accountable for their well-being. It was too much pressure.
We rode through the city, and I fell in love with it all over again, even if there wasn’t any fresh snow.
The Harbor-Chicago’s previous planner had left them high and dry, but I hoped I’d find she also left a lot of the information and plans. Otherwise, I’d be starting from scratch, which I didn’t mind, but it was a new city for me. I didn’t have too many contacts yet, and the fact was I had less than a week to perform a miracle.