by Penny Reid
I nodded faintly, considering the two tales, and in my best psychiatrist’s voice, I said, “Tell me the third story.”
He smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. “When I was eight I shared a room with three other boys; two were older, one was younger. The two older ones liked to beat the crap out of us, especially the other kid because he’d cry a lot. One day I came home from school and found the oldest kid going through my stuff. I called out to him, asked him what he was doing. When he turned around, he had a knife; it was serrated. He lunged at me, waving the knife wildly in the air, and I punched him in the throat. The knife cut my chin, but I didn’t notice. I just kept hitting him. Somehow, the knife got turned around and ended up in his stomach…and he died.”
Alex held my eyes and again waited for my reaction. I struggled this time, but I felt fairly confident that my expression betrayed nothing of my thoughts.
“I see,” I said in my best psychiatrist’s voice, because I was stalling.
Obviously, the first story was my favorite.
The second story and the third were terribly depressing. Neither was out of the realm of possibility, and both would explain some of Alex’s odd behavior and mannerisms. If the second story were true, he had an alcoholic, abusive father. If the third story were true, he’d either killed his oldest brother—which I seriously doubted—or he’d killed his foster brother and he was a foster child.
But which was true?
Alex watched me as he leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee with the ease of a man who was enjoying himself. I realized that I knew almost nothing about Alex.
I rejected the possibility that he was a foster child almost at once because, as a child psychiatrist, I knew too much about the statistics of foster care—less than one percent graduate college with a bachelor’s degree, more than fifty percent of foster kids end up homeless after reaching eighteen, and most are dead by twenty-six.
The odds of survival for a kid growing up in foster care were worse than a cancer diagnosis.
I thought about the second story and decided that it must be true. I decided he’d made up the third story so the second wouldn’t sound so heinous in comparison. It was very generous of him to cushion my exposure to the reality of his past; it was also an excellent defense mechanism.
“Well?” He replaced his cup in the saucer and met my thoughtful gaze with an untroubled one. “Which one is your favorite?”
“The wolf.”
“And which one is your least favorite?”
“The boys.”
He paused, swallowed, nodded. “And which one do you think is true?”
“Your father.” I answered confidently, but with a frown.
He continued to nod, his jaw set, his expression completely devoid of emotion. Then he said, “I like the wolf story as well. I was listening to a story recently—it was one of the questions during the taping tonight—where a grizzly bear broke out of a zoo. I can’t even imagine what I’d do if I were faced with a grizzly bear.”
“Can’t you?” I studied him with practiced interest. His readiness to change the subject was a bit confounding. Typically, in my experience, once a man opened the door to his broken past, I was pulled under a tsunami of regret, blame, fear, and man-tears.
“What would you do?” He posed the question to me, his expression carefully light.
“I guess I would hope I could distract him with a pot of honey.”
Alex laughed. I was impressed that it didn’t sound at all forced. “It would work, too. If anyone could distract a grizzly bear by being sweet, it would be you.”
I allowed the sound of his laugh to wash over me and lift me up. I returned his smile easily, though my heart felt heavy.
I wasn’t used to ignoring unresolved issues. Alex’s story about his father needed addressing. Alex needed counseling, likely years of psychotherapy.
But for now, I tried to peel away the residue of his desolate tales and enjoy his company. For once, it appeared my date didn’t expect a free therapy session. In fact, he seemed to be hoping I’d go with the flow, ignore the wolf in the room, and continue the date without further reference to his past.
“Do you need another one?” Alex gestured to my drained cup.
“Ah, no. If I have any more, I’ll never sleep tonight.”
“It was a decaf. I asked them to make it a decaf.”
“It was?”
“Yes. You seem like the kind of person who treasures her sleep.”
I blinked at him, surprised by his choice of words. “Thank you; I am.”
He considered me for a minute then grimaced. “I have a confession. I actually overheard you say that once to one of your dates, that you treasure your sleep.”
“Uh, you did?”
“Yeah. I think your exact words were, ‘I treasure my sleep over the wellbeing or interests of my loved ones.’”
I chuckled at that. “Yes. That’s true. My mom once tried to wake me up on a Saturday morning—this was when I was sixteen—because she couldn’t find her car keys, and I refused to get up. I covered my head with a pillow. So she pulled the pillow away, and I covered my head with my comforter. When she pulled that away and shook me again, I rolled off the bed and hid under it, still asleep.”
I was pleased that he was laughing again. “Are you very close with your mom?” he asked easily.
I nodded, smiled at all the combined lovely memories of my childhood. “Yes. We’re best friends. She’s awesome.”
“And your dad?” he prompted.
I nodded, twirled my empty cup on the table so my hands would have something to do. “Yes. He’s my other best friend. But he’s a curmudgeon and a Texan.”
“What does being a Texan have to do with it?”
“Not all Texans are like this, but he has ideas about the world, how it ought to be. And when people don’t fit into neat boxes—men are men, women are women, cows are cows—he pretends like the differences don’t exist or like the people don’t exist.”
“What does he do?”
“He owns a ranch. My mom is a veterinarian.”
“Huh. That’s great.” Alex’s smile seemed far away, as though he were imagining my childhood.
“Yes. It was a great excuse for me to adopt lots of strays—cats, dogs, birds, whatever I could find. We had plenty of space. I was lonely for company, and my mom helped me fix them up.”
“You were an only child?”
“Yep, just me. I think after they had me they decided one was enough.”
This made him grin, and he reached across the table and covered my hand in his. “I can understand their perspective.”
“What? That I’m a hell raiser? I wasn’t, you know. I was a good kid. I just enjoy watching what happens when I say something shocking.”
“No.” Alex shook his head, turned my hand over, and cradled it between both of his. “I meant that I can understand why they thought you were special. That you, just you, are more than enough.”
His sweet sentiment made my chest feel heavy, and my stomach tightened and released butterflies to my fingertips. In fact, his words paired with his cherishing touch made me feel a little lightheaded.
“You say the nicest things….” I narrowed my eyes at him. He sounded sincere, just as sincere as he had in the auditorium when he told me I was beautiful, but I couldn’t tell if these things he said were honest.
I suspected not. In light of the fact that he was a Wendell, I had to assume that he was a gifted liar. In fact, if I hadn’t known about the Tuesday woman, I might have believed him. I hated to admit it, but he continued to be difficult for me to read.
But I did know about the Tuesday woman, which meant that I was a grizzly bear and he was trying to tempt me with a pot of honey.
A slow smile spread over his features; it looked almost shy, and he didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he tugged on my hand until we both stood, and then he released me, zipped my coat up to my neck, and handed me my gloves. “Come on. It’s ge
tting late.”
“It is? I would check the time, but someone stole the battery from my phone.”
Once I was finished putting on my gloves, he gathered my hand in his. His, of course, was bare. He didn’t believe in gloves. Nor did he wear a scarf, I noted for the first time, or a hat. I realized that he’d met me outside the auditorium in a basic windbreaker with no hood. Under the inadequate jacket, he wore a simple, long-sleeved black shirt.
He had to be freezing.
“Maybe you should get a watch,” Alex teased and pulled me toward the exit. Harsh wind and snow and bitter cold swirled around us. Beneath my down coat and fur-lined hood, I nearly lost my breath.
“Where are we going?” I yelled so my voice could be heard over the wind and traffic and the rattling of the El train.
He waited until the train passed and we neared a quiet corner before he responded. “I’m going to walk you home.”
“Oh,” I said, but I was instantly warmed by his words. I wondered if he expected to spend the night. I wondered if I wanted him to. I wondered if he wanted to. I wondered what I was doing. I wondered how I’d allowed myself to go on a date with him and have a great time even with all the ups and downs and BonerGate and depressing stories and knowledge that he was a gifted liar.
I was still wondering and had no answers when we reached my building.
I turned toward him, a little flustered, and said, “I, um, do you want…?”
He cut me off with a kiss, but this one wasn’t like the others, not like the coffee shop where his intention had obviously been to distract me so he could snatch my purse; nor was it like our kisses at the restaurant—hot, hungry, and wet.
This one was sweet, soft, and tasted sincere: just velvety lips, a hint of open mouth, a gentle, secretive caress of his tongue. He tucked his hands into the pockets of my coat and tasted me—just a sip, a nibble—from several different angles.
I don’t know how long we stood, tenderly exploring each other. It might have been weeks.
Unfortunately, he eventually pulled away, his eyes still closed. He was smiling. Then he caught his bottom lip in his teeth, and I almost moaned. He was completely adorable and sexy, and I wanted to climb him like a tree.
Instead, he removed his hands from my pockets and stuffed them into the thin material of his own.
His eyes were as liquid pools, and they somehow seemed calmer and more peaceful than I’d ever seen them. “Thank you, Sandra.”
“You’re welcome?”
His smile grew, and he took a deep breath. “I’ll see you soon, right?”
I could only nod.
He shuffled backwards for a few steps, still holding my gaze, then turned and walked—in that way he did, the Alex swagger I would forevermore call it—to the end of the block.
Upon reaching the corner, he paused for a moment under the light of a lamp. Alex turned toward me, gave me a giant smile. I smiled back, and my hand waved of its own accord. He kept his gaze locked on mine as he sidestepped around the edge of the building with apparent reluctance then disappeared.
It wasn’t until I was in my apartment that I found my cell phone battery in the pocket of my coat. It wasn’t until I pulled off my boots that I thought to wonder how he knew where I lived.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday’s Horoscope: Your refusal to take no for an answer now motivates you to find an original solution to an ongoing problem.
I DID NOT SEE Alex on Friday. I did, however, think about him all day. So much so that I went to bed Friday night thinking about him and, when I woke up Saturday morning, my internal dialogue picked up the suspended thought and continued it from midsentence.
Basically, this was the circle I was running in: I had a great time with Alex on Thursday. Who would have guessed he’s a news junkie? But BonerGate was strange…and yet, it turned me on like a freaky faucet. And he called me beautiful, but that was also intense and strange. I wonder if he tells the Tuesday woman that she’s exquisitely beautiful…probably. Who cares? I’m in it to win it! And by win it I mean do the freaky faucet and have a fling with strangely divine Alex. So why didn’t we seal the deal on Thursday? What is he waiting for? Although, I’m glad we kissed. He’s an extraordinary kisser. And I like his smile, but his story was sad. I hope he seeks help. He’s so weird and lovely. I had a great time with Alex on Thursday.
I was so absorbed in my circular spin cycle that, on Saturday afternoon, I forgot to wear my lunch-with-Thomas shirt. Instead I arrived wearing my Today is zoo day T-shirt.
And I was late.
Thomas hadn’t ordered. In fact, he sat alone at the table and appeared somewhat bereft. When his eyes met mine, he visibly relaxed; although, when I sat in the chair across from him, he frowned.
“I assume you were trapped under a heavy object?”
“Yes. My brain.”
His eyelashes fluttered. “I thought you didn’t have a date last night.”
“I didn’t.” I said dismissively as the waitress approached and, as usual, I gave her our order. When she departed, I added, “However, I did have a date on Thursday.”
“Thursday? But, you only have dates on Fridays.”
“You need to get out more, Thomas. I think we both do.”
Thomas’s eyebrows bounced up then down and he whipped off his glasses to clean them. “Nonsense. We’re out now, aren’t we?”
“A technicality. We’re out with each other, which—for most people—is the same as staying in. You and I being out together is the equivalent of staying in and wearing pajamas all day for everyone else.”
His glare moved over me with assessing assertiveness. “Tell me about Thursday. Diagnosis?”
I shook my head. “No. Not this time.”
“What? No diagnosis?”
“None that I wish to discuss.”
He stopped cleaning his glasses, his hands fell to the table, and he leaned back in his chair. “That must’ve been some date.”
“It was.”
He grimaced, then tensed. “Will you be seeing this gentleman again?”
“I don’t know if I would describe him as a gentleman. In fact, I don’t know what to do with him.”
“You like him.” He said it like it was bizarre, or virtually impossible.
“Yes. I do. Though we have no future together, we could make beautiful music for a few short weeks.”
“Why no future?”
“Because he’s….” I struggled to complete the sentence, bit the inside of my lip, and glanced out the window to my left. “He’s younger than me, a lot younger.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly. Six years, maybe, if I’m lucky.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“No. He’s not—I mean, I’m looking for someone who’s life partner material. He’s more like one-nighter material.”
“So you two already…?”
“No, Thomas.” I brought my attention back to him. “We haven’t already….”
“Well, why not, if he’s meant to be temporary? Why delay gratification?” He sounded almost anxious.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, my face a mirror of my confused emotions. “I don’t know what happened. We went out, we had a great time—some parts were weird—but then he just kissed me goodnight and left. And I was so confused about what I wanted when he walked me home. I was flustered.” Not to mention the fact that Alex knew where I lived without me telling him.
“You were flustered?” Now he sounded completely shocked.
“Yes. I was. And that was also weird. Everything was weird.”
“Stop using the word weird. You do your vocabulary no justice.”
“Fine—strange, odd, unusual, atypical, inscrutable, eccentric.”
He placed his glasses back on his nose and nodded. “I don’t see the problem.”
“The problem is, now I don’t know what to do. We had a great date. He ended it with a kiss.”
What I left unsaid
: He knows where I live, he behaves erratically, he hasn’t been vetted for a relationship and I like him too much, he called me beautiful, I can’t read him, and he has another girl on the side.
“And you’re worried he wants more than a fling?”
I thought about that and dismissed it as ridiculous. If he wanted more than a fling, then he wouldn’t have his Tuesday lady friend. “No. It’s definitely not that. The problem is that I don’t know how to proceed. How do I move forward? How do I take things to the next level?”
Thomas studied me with a narrowed stare.
When he said nothing, I added, “And by next level I mean sweaty, naked, animalistic….”
“Yes, yes. I know what you mean.” He threw his hands in the air and batted them about—removing my words from the airspace between us.
“What do I do? How does a woman tell a guy she’s ready to get on with it?”
“Are you really asking me?”
“Yes. And I can’t believe I don’t already know the answer. I feel like, at my age, I should know how to do this.”
“Why? Have you ever done it?”
“No.” I answered simply. I supposed he had a good point. In my past relationships, it had always been the guy pushing for the next level.
“Well, I should think it’s quite simple. The next time you see him make sure you’re wearing something shockingly inappropriate. Then, you know,” Thomas shrugged and fiddled with his silverware, “flirt.”
***
“HI, UH, HI, hi, hello?”
“Yes?” Mr. Patel’s voice greeted me from the other end.
I cleared my throat and wished my phone had a cord so I could twist it. “Yes, hi. I’d like to place an order for takeout.”
“Okay, name?”
“Sandra Fielding.”
“Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”
I swallowed. “Um, I’ll have the butter chicken and garlic naan.”
“Okay…that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. You pay when you get here?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Wait—wait.” I closed my eyes. “Is Alex working tonight?”