As he spoke I became increasingly uncomfortable with how far Zack was veering from my original impression of him. College? English teacher? Well traveled? Successful business? I’d thought he was just another typical Austin guy who had not yet evolved past his undergrad years. They were everywhere, and were pretty easy to pick out, what with their almost universal enthusiasm for live music, cycling, and “Keep Austin Weird” bumper stickers. I’d thought the retro pickup truck was a dead giveaway.
“Wow. How did you get from teaching to carpentry?”
“Now, that is a story that is very long, and not at all interesting,” Zack said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m intrigued,” I said.
“You really shouldn’t be. Okay, I’ll give you the abbreviated version. I signed up for the teaching program after my college girlfriend and I broke up, and I just wanted to get the hell out of Austin. I ended up in a town called Cochabamba.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Bolivia. It was an incredible experience, but also really hard. I was pretty homesick and had a hard time adjusting. So after the year was up, I came home, moved in with my parents, and started working on a master’s in history at UT. I quickly realized that there weren’t a whole lot of jobs out there for historians, and my parents were driving me crazy, so when the program asked if I’d be willing to take another foreign placement, I jumped at it. But while I was home, I met someone . . .”
“Ah. I should have known . . . cherchez la femme,” I said, and then immediately felt stupid. Who talks like that, peppering their conversation with stupid French clichés? I sounded like a complete poser.
“Yeah, well, what can I say? She and I stayed in contact while I was in Japan, and moved in together when I got back. I needed a way to pay rent, so I signed on with a local builder. I’d taken up carpentry as a hobby when I was a teenager, and I enjoyed working with my hands, and it was a natural fit. I always thought that sitting behind a desk all day sounded like a prison sentence. No offense,” Zack quickly added.
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I love my job. Well . . . I love practicing law. I am getting a little sick of dealing with feuding spouses. So, carry on. You moved in with your girlfriend, began working for a builder . . .”
“This is much more detail than you need. I was supposed to be doing the abbreviated version,” Zack joked. “Basically, the girlfriend and I broke up. I met Molly, who worked for the same builder that I worked for—she was one of the salespeople who offices out of the model and tries to pawn off the houses on unsuspecting suburbanites—we got married, and she had an affair with our boss. So I was left with no wife, no house, no job, and ended up moving back with my parents for a few months, which gave me all the motivation I needed to start up my own business. I do a lot of carpentry, and I’m just starting to pick up some contracting work. And that’s all the information I’m giving out. Now it’s your turn.”
“Compared to you, I’m pretty boring. I went to Georgetown for undergrad, UT for law school, clerked for a year at the Texas Supreme Court, and then joined the firm that I’m with now. I made partner six months ago, and that’s pretty much it,” I said, realizing that this wasn’t even the abbreviated version. My life was actually so boring that if I took out the gay husband, I could sum it up in two sentences.
“Have you ever been married?” Zack asked.
“Yes, for a few years. We had an amicable breakup,” I lied, and then regretted the forced, overly casual tone. But the last thing I wanted to talk about was my marriage. I know that’s what people do when they first meet—they share this type of basic background information—and it was just one more reason I hadn’t wanted to start dating again.
“Come on, I told you my life story. You have to give me more than that. What about your family? Do you have any other brothers and sisters? Dark secrets? Family curses? Watch your head, we’re going to come about,” Zack said, and pushed the tiller away from him. The boat made a swift, nimble turn, and while I ducked my head, Zack released the sail and tied it to the opposite side of the boat. The sailboat hesitated for a moment before smoothly gliding off in a new direction.
I mentally tallied another point for Zack for letting me slide on the divorce talk.
“One other sister, Mickey, who’s younger than Sophie and me. No dark secrets or curses that I know of. Just the usual dysfunctional fun that every family goes through.”
“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Zack said. “Are you hungry?” With one hand still on the rudder, he grabbed the cooler and started to rummage around inside it with the other.
“Here, I’ll do that,” I said, and took the cooler from him. I popped off the plastic lid and began to pull out the goodies within. A bottle of pinot noir. A turkey sandwich on cranberry-walnut bread. Pâté and cheddar on focaccia. A plastic container of pasta salad. A bunch of grapes. Marinated green bean salad. Chocolate chip cookies.
I rummaged around, found the corkscrew, and opened the wine. I waited for a minute while the boat lapped over a wake caused by a passing motorboat, and once the water was smooth again, poured the wine into two plastic cocktail cups and handed one to Zack.
“Which sandwich do you want?” I asked.
“Whichever. Do you have a preference?”
“I’ll take the turkey,” I said, and handed Zack the pâté and cheddar.
We ate in a companionable silence, putting the open containers of pasta salad and green beans between us and picking at them with plastic forks. The sun had been low in the sky when we started out, and now it began to sink down into the horizon, leaving behind a gorgeous sunset of pinks, aubergines, and hazy grays. The colors reflected on the glassy surface of the water. The lights of the fine houses facing the lake were glowing, illuminating the perimeter of the lake as the sky darkened.
“It’s so beautiful out here. I had no idea. I would have gotten into a boat earlier if I knew,” I breathed, soaking it all in. The colors, the view, the pleasant bite to the breeze as the night cooled.
“I know. That’s why I decided to build out here,” Zack said.
I turned to him, surprised. “I thought you were living with your parents,” I said.
“God, no. I did for a few months, but I could only take so much of listening to them having the same argument every single morning about who reads which section of the paper first. Now I’m renting a house over near Ramsey Park and trying to find the time on weekends to finish my house. I thought I was going to have a chance last week to work on it, when the job I had scheduled fell through, but your sister talked me into doing her kitchen. She can be pretty persuasive,” he said.
“That’s a nice way of saying that she’s a spoiled brat,” I commented.
Zack laughed. “No, not at all. It just seemed really, really important to her to get it done. I’m glad I could help.”
“How does it look? I haven’t been over there since last week. Have you finished?”
“I’m just about done with the cabinets and countertops. I’m going over tomorrow to install the backsplash,” Zack said. He squinted at the sunset, and glanced over his shoulder to see how far we’d wandered from the dock. “I think that we’d probably better turn back before it gets too dark.”
I considered it to be a good sign when Zack parked his car outside my building and walked me in.
This is it, I thought, my pulse picking up. I normally hate this part, the first time with a new lover. There’s so much pressure. Not just performance anxiety, but having to worry about how to play it: Is it too soon? Too late? Does he think I’m easy? Neurotic? Cold? I think that our mother’s generation had it easy in comparison—nice girls waited, fast girls put out. So all you had to do was figure out which category you were in and proceed accordingly.
But with Zack, I already knew that we weren’t going anywhere, so there was no pressure. I could be as brazen as I liked and not worry about the repercussions. I felt a surge of energy flood through me, a loosening of limbs, an openness in m
y lungs.
“Do you like living here?” Zack asked me as we walked through the navy blue carpeted lobby of my building and stood by the elevator bank. We looked at our distorted reflections in the brass elevator doors while we waited for the elevator to arrive. Zack hadn’t put his arm around me or even taken my hand, which seemed a little odd. Most men aren’t exactly subtle at this stage.
“Yeah, I do. It really suits my needs. There’s a gym in the basement and a pool in the back, and I don’t ever have to worry about mowing the lawn.”
The elevator doors opened with a bing, and we stepped inside.
“The thing I never liked about apartment living was always being able to hear my neighbors walking around or fighting or having sex. When I first moved back to Austin, my girlfriend and I had an apartment near campus, and we used to call the guy who lived above us the Sixty-Second Man. It was hard to look him or his wife in the eye,” Zack said.
“Ah,” I said, not sure where to go with that one. Maybe this was his way of being subtle, of introducing the topic of sex in a roundabout way.
The elevator stopped at my floor, and we walked to my apartment. I pulled out my keys, unlatched the lock, and opened the door.
“Well, I had a great time,” Zack said, hanging back, while I went inside and dropped my purse and keys on my front hall console table. I turned around and looked at him, surprised that he hadn’t followed me.
“Aren’t you coming in?” I asked.
“No. I should get back. It’s getting late. But thanks for coming sailing with me,” Zack said.
He hadn’t even stepped across the threshold. I stared at him. Was he rejecting me? Why? What was wrong with me?
“You don’t want to come in for a . . . ,” I trailed off. I was going to say “nightcap,” but it sounded too affected, like something out of a Doris Day movie or an episode of The Love Boat. And “cup of coffee” was synonymous with sex ever since the Seinfeld episode where George’s date invited him up for a cup of coffee, and he hadn’t caught on that she was inviting him to bed. Although since that’s exactly why I was inviting Zack in, maybe that wasn’t a bad way to go.
“Coffee?” I finished.
Zack smiled. “Rain check,” he said.
“Oh. Sure,” I said, crestfallen.
And then Zack did step into my apartment, until he was so close, I could see the faint white line of a scar acquired long ago under his left eye. He rested one hand on my waist, and kissed me. His lips lingered on mine, and I leaned toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck, savoring the warm bulk of him against me. But just at the point when I thought he’d step even closer and maybe reach up to cup my breasts or slide his hands down over my bottom, Zack pulled back, breaking off the kiss. My arms fell limply away from him and hung uselessly at my side.
“Do you have any plans on Saturday?” he asked.
I shook my head. Somewhere inside of me I remembered I wasn’t planning to see him again, that the entire point of going out with him this one time had been so that I could indulge in some commitment-free sex. But mostly all I could think about was how I just wanted to kiss him again.
“Would you like to have dinner? We could go out for some barbecue or something,” Zack suggested.
“That sounds like fun,” I said faintly. Barbecue wasn’t normally my thing, but hell, I’d go to dinner at the Cracker Barrel if it ended in another one of those kisses. And maybe next time I could talk him into coming in for that cup of coffee and get this guy out of my head once and for all.
Chapter Seven
“What’s a three-letter word for ‘rug in Helsinki,’ ending with A?” my mother asked, scrutinizing the New York Times crossword puzzle through a pair of purple bifocals perched on her nose. Another pair of glasses was sitting on top of her head. Mom had been known to search the house frantically for her glasses while three pairs were stacked on top of her ash-blonde bob.
“IKEA,” Sophie guessed.
“That’s four letters,” I said. “Are we going to get this over with?”
It was Saturday morning, and Sophie and I were both camped out at my mom’s house. We were supposed to be shopping for a crib, but Soph was grouchy and intent on eating her way through the entire bag of sesame seed bagels I’d picked up at Central Market on my way over.
“You don’t have to come with us, you know,” Sophie said, blinking back tears.
I would’ve felt worse about making her cry if she hadn’t been breaking down over just about everything lately, including most McDonald’s commercials, the breakup of a couple on the soap opera she watched, and the closing of a sporting goods store near her house where she once purchased a meaningful pair of five-pound dumbbells.
“I wish Mickey were here. She’s the only one of you who’ll work on crosswords with me,” my mother complained.
“Mom, try ‘rya.’ R-Y-A. I don’t do the crosswords with you because you cheat. What’s the point of working on them if you just look up every answer? Sophie, I do want to go shopping with you, but so far all you’ve wanted to do today is elevate your feet and snog bagels. I’d just like to get going, I have some things to do today,” I said. I was thinking about buying a new outfit for my date with Zack that evening, and wanted to stop by Saks. But if I couldn’t levitate Soph out of the green plaid chair and ottoman she’d ensconced herself in since arriving an hour earlier, I wasn’t going to have time.
“What things?” Sophie asked.
“Rya. That fits. Good, Paige,” my mom said approvingly.
“I have a . . . thing tonight, and I wanted to pick up something to wear,” I said.
“A ‘thing’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Sophie said, looking up from her bagel.
“A dinner thing,” I hedged.
“Is the word you’re looking for a ‘date’?” Sophie asked. The whiff of gossip had the miraculous effect of causing her to forget about her bagel, and she was now alert and upright, staring at me brightly.
“Hmm. If ‘rya’ is correct, then what’s a five-letter word for ‘lack of experience,’ starting with a Y?” my mother asked.
“No, I wouldn’t call it a date. It’s just a . . . get-together. A dinner. Nothing serious,” I said.
“So, who is it? If you’re buying new clothes for your non-date date, you must be somewhat interested,” Sophie persisted.
I hesitated. Since I hadn’t confided in Sophie when Zack first asked me out, I felt awkward doing so now. Why, I don’t know. It wasn’t like we were in competition for him. But she’d been so touchy lately, and the smallest things set her off.
“Actually, it’s Zack. He came to see me about a custody issue, which I couldn’t help him with, and he asked me out then. We went out the other night, too,” I said.
“Zack? Zack who? Wait . . . do you mean my Zack?”
“I mean your carpenter, Zack. I don’t really think of him as yours, though,” I said dryly.
Sophie looked confused for a moment, and when that passed, she just looked pissed off. Which was really sort of scary, considering she’d been ready to attack the checkout clerk for not properly bagging her groceries. God only knew what she’d do to someone who was seducing her imaginary lover away from her.
“You knew I was interested in him. I can’t believe that you’d go behind my back that way,” she said. Color rose in her face, and she glared at me.
“You’re not serious? Jesus, Sophie, you’re the one who suggested that I go out with him in the first place. Did you forget you’re married? Don’t tell me that amnesia is another fun pregnancy symptom we get to cope with?” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Ah! It’s ‘youth’! That fits,” my mother crowed, and then looked up from the crossword dictionary she’d been rummaging through. She peered at my sister over the rims of her glasses. “What’s wrong, Sophie? Are you feeling okay? You look a little flushed. Maybe you should go lie down.”
“She’s angry at me because she thinks I stole her boyfriend,” I said sarcastical
ly.
I knew Soph was hormonal, but the absurdity of the situation was just a little much. Sophie was both very married and very pregnant, so she wasn’t exactly in the situation to be calling dibs on available guys.
“I don’t feel like going shopping anymore. I’m going to go home and take a nap,” Sophie said, her voice quavering.
“Don’t be like that,” I sighed.
“Why don’t you lie down here? I don’t think you should drive if you aren’t feeling well,” my mother suggested, getting up and following Sophie to the door.
“I just want to be alone,” Sophie sniffed. She shot me another dirty look and then waddled out the door.
My mother came back into the living room and looked at me reproachfully. I knew that look. It was her signature strike-guilt-in-the-hearts-of-daughters-everywhere look, perfected after thirty-four years of parenting. I liked to think I was impervious to it, but it immediately made me feel like I was about twelve years old and in trouble for mouthing off.
“What? I didn’t do anything.”
“You shouldn’t be upsetting your sister. You know how emotional she is right now,” Mom said. “This pregnancy has been very difficult on her.”
“It’s been difficult on all of us,” I pointed out.
“I know she’s been a little hard to deal with. But that’s normal. You’ll be the same way when you have a baby,” my mother said, returning to her usual spot on the end of the striped sofa. She sat down, tucking one foot beneath her, and took a sip of coffee.
“This coffee’s cold,” she added. “If I make another pot, will you have some?”
I shook my head, and concentrated on pushing back the tears that had started burning in my eyes at my mom’s “when you have a baby” comment. I hadn’t told my family about my miscarriage. It had happened just a few months before Scott made his big announcement. At first I was hopeful that I’d get pregnant again quickly, since although the pregnancy hadn’t been planned, losing the baby was devastating. But then Scott had moved out, and it seemed strange to tell them then after having waited for so long.
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