Finding North (Naïve Mistakes Series)

by Dunning, Rachel

  "Yeah," I said, sounding almost like it was a Guilty plea at a hearing. I gulped the water again. I felt the romance was dying quickly.

  "You think I have a problem with that?"

  "I dunno."

  "You're seventeen years old, Leora."

  "Almost eighteen."

  "OK, almost eighteen. There are seventeen year old girls who act like they're ten"—Oh, did he know Bianca?—"and there are seventeen year old girls who don't. Hell, there are thirty year old girls who act like they're ten!" Yip, I think that's gonna be Bianca as well one day... "We're just having a drink. A night out. Let's just see what happens."

  He gave a very confident smile. Lights reflected off his pale skin. I wanted to tell him he reminded me of Robert Pattinson in a way (only because of the Britishness and Pale Skin-ness), but then I thought of his ten-year-old analogy and I decided not to bring up my fascination with the Twilight series or Robert Pattinson just yet.

  "So, Mr. Williams..."

  "Yes, Ms..."

  "Caivano."

  "Caivano!? Wow, that sounds like something out of Goodfellas or Casino."

  "Yes, so you better watch out!" I pointed at him. "Robert De Niro fan?"

  "The biggest. You Italian?"

  "Hey, wait, I had another question—and yes, I am Italian. But only by gene-pool. The only word I know in Italian is pizza. So, Mr. William's..." (I tried the English accent again, failed miserably) "why are you taking this lowly young girl out on the town? I mean, surely you could take anyone you wanted to? You could have gotten one of those Silicone Valley babes out at the club as well." (Great, here I was again, questioning a good thing with my suspicious nature. Was I about to blow this date before it had even begun?)

  His face went cold for a second. "Well, you just seemed interesting, is all..." He looked out the window, breaking my gaze.

  Interesting... I decided not to push it. "OK, it's fine. I was just—"

  "Because you look uncannily like someone I used to know, that's why," he interrupted. "She was someone...very special...to me. So, no mystery. No love at first sight. But she's dead now"—Say what!? My throat caught. It seemed everyone tonight was telling me people were "dead" like they'd broken a nail or something!—"and, you and I are sitting here with a very special bottle of Chardonnay (which I will probably end up drinking all alone because you don't drink and then making an arse of myself) and one finely superior bottle of Perrier Mineral Water, Madame!" He raised his glass. I smiled at him and we toasted.

  I made a note not to ask about that again.

  "So, we're here," he said.

  He got out the car and opened the door for me, stuck his arm out for me to grab. I stepped out and he put my coat on my shoulders. We went up to a rooftop of an office building. It looked like a place for the staff of the place for lunch or something. There were several tables there but one of them was set with a bottle of Perrier an another of Chardonnay (of course, just like in the limo), and candle light. There were also two patio heaters by it to counter the crisp evening wind. He'd thought of everything.

  "We do their software. I pulled some strings. They have the best view from here. Of course, during the day, this rooftop is used for the staff—"

  "But at night it's used for romantic getaways by consultants who provide software?"

  "Precisely. You learn fast, Miss Leora Caivano."

  He took off my coat, gave it to a waiter. Whoa. Wait. Come again? Um, yeah, that was right: A waiter! "And he's part of the business staff as well?"

  "Oh, no, I hired him to impress this girl I was taking out on a date."

  "I see..."

  He pulled my chair back for me, sat on the other side.

  "Now, of course, I know this is just drinks, but if you'd like to eat something—"

  "Oh, no, I'm good, but you go ahead."

  "One of the things this chef makes is deboned chicken breasts made in a fat-free pan. Only about three hundred calories per serving, plus the vegetables."

  Actually, it's two-hundred-and-fifty calories per chicken breast, but who's counting? I hadn't eaten yet. And my stomach was rumbling. But if I asked for food now after his little spiel I'd look like a total douche, like I'm paranoid about my weight or something (which I was, but he didn't need know that.)

  "Look, Leora, a shape like yours does not come by having no knowledge of caloric content or by yoyo dieting. It comes by hard work and precise calculations of calories-in versus calories-out. So don't be paranoid about it."

  My, that was a diplomatic way of telling me it's OK to go into cold sweats about my weight: Precise calculations of caloric content. Hmmm, no wonder his company paid him the big bucks to do their sales for them.

  "Your, um, 'friend,' the one you said I reminded you of: I take it she was...a bodybuilder?" I asked.

  "No, no. She was a fitness model. I ate so much deboned chicken that that I eventually started having pizzas on the sly before we hung out together just so I could tell her I wasn't hungry! Anyway, I know the gig. You mustn't think that I have some preconceived idea about you watching your figure or being obsessive about it or anything of the sort."

  My stomach rumbled. And I was way below quota on my intake for the day after all. I'd thought of coming out with Conall (maybe even getting a bit of an aerobic workout with him later on—wink wink) and then chowing down on the exciting tuna salad with no dressing sitting in our fridge at home. Yay. Living on the edge.

  Freshly made chicken breasts with a nice side salad sounded so much better.

  "Well, seeing as you especially hired them for the night. I mean, I wouldn't want your money to go to waste..."

  "But of course. Now, because it's chicken breast, doesn't mean it's dull." He gestured to the waiter who brought us...a menu?

  I looked it over...

  "I have a confession to make," he said, leaning closer and whispering.

  Why is it that when people say that phrase it always feels like your heart's been put in a vice?

  "Yes?" I asked nervously, thinking he was going to tell me he secretly wore women's underwear or something.

  "The waiter and kitchen are part of this place. So I didn't have to look too hard to find them. But I did hire them for the night."

  "They have their own kitchen staff?"

  "You bet. Now wait 'til you look through the menu."

  I looked at the dishes. They all looked pretty normal to me. There was a fish section, chicken, pork (no, none of that for me thank you very much).

  "And?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "Look on the right of each item."

  Grilled Southwest Chicken + Tossed Garden Side Salad: 193.

  193?

  I looked up at the top of the right column.

  "Oh," I said. "They put calories on the right instead of prices?" Suddenly I wanted to work at this place as well!

  "Yeah, the kitchen is there for the staff. You know, sort of like Google does it, only a little more chic. So, lunch is served here. No one pays for it. They have a lot of women on their staff (and finding a woman in this part of town who doesn't count calories is like finding a sunny day in December in England.) They also have a Kosher and Halal menu, but I didn't think you'd need that. Would you?"

  "Oh, no. Italian, remember? I'm technically catholic—at least nominally. Do these guys have anything to do with fashion? Are they hiring? Heck, I'll work here for free!"

  "No, they have about as much to do with fashion as I have to do with my brother. They're in the finance sector. Investments and stuff. You know, futures, commodities—"

  "Whoa!" I put my hand up. "No, I don't know, and I'm gonna start yawning soon."

  He chuckled.

  I ordered the hundred-and-ninety-three-calorie meal (Wow! I had to get that recipe...) and Conall took the same (yeah, I could see him hunting New York for a fat greasy pizza after our date. But I appreciated the gesture.)

  "So, Conall, is this like, officially, a date?"

  "Well, i
sn't it?"

  I just couldn't get it. What did this guy see in me other than his dead girlfriend. (Yuk... I was pretty damn certain his 'friend' had not been his 'friend' at all.) This was just like me. First date and I'm kicking the guy away already, not letting him get close and not accepting that maybe, just maybe, someone might actually be genuinely interested in me.

  "Um, yeah, I guess it is a date. I mean, I haven't... Never mind."

  "You haven't what?"

  "Well, you know... I'm not really that good with..."

  He glared. His eyes pulling the truth out of me like the Jaws of Life to a body in a car. "I'm just not that, well, experience, with guys..." Kamikaze going down. Kamikaze going down! Mayday! Mayday! Did I really just tell him that?

  "Guys are simple. You dress well. Check. You smile with a glint in your eyes. Check. You flirt well. Check."

  "Hey!" OK, he had me on that count. I had been flirting. I mean, who wouldn't with him?

  The candle flickered in his blue eyes. A cool wind ruffled my hair and carried the fresh odor of fat-free chicken to my nose, making my mouth water. I could eat a cow I was suddenly so hungry.

  "You're not really twenty-four, are you?"

  "Of course I am. I turned twenty-four just last month."

  "No way. Because when I calculated it—"

  "Oh, you're doing math on my age? Look, four years in university. That put me at twenty-one when I graduated."

  "Wait, you finished school at seventeen?"

  "Yes. Doesn't everyone?"

  "No!"

  "I'm just kidding. I know. My parents are a little...what do you Americans call it?...'Anal Retentive.' They put me in school a year earlier. I didn't skip grades or anything like that. I wasn't a genius if you're wondering."

  Oh yes you are. A fucking hot genius.

  "So," he continued, "twenty-one. Then I was at SofTech for two years." (Ah, so that's where I had gone wrong... It was two years.) "Then I started working for FinSol. It didn't take long for me to pull a few big deals (I'd done a lot of sales jobs while in school) and so they put me in full time. I've been with them just under a year."

  "And they pay you so much in so little time?"

  "Yeah, well..."

  "No, spit it out, what did you do that made them keep you?"

  "Nah, The CEO's just an old friend..." Conall was going red, chewing very determinedly...

  "Bull! You must be valuable to them. Tell me!"

  He got even redder.

  "Come, they were just helping me out—"

  "Oh, yes, helping out a poor soul who just needed this job so badly that a year later he's being flown to New York to close half-a-million dollar deals! I might live on the Upper East Side, but it doesn't mean I don't know the basics of economics. You deliver something. You get paid for it. Those who deliver more, better, faster"—(My mind drifted here a little, thinking of fast and hard deliveries)—"get paid the big bucks."

  "It's not always like that. There's money in family as well."

  Oh, he was so lying! "Conall, I haven't even spent a day with you and I know your tell already."

  "My what?"

  "Your 'tell'! The thing you do when you're lying."

  "Oh?" He chuckled nervously, wiped his lips with a napkin. I could tell that fucker's mouth was so dry... He washed his chicken down with some of my water. (Yes, my water, which he'd mistakenly grabbed! He was reeling! I had him in the net!) "And what would that be?"

  "You go red as a beet and start fumbling and making mistakes?"

  "Is that so?" He reached for my water again, realized what he was doing, then laughed. "Oh, wrong glass."

  I thought of putting my lips exactly where his had been on that glass, lingering there, licking the spot...

  "Well, you got me." His skin started going back to normal. "They did tell me that I had performed rather well so wanted to keep me on for that reason. I guess they were perhaps slightly impressed with my work. Maybe." He paused. Then looked up at me surreptitiously to see if I'd bought it.

  I was glaring him down. "You're. still. Lying."

  "My goodness. At least you know I'd never cheat on you. You'd know within a minute!"

  I jabbed him with one of my extra forks (why were there always so many of these things at fancy restaurants?)

  "Ow! And I know you'd probably gouge me to death with a fork. OK, OK, I'll tell you."

  He took a large bit of chicken. "I closed...(munch munch)...and then...(munch munch chew)...and so...(swallow). OK?"

  "Did nobody ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?"

  He sighed. "Ah, so that didn't work either, did it?"

  "No!" Now I was getting pissed. I raised my eyebrows at him, tried the glare thing again but this time leaning forward with my elbows on the table. (OK, and maybe I was showing him some cleavage in the process, but I swear that wasn't my purpose.)

  "Fine. I just hate talking about it because, well...people get all these preconceived ideas and things."

  "Uh-huh?" (I wasn't buying it. Spit it out, bud.)

  "I closed a partnership deal with Microsoft and Apple within three months of starting at FinSol, millions of pounds worth. Some of our software will be integrated into their future operating systems. It's a hush-hush deal. I mean, our name will be there in the fine-print, but it'll never really be known to your average Joe. Anyway, so they then tried to hire me."

  "Who, Microsoft?"

  "Both."

  "Apple and Microsoft?"

  "Yes."

  Now I took a drink.

  "So, FinSol raised my pay"—he hesitated—"a little bit. They gave me a commission for the deal (I initially wasn't working on commissions but they were throwing everything at me)—"

  "How much?"

  "Huh?"

  "How much?"

  "Now you just sound like a gold digger."

  "How MUCH?"

  "A lot, is that OK an answer for you?"

  "Fine."

  "So, anyway, here I am. 'Gift of the gab' as they say, or whatever. Satisfied?"

  "Yes, thank you, Mr. Williams. Now don't you ever lie to me again."

  "OK, so seeing as you pulled my deepest darkest secret out. Now it's my turn."

  "That was your deepest darkest secret? You need a life!"

  His eyes flickered briefly to the skyline, went cold, pensive. "I wish..."

  I didn't push it. "Shoot," I said.

  "Judging by your figure— And don't get me wrong here. I just mention it because I know a bit about this—"

  "Your, um, 'friend'?"

  He cleared his throat. "Um, yes. So, judging by your figure, it looks like you've taken this whole weights thing quite seriously for some time. And you're only seventeen. But you don't plan on compete, or even plan on it. So what's the story with that? Most girls just do some cardio, skip the extra cream on their lattes and hope for the best. But you look a little too dedicated for someone who's only doing this 'for fun.'"

  He had me.

  I looked down at my plate, my mind started to drift, back, back, way back—

  "Leora?"

  "Um, yes, sorry, I was just..." I twirled my finger absently in the air. This was not something I wanted to talk about. At least not on the first date. (Who was I kidding, not on any date. I didn't even talk about this shit with Kayla. Not really.)

  "Look," he said, "it's fine. Just..." Now his mind seemed to be drifting. Hell, we were a regular riot, the two of us! "...Just don't forget that the greatest of loves last until people are eighty. And people who are eighty are generally very ugly, or very fat, or both."

  I laughed, sort of... It was like one of those "That statement is so fucking deep I could cry but I won't cry because it's embarrassing so I'll laugh instead" kind of laughs.

  I could've said something funny or corny like: Oh, you think I'm worried about love? My interest in you has been purely physical so far, Mr. Williams! Or, even: Love? No ways, I'm really wanting to become an actress. After school I'll be m
oving to Hollywood and I'm gonna find myself a fat producer who'll have me go down on him for a role in a big part. Fat producers only like shapely woman.

  But I didn't say either. He'd hit too close to the bone. I was wide open now, an open book. An open...target.

  "Am I that obvious?" I asked, fidgeting with and looking at the napkin on my lap. "You know why I drink water instead of wine; that I have a calorie calculator built in to my skull like one of your financial software products in the upcoming iOS version but that I can't calculate your age for shit; that I work out because I'm so scared shitless of getting fat and being dumped and ending up like my mom with four husbands down the line and burying myself in a bottle of brandy instead of talking to her daughter when one of those husbands dies..."

  And then it hit me. Paul's death. My stepfather. Not an entirely meaningful person in my life but someone who I did like! And my mom never being there.

  Never.

  And my weight. Looking at myself in the mirror when I was fifteen. Knowing I was going the way of all the other Italians I knew: Short, pudgy, round. And that gnawing, burning feeling inside me like I was so goddamned alone and I didn't have a fucking clue why!

  And then I'd met Kayla. And she was alone in her own way. And we comforted each other. But I still kept pumping those weights, pumping them, pumping them!

  The well of tears in my eyes had no more broken through the surface when I felt Conall's left hand by my cheek and his right seizing me by my waist. He'd come around the table. He lifted me. My chair fell back with a thud and he pushed me against the parapet and practically inhaled me into him as he kissed me (very unromantically I might add.) It was raw and primal.

  I kissed him back. My face was wet by tears but I'd stopped crying them now. He buried his lips in my neck, pushed his pelvis against mine, squeezing me between him and the wall. It hurt. It hurt good. It felt real, alive, here, now.

  Not in the past. Not anywhere else.

  We were two wrestlers fighting for position. I slid my hands under his shirt and dug down his rippled back, tried to kiss his neck as well. I didn't think about me "level of experience" or what I was doing. I just did it. His lips moved unceremoniously around the bottom of my neck, to the other side. All I could hear was the wind in my ears, the vague and distant call of honking cars way down below (another world), and our panting breaths as we struggled for position, each trying to kiss the other more than the first.