Fat Chance

by Brandi Kennedy

  "And you can?" I have become aware that I am a damsel in distress, and this man is offering to play the role of the hero. Is that what I want? I'm not that needy, please-help-save-me type of girl. Still, it might be nice, for once, to sit back and let a strong man take over for a while.

  "I can," he says. "I can change a tire without any trouble at all, if you've got a good spare. And my brother, Michael, owns the tire shop down the street. I actually just came from there; I walked up after my appointment with Dr. Caswell to check over a gash on his leg. And when I come back, here you are. Really, don't waste your day on roadside, let me help you."

  "Okay," I smile. I guess that explains the gauze. My hand hurts, I'm frustrated because I really had been looking forward to yoga, and I'm not sure I can afford a new tire, though I know I have money in savings.

  Right now, I'm just going to enjoy having someone else here with me, someone who wants to be helpful. "I'm Cassaundra. I guess if you're going to spend your afternoon being my tire man, you should at least know my name."

  "Cassaundra," he murmurs. "It's unusual. I like it. I'm Drew. Andrew Kingsley." He turns, and I follow as he walks to the back of his SUV. Popping the hatch open, he digs out a jack and a tire iron; I ignore the urge to tell him that I have one of my own. Is that a gas mask, tucked under the back seat?

  "You know," I say, rethinking the wisdom of taking up with a strange man from my therapist’s office, who has a gas mask in his SUV. These days, you can't be too careful. "I can really just call roadside. It's no big deal."

  He puts his stuff down next to the flat tire and signals for me to engage the trunk pop. I mutely hit the button; he lifts the spare tire to the ground, closes the trunk, and drops to slip the jack under my car. "It's a big deal to me," he says. "I can't leave a pretty girl stranded."

  A pretty girl? What?

  "Oh," I say, quietly. "Well, uh, is there any way I can help?"

  "Just look pretty so I can enjoy it, and agree to dinner with me," he says, loosening the lug nuts on my tire. Dinner with gas mask man? Where, his favorite little diner, Chez Terrorist?

  "Uh, what?"

  "Don't worry about the pretty; I noticed you have that down, right from the start," he laughs, raising my car with his jack. He lifts the flat tire from the car easily, the way I lift a pen or the phone. "But the dinner is so that, you know, I can, um, keep an eye on your hand."

  "Pardon me?" Gingerly, I cross my arms over my chest, backing up a step. Now I'm wishing I had my phone in my hand so I could call for someone less odd, or that I was thin enough to be a fast runner in case he decides to pull something. Or that my stupid tire hadn't picked up a nail and this would never have happened.

  "Mmhmm," he says, matter-of-factly. "Classic signs of shock. It's obviously a vicious cut you have there. I should keep an eye on it." He winks at me again, lifting the spare tire into place and spinning the lug nuts on.

  "Are you serious?" I ask. "Do you seriously just ask out women after oh-so-casually bandaging gashed hands and revealing the freaking gas mask in your car? Like a gas mask is an every day accessory? It's not a scarf, Drew."

  "It kind of is, sometimes," he says, glancing over at me as he lowers my car. "If you're a cop."

  "You're a cop." Now I'm completely frazzled, leaning against his car with one hand on my hip. "You're a cop?"

  "I'm a cop. Been a cop for years."

  "Oh." Now I really feel stupid. He's a cop.

  "So, now that we've established that I'm not planning to blow up the mall. Dinner? It's really the least you can do, Cassaundra, after thinking what you were probably thinking."

  Crap. Is he right? He can't be right. Is he right?

  "I guess you're right," I mutter. Well how about that? I'm going on a date. Hmm.

  "Thank you," he says, stepping forward to take my good hand in his. "I promise not to bring anything creepy. Just myself." His eyes are laughing at me, and I can't help smiling back at him.

  "I should think that would be creepy enough," I laugh. He laughs too, releasing my hand and going back to my car. He squats to gather his tire iron and the jack, still chuckling.

  When he stands and comes back over to his own car, he warns me, "Now you'll want to back away. When I throw this stuff back in the hatch, you may get a glimpse of other stray work gear. I've heard my gear can be rather terrifying."

  "Oh, smart. Very smart. I bet your brother Michael thinks you're just hilarious, hmm?" I cross my arms again, and strike a pose that I hope is flirty. He grins, so I guess I'm doing it right. I like him; he's fun.

  "Oh, no. Michael taught me everything I know," he teases.

  "Good God, he's not coming to dinner, is he?" I widen my eyes in mock surprise, and raise my hands up as if in surrender.

  "God? I guess he can come if you want. But I'm not inviting Michael." He winks again, and I'm sure I'm in for a really entertaining dinner, Michael or no Michael.

  "Why don't you ride with me to my brother's shop, and I'll have him fix your tire up. We can plan dinner on the way," he continues.

  I'm sure I should resist. I'm very sure that I should at least drive my own car, that I can take it from here and just see him whenever I see him. But as he looks at me, and for the first time I'm seeing light in his eyes, I just can't tell him no. Every time I've seen him, he's had a heavy air of grief surrounding him, and if sparring with me cheers a public servant in need, who am I to deny him?

  I've lived most of my adult life in fear and insecurity, and because of that, I spend a lot of time alone. Just this once, I'm throwing caution to the wind, and hoping for the best. I can't wait to call Renee later and tell her about all of this. In the meantime, I'm getting to know a handsome man who can't leave a pretty girl like me stranded.

  "Okay," I say, reaching into my car for my purse. "You win me over. For now."

  "Challenge accepted," he laughs, opening the passenger door of the SUV and waiting while I climb inside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I'm pretty sure that if I could see her right now, I'd be watching my sister, Renee, jump up and down with glee.

  "Oh my goodness, oh my goodness," she says again, and again, I am reminded of Tessie, from Annie, the musical. I can't help laughing.

  "Only you would be proud of me for standing up yoga over this," I say, sitting confidently on one of my new dining chairs. Today I'm drinking black coffee, loving the strong nutty flavor of the drink.

  "Well," she replies. "I'm not exactly proud, but I know you couldn't have made it with a flat tire, so we'll excuse the whole standing-me-up thing. Just this once."

  I roll my eyes; Renee is being motherly again. She was always the little mommy out of all of us, easily keeping Chelsea and me in line when we were younger.

  "But, if you had to miss out, at least you had a good reason, right? You know what we should do?"

  I don't answer, because I know what she's going to say. Instead, I sip my coffee, burn my tongue a little, and open a crossword puzzle book. Usually, I'm terrible with these things, but lately I've been having fun trying them out. It's funny what confidence has brought to my life; now I actually believe that I can eventually figure out some of these answers.

  "We should get Chelsea on here!" Renee exclaims, hardly noticing that I am no longer talking. I hadn't really had a boyfriend before, not that I have one now -- yet -- but, of course, when the sister who doesn't date suddenly announces that she has a date, I guess it's big news.

  The line clicks, and I smile to myself; it's like I'm not even part of the phone call anymore. There's another click, and it's ringing; Renee has added Chelsea to the call.

  "Hello?" she says, her voice in a rush. I'm still waiting quietly, making enough noise for Renee to know I'm there, but not really speaking.

  "Chelsea," Renee squeaks. "You have time to talk?" I'm not sure how anyone can deny her the time, when she's obviously bursting to tell something like this. I can imagine her clearly, pacing back and forth in the living room of the house
she shares with Chelsea, and Chelsea perking up at the desk in her office.

  "Sure, what's up?"

  "Cass has date."

  I roll my eyes again. Sheesh, she acts like I've never been on a date before.

  "Holy crap! For real?" Chelsea's squealing too now, and honestly, I'm kind of embarrassed. If it's this big a deal, I obviously need to go out more.

  "Yes, for real," I mutter, trying to think of a seven-letter word for exasperate. I fill in the blocks of the puzzle as I'm re-telling the story of my morning.

  "I went to therapy this morning, and I was supposed to meet Renee at the yoga studio for class after. I guess I picked up a nail somewhere though, because by the time I walked back to the car, my back tire was flat," I explain. "So I was going to call roadside service to change the tire, but this guy came up and offered to help. And, um, then he asked me to dinner."

  "I'm convinced that she's not telling the whole story," Renee butts in.

  "That's because I knew I'd have to tell it all again anyway, silly," I laugh. "I figured I'd save the good stuff for the three-way call, instead of having to tell it all over and over."

  "Thank you. Now spill!" Chelsea exclaims.

  "Well, I guess when he was walking up, he hit his key fob thing, and he was parked right next to me so it scared me. I ended up cutting my hand on the nail that was in my tire. Giant nail, by the way. Anyhow, he sees me standing there, and he's a cop, so he comes over --"

  "Yum, daddy," Chelsea interrupts. She's got a thing for cops, so I was expecting it, but it still makes me laugh. I listen to her go on for a while about how cops are hot, just sitting there, drinking my coffee. Over the line, Renee is laughing.

  "So anyway," I go on, "he comes over --"

  "Was he in uniform?"

  "Chelsea," I say, struggling not to laugh as I kill her fetish fantasy. "He was wearing jeans. Regular jeans. And a blue polo shirt. Can we go on now?"

  "Okay," Chelsea says, acting like a chastised little girl. Renee laughs again, but doesn't interrupt.

  "Ahem. So, he comes over. He sees my hand and insists on bandaging me up, then he helps with the tire." I don't tell them the whole gas mask thing. Better to keep that little bit of the story to myself.

  "And then?" Chelsea sounds like she's about to explode with excitement. "He asks you to dinner, and you accept, of course, because you have to. So, where are you going?"

  "I don't know yet, he's supposed to call me later tonight after he checks with his work schedule. I guess we kind of had a little partial date already," I say.

  "Oh my God, what?" This is Renee, suddenly coming to life on the line again.

  "Well, he got the flat off, and he put the spare on. I was just gonna have him throw the flat in the trunk, and have it fixed later. But he said his brother owns a tire shop, and that he could get his brother to fix it for me. He offered to drive, so I rode with him."

  "Oh I'd ride with him. You know, if he wasn't yours," Chelsea says, and I choke on the coffee I've just slurped. "You think he has a friend?"

  "Chelsea, behave!" Renee laughs.

  Maybe this is why I don't date often. There's the whole telling-the-family part, and I'm just not really into having this conversation many more times. Maybe the next time I tell them I'm dating, it'll be on a wedding invitation. I'm sure Rick would love it.

  "Of course, he has a friend, he's hilarious," I say. "Not sure if he has cop friends, but I guess if I can get the first few dates under my belt, eventually I'll hear about them."

  "Mmm, set me up," Chelsea breathes, and I sigh.

  "We'll see," I tell her. "But I do have to tell you guys something else."

  "Uh, yeah. Like, maybe his name?" Renee teases. Oops, guess I totally forgot that part of the story.

  "It's Drew. But he's a patient. At, um, Dr. Caswell's office."

  "Ok, so the therapist is hot, with hot guys for clients. Mmhmm, and his number is?"

  Ignoring Renee's question in a desperate effort to make my sisters pay attention, I plow on. "I don't know what he's there for, of course, and he doesn't know what I'm there for. But, should I be dating? Especially this guy? I mean, both of us in therapy can't be a good sign. Right? Two people that are a little screwed up, and probably a lot vulnerable?"

  "Maybe you don't have to look at it like that though," Chelsea says, and I'm surprised. I sort of expected her to agree with me.

  "Okay, what's your take?" I ask.

  "Well, he's a cop, right? And you don't know what kind of cop, but that is a high stress job. Even pulling someone over for speeding can be a deadly event, and you never know what the guy in the car is going to do. And that's just for your basic street cop. If he's some kind of special victims detective or if he works really serious crimes or something, that's even worse. I'm not really surprised at all, and sometimes, depending on what they've been through on the job, those guys are ordered into therapy. Then they have to go, whether they want to go or not."

  "Hmm. I hadn't really thought of that," I murmur. "So you think I should give him a shot?"

  "I agree with Chelsea," Renee says. "You'll never know what can happen unless you go for it. Don't you want someone in your life?"

  "Yeah," I say quietly. "Doesn't everyone?" I do, but I never really thought it was possible, I guess. I was always so caught up in my body issues and my weight, I never really thought a guy would want me, so I just wasn't really open to men. I have to wonder if that's why Jackson never seemed interested in me. Was it really my figure that turned him off, or was it my attitude about myself?

  Don't forget his scrawny, chocolate-devouring, holier-than-thou girlfriend, I remind myself. No, it isn't me; I'm rather sure the issue lies with him. Which lifts me away from the attraction I've felt for him, and suddenly, he doesn't seem so cute anymore.

  "And here's this sweet guy who asks you out, when you're all helpless and car dirty and bleeding. You can't cancel the date, Cass, at least give him one shot. You can't go through your life too scared to try. If you know what you want, and you think he might be it, then go for it," Renee, as always, is the voice of reason, the voice of courage.

  "I think I know what I want," I say, wondering if I really do. I've finished my coffee, and now I give up on the crossword puzzle, turning inward some, taking stock.

  "Well," Chelsea chimes in. "Every woman wants a few basic things. Respect, honesty, loyalty, tenderness. We all want a gentle hand, at least sometimes, and at the same time, someone who is strong enough to make his girl feel safe. Right?"

  "Exactly," says Renee. "Not to mention physical attraction, and interpersonal chemistry. You want to have a sense of pride in the person you're with, maybe a sense of responsibility to look out for them. Personally, I like to feel needed, and I like having someone around that I feel I can always depend on."

  "But isn't that kind of drawing close to, like, co-dependence? I'm afraid of that, because I feel, sort of, not really weak emotionally, but --"

  Chelsea jumps in and saves me here, with the words I can't seem to say. "It's easy to feel like you could slip into needing someone, right? Like feeling like you couldn't go on without someone?"

  "I kind of want that," Renee says. "I want someone who counts on me, you know? I want that sixty-year marriage, where one of us is finally too much for the world and can't hold on anymore, and dies, and then the other sort of lives in that for a while. You know, those old couples who have been married forever, and the husband dies, and then the wife is a little lost for a while?"

  "You want to be lost?" I ask, dryly.

  "I want to know that my marriage was solid, that I really loved and needed my husband. If you don't need your spouse, why have one?"

  "Wow, I hadn't thought of it like that," Chelsea says. Honestly, I hadn't either; now I think I have a whole new look on how helpless and bitter my father was, after my mother died.

  "I don't know though, Renee." Now I'm restless; I'm up making another cup of coffee, though I know it's the last thing I need rig
ht now. "Is that level of need healthy, really? Emotionally?"

  "I think it is," she answers. "But only if both people have it. The only time it doesn't work, is when one person needs the other, but it's one-sided. The person who doesn't feel that level of need has a sort of, maybe a sense of freedom, detachment. And that's where they can go off and have affairs and things. I want someone who needs me, someone who is dependable enough for me to need him. It's like, why be together in the first place, if you're going to lead separate lives?"

  My head is full of this new perspective. I've spent all my life determined never to need anyone, not in a spousal capacity. I don't want to fall apart the way that my father did, and maybe let down other people who might need me.