Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  The guest list was long and eclectic. When Dorie said “a few friends,” Fordham pretended that meant anyone she had ever met. One of her roommates asked if she could bring her boyfriend and his friend, Gil. Fordham said sure. She had seen Gil’s picture in her friend’s high school yearbook, and he looked like someone she might want to fall in love with. The only conceivable fly in the ointment was Joe Mathis, a guy Fordham had met at college and was casually dating.

  The beer was flowing, and everyone was using the garbage bins for their intended purpose. Fordham was having a tolerable time with Joe, who was a sweet but ultimately boring guy. And of course, to make her feel guilty, Dorie and Arnie liked Joe. They said he was a fine young man who came from “good stock”—which was true, but Fordham wasn’t as interested in a rich bouillabaisse as she was in a guy who could stir her passion.

  Halfway through the party, that guy walked in. Gil Presser was everything his picture promised and then some. He had long dark wavy hair, a thin wiry frame, and scruffy facial hair. He looked like an even cuter Sly Stallone without the cut abs. The bonus was his winning smile that oozed Catch me if you can in a language that defied words.

  Fordham, standing against the wall opposite the laundry room and talking to Evie, gaped at this paragon of desirability and nearly lost her footing. It was in that moment that she knew he was the one—the subject of her fantasies, the one she dreamed of having children with, the one who Aaron was supposed to be until he left for Spain and broke her heart.

  “Fordham, how much did you drink?” Evie was helping her stay upright.

  “One beer. Did you see him?”

  “See who?”

  “The guy that just got here. His name is Gil Presser. I saw his picture in my roommate’s yearbook.”

  Evie glanced at him. “Okay, so...?”

  “Come on, be serious, Evie. He’s gorgeous.”

  “If you say so,” Evie said, watching Marv playing bumper pool. “What about you and Joe?

  “We’re not official.”

  “I just found out official is in his pocket. He’s giving you a promise ring at midnight.”

  “No way!” Fordham screeched, eyes fixed on Gil, who she could have sworn had also been keeping her in his view. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

  “If you’re smart, you’ll take it and say thank you. He’s a good guy, and he’s joining his father’s firm on Wall Street after he graduates. This is a gift, Fordham.”

  “Maybe, but it isn’t meant to be mine.”

  Fordham liked Joe and didn’t want to hurt him, but she was certain Gil Presser’s arrival was no coincidence. He was sent by a higher power. No one could make her feel like a bowl of Jell-O and not be destined to be part of her life. Evie shook her head and went to find Marv. Fordham went to the kitchen to find answers.

  Joe made it easy. She was getting a bag of corn chips from the cabinet when he came in and told her he was very sorry but he had to leave. His friend from out of town who’d come to the party with him had had too much to drink and wanted to go back to Joe’s house. Then they were leaving at dawn to go on a camping trip for the week. Joe wouldn’t be able to call her until he returned. He apologized profusely, saying he hoped she wasn’t too upset since the evening hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. She assured him, probably too zealously, that he had nothing to worry about. She decided it would be cruel to break up with him and ruin his trip. His disappointment could wait.

  With Joe’s heart safely out the door, Fordham was free to get Gil’s attention. She wasn’t sure where to begin other than to position herself under his nose and seem oblivious to his presence. She could feel Evie’s eyes following her over to Gil and the small crowd of people he was talking to. Fordham glanced her way and rolled her eyes. She wished Evie could understand that there was no free will involved here—it was destiny.

  Gil didn’t seem to be as aware of their destiny. He was busy showing his friends how he could squeeze dip between his teeth. No one seemed as fascinated by his every move as she was. Having had his fill, he headed for the deck door. She knew the shortest route to it. If he wanted to go outside, he’d have no choice but to bump into her. That was the moment their eyes locked. She knew he felt it too.

  “Hey,” he offered. “I’m Gil.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Fordham.”

  “Right. Like the street in the Bronx.”

  “Yeah. And like the university.”

  “Right.” He set his eyes comfortably on hers. “This is a nice house.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wanna take a walk?”

  She wasn’t sure where they were going, and she didn’t care. Evie would make sure no one puked where it couldn’t be cleaned. Besides, the party was winding down. A lot of people had already left, and there were others heading out. Gil told his ride to wait for him, which didn’t seem like much of a problem.

  The air was slightly damp and cool, as if the clouds had been kissing ice cubes. She shivered, and he instinctively put his arm around her. The moon took notice and framed his face so she could see his cheekbones more clearly. Beneath his scant beard, he had a little cleft in his chin.

  She wanted to study his face more, but there was laughter coming from up the block that threw her off. As they came to a streetlight, she saw a guy carrying a girl on his back. He was galloping toward them, wearing a bra on his head. The girl was holding her top in her hand, and her large breasts jiggled each time the guy moved. He looked like an inebriated steed carting around Lady Godiva. Fordham wondered if they were a real couple, and in a quick fantasy, she pictured her and Gil swapping roles with them. The guy said something barely intelligible to Fordham and Gil about being sure to check out the cool party down the block, then he disappeared back into the night.

  In the moments they walked around the neighborhood, she and Gil seemed to share a lifetime. They talked about everything—school, parents, the suburbs, politics, music, Atari, sugar, movies, and bad breath. He wanted to stay, but he was afraid to make his friends wait. They headed back to the house, and before they reached the driveway, he gently pushed her onto the grass and kissed her the way Burt Lancaster kissed Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity but without the beach.

  As they got closer to the house, she realized the party was over. Everyone was gone, including Gil’s friends. The only thing on the driveway was a heap of filled garbage bags. Gil checked his watch, which said it was one in the morning. Then he followed Fordham into the house and gasped. It was really four in the morning. He had to be at work by nine, or he was sure to lose his job.

  There was only one thing Fordham could do. She had to drive Gil home. The car was in the garage, and the keys were in the ignition where they always were. It was no big deal. Granted, her father told her not to use the car because there was something wrong with the something or other, but it didn’t sound serious, and she was sure he was just being extra cautious.

  Gil was being a gentleman and kept telling her he would call a cab, but neither one of them had the cash, and she couldn’t imagine how any of this would be a problem. She would drop him off, go back to the house, crash for a bit, get up, and clean before her parents got home. As she drove, he thanked her for the ride by taking her free hand and sensuously kissing each finger.

  That was when the car stalled thirty miles from her house on the summer-busy Long Island Expressway. Dead. It wouldn’t turn over for anything. Gil told her to put the car in neutral so that he could push it off to the side and onto the shoulder. He managed to get most of the car off the road, but the back end was still jutting out a little. The highway was empty, and there didn’t appear to be many cops on patrol. Gil said they should leave a note on the windshield and try to find a phone. Fordham was too numb to panic and followed his lead.

  They found a phone several miles from the car. Gil called the police and explained what happened. He told them where the car was and described
where they were. The police said to hold tight and they would send a car to get them. There was nothing to do but wait. Gil rested his arm around her shoulder and drew her close to him. If it had been up to Fordham, the officer would have never shown up.

  But he did, and he drove them back to the disabled car. It was still there, but now it resembled an accordion more than it did a vehicle. Someone had plowed into it at record speed and kept going as if nothing had happened. There were no remnants from any other vehicle in the area, and the officer deduced that either a van or a truck had been responsible for the accident. Fordham could see the prison bars being installed on the door to her bedroom. Her father, a mad dog when provoked, was not going to be okay with any part of this.

  The cop went to his car to get the paperwork so they could file a claim. The tricky part came when the officer asked for license and registration. Fordham had her license, but the registration was not in her name, and the officer said it was necessary to speak with the owner of the vehicle before signing off on the report. A short ride later, they arrived at the moderately busy police station. Fordham summoned her courage and called Gloria’s, certain that at nearly six in the morning, her parents would still be fast asleep.

  After a lot of ranting and shouting, Arnie said they were on their way. To assuage her anxiety, Fordham focused on Gil. He was sitting on a chair, sleeping. She watched him swat a persistent fly away from his face and giggled when he seemed to shout at it in the midst of his dream. The amazing thing was that he didn’t ditch her to go do whatever he had to do for himself. He stayed to make sure she was okay. He was responsible, caring, focused, and incredibly adorable.

  Arnie didn’t see him quite the same way. He waltzed into the station, screaming, with Dorie behind him, begging him to calm down. He was trying to swat her away, much like Gil’s treatment of the annoying fly. He stormed over to Gil, who had just woken up, and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him to a standing position.

  “So you’re the punk that got my little girl into this mess!” His fist was in the air, and he was just about to strike Gil when Fordham jumped between them. Gil just stood quietly, as if that might mitigate the situation. An officer came and pulled Arnie to the side. He said if Arnie didn’t control himself, he would end up in a jail cell. That was all Dorie needed to hear. Typically the more reasonable parent, she told Fordham to say goodbye to her friend and get in the car. They would go for a bite to eat and then come back to handle the particulars. Dorie pushed Arnie out of the station, motioning to Fordham to hurry.

  Fordham went over to Gil. “I am so sorry about all this. And I’m even sorrier that my dad is crazy.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t your fault. It isn’t his fault, either. I met a cute girl at a party I was barely invited to, and I didn’t want to let her go. I still don’t.”

  “Good thing, because any guy so cool about all this is not someone I would ever want to give up.”

  They kissed again, this time more like Fred and Wilma Flintstone after a filling brontosaurus burger. But they both knew it was just the beginning of destiny.

  FORDHAM DIDN’T WANT to think about the Gil she’d met and loved. It was a lifetime ago, and the boy—who she believed had the promise of depth, sensitivity, and a will to be judged for the strength of his kindness and character—had never really existed. She’d refused to look beyond his veneer to see the lost, insecure, egocentric man with an endless need to be fed and idolized. Her parents had warned her about his level of dysfunction, but she ignored them because she believed she could either save him or change him, a consuming job that proved to require too much work for too little compensation.

  In the end, she realized he’d never been truly committed to her or inclined to fight for their relationship. He let whatever they could have had slip away with every dollar or new pleasure set before him. Everything about him was tired old news, and she was grateful he was tucked away in a new venture in Istanbul, far from her world and unable to taint the life she had been learning to build without him.

  Evie came back to the table, beaming. “I just finalized the order for Marv’s new office furniture, and what a bargain!”

  Fordham nodded to acknowledge Evie’s coup then wondered if the past was the only thing they had in common.

  “What can I tell you, Fordham? The pleasure of shopping lasts a lot longer than the pleasure of coming.”

  And that was why they were still close. She could set her watch by Evie’s candor.

  “That text you sent me last night was pretty interesting,” Evie said, salting her fries. “Did you talk to him?”

  “It was nothing. Whitty’s principal is”—she stabbed a large piece of lettuce—“very attractive. But I think he’s with someone.”

  “What do you mean, with?”

  “With, like Tums and heartburn.” Fordham scanned the dessert menu. “Forget about it. I have.”

  Fordham got out a pen and a little memo pad from her bag. She began making a shopping list while she was talking then noticed she’d written, “Prince” instead of “Pringles.”

  “Anyway, I’m not sure which sites or apps to research for dating,” Fordham said. “I’ve never done it. You’ve been setting me up, although after the last time, I’m really not sure I’m going to continue that arrangement.”

  Evie was the only one Fordham had trusted to set her up on dates. None of them ever worked out, but at least she always got home without making the headlines.

  “Oh my God, Fordham! All this talk about Margo and Gil, and I almost forgot. You have a date tomorrow night, and as a favor to me, please go. It’s Marv’s cousin Paul. He’s in from Detroit for a family wedding—not Marv’s side, the other side, but he’s staying with us.”

  “You’re sending me to a wedding with a Michigander?”

  “He’s a nice guy. Once you get over the extra nipple.”

  “Cute. Anything else worth sharing?” Fordham always hoped to be wooed if not wowed.

  “Honestly, I don’t remember what he looks like. But here’s the Paul Nudelman story in a nutshell. Recently divorced, two teenagers, PhD from Columbia, a professor of mathematics.”

  “Evie, you know numbers make me queasy. I would rather have root canal than figure out the square root of anything. I don’t even like balancing my checkbook.”

  “You like books. You’re editing a book. He writes books. The last one he wrote was about pi.”

  “Apple or cherry?”

  TRAFFIC WAS BUILDING as she headed to the supermarket. Fortunately, she was still full from lunch and wouldn’t be tempted to scarf down a bag of pretzels while shopping. She flipped on some jazz and tried to relax. But she was too wired. She should have said no to the date. Evie might have been disappointed, but she would have understood.

  If Fordham was honest with herself—and she preferred not to be—she would have to admit that somewhere deep down, she was hopeful. It was illogical. All of her dates were dead ends that left her feeling cold and worried that she would never find anyone. But still, this little traffic light inside her kept leading her through the blinking yellow into new experiences. It was a dumb light that almost never flashed red, and the few times it went green, she remained cautiously optimistic.

  A guy on a motorcycle cut into her lane, and even though she yielded, he gave her the finger. Typical male. Even when you give them what they want, they still give you grief.

  She turned the radio off since all it was doing was adding to the noise in her head. The more she ruminated about going to this wedding, the more anxious she became. She should have told Evie she couldn’t make it. She wasn’t even sure her black dress was back from the cleaners after the last date disaster a few months back. That one had been with a nutjob friend of Evie’s from sleepaway camp who’d found her in the French Woods group on Facebook. Evie was giddy with glee when Donald asked if she knew a nice woman he could go out with. She hadn’t seen the guy in decades, but she remembered that he smelled like Pop
-Tarts and didn’t make fun of her for having a crush on David Letterman. Why she believed that was a legitimate enough endorsement to send Fordham on a dinner date was not something Evie could ever adequately explain.

  Fordham met Donald at a small café outside of town. He wasn’t attractive and had an unusually large mole on his forehead that she couldn’t help but stare at while they spoke. He had been away for several years, teaching English to kids in the jungles of Peru. It was very rewarding, and while he was there, he’d not only found inner peace, but he’d also found Christ. For the rest of the evening, he assumed what one might call the missionary position and fully shared the precepts of the New Testament with anyone who even inadvertently glanced his way, including the busboy, the cocktail waitress, and the older woman with silver-blue coiffed hair sitting at the table next to them.

  “But,” he told her in a whisper, “in order to lead a truly spiritual life, I must abandon the sins of the flesh.” He would no longer enjoy the physical company of men and would marry a woman who did not place a high price tag on the “meaningless mingling of bodily fluids.”

  Fordham wasn’t sure how to react, so she had a few sips of her drink and let him talk about the Second Coming then excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. Just before she got back to their table, she deliberately bumped into a waiter so that everything on his tray strategically spilled all over her dress. The waiter was clearly confused when she thanked him and handed him a twenty. She apologized to her date for her clumsiness and ran out of the restaurant before he could say good night.

  What if Paul was just more of the same—a well-educated, babbling lunatic with a penchant for scripture and an eye for hot guys? But it was too late. She’d already agreed, and there was no way to get out of it gracefully. This wasn’t really a date—it was a good deed. As long as she kept it in perspective, she had nothing to worry about.