He nods. “I would venture a guess…that in all the time we’ve spent on the phone with one another, I’ve probably received a play-by-play account of her life ever since your obstetrician smacked her on the butt.” I can tell he’s teasing. Although it’s true that over the course of all our phone calls and e-mails, we’ve pretty much gotten full biographical histories of each other and every close relative. I’ve stopped him, though, whenever he invokes the name of an old girlfriend. I don’t understand why guys don’t think it’s a big deal to mention old girlfriend stuff to the woman they’re currently with. Are there really women out there who aren’t bothered by this? Because I sure as heck am, and I don’t know any of my female friends who aren’t.
And the guys are always, like, “Well, I’m with you now.” They don’t get it. They claim not to be bothered when an old boyfriend or ex-husband thing comes up. I don’t get that. I try to keep the ghosts out of the room, unless there’s a real reason for summoning them. Like telling Dennis why Scott and I got divorced.
“You’re like my sister that way,” he said, the first time I unhunh-ed him from discussing the time he was on vacation with one of his exes.
“Which sister? The beauty queen or the paralegal?”
“Megan. The beauty queen. And she was Miss Teen New York State, so I don’t know how much that counts.”
“Of course it counts! What, she has to be Miss Universe and appear in a pageant in Singapore or something, and not Schenectady, for it to count with you?”
We do tease each other a lot, Dennis and I. When we fall back into our familiar banter in my kitchen, I feel less nervous somehow about the fact that he’s actually here, in the really appealing flesh. That this evening we’re able, for the first time, to do a whole lot more than listen to each other’s voice or tap away on a keyboard.
“Let’s go, Mr. Lifesaver,” I say, leading the way to Zoë’s bedroom.
“Here you are,” I say, placing the tray on her lap. She’s sitting up in bed, reading one of her kid-craft type magazines. “Can we do this for St. Patrick’s Day?” she asks, pointing to a page.
“Do what, sweetheart?”
“Make those cupcakes. And I could bring them to school like I did with the heart cookies on Valentine’s Day. We’re supposed to bring something Irish to school on March seventeenth.”
I look at the page she’s referring to. It’s a recipe and decorating directions for leprechaun cupcakes, a complicated design. They’re actually ice-cream-cone cupcakes, with the flat-bottomed cones tinted green, forming the leprechauns’ hats.
“I’ll think about it, okay? We’ve still got a few days to go. Let’s tackle one thing at a time. How are you feeling?”
“Yucky.” She pulls a book from the folds of her bedclothes. “Can you read me two chapters from this, please?” she says sweetly, thrusting the book at Dennis.
“Charlotte’s Web. That’s pretty grown-up stuff, isn’t it?” he asks her.
My reaction is somewhere between a snicker and a chuckle. “You’d be surprised what kids her age are reading these days. Believe me. Welcome to the world of fast-track grammar schoolers.”
“Hey! I am an uncle, you know! I don’t think my nieces and nephews read such advanced stuff at Zoë’s age, though.” Dennis leans in to whisper to me. “However…if I recall correctly, this book has a really sad e—n—d—i—n—g.”
“Why is the ending sad?” Zoë asks.
“If you spell it out, you’ll give away the plot,” I warn.
“It’s okay,” she assures him. “I’ve read sad stuff before. And I’ve seen sad movies. Dumbo’s really sad in parts. And scary, too, when the house catches fire and he’s trapped inside. And Bambi’s reeeeeeeally sad.”
“Um…Z? Isn’t reading Charlotte’s Web a homework assignment?” She tilts her head coyly. That’s a “yes.” She’s putting on her best I’m-sick-but-irresistibly-adorable face. “Then you’re doing us both a favor by reading these chapters,” I tell Dennis. “She’s got more homework in second grade than I think I had in sixth.”
“I love bedtime stories,” Zoë says. “And sometimes I like Mommy to read me something different, but when it’s homework, it…it…it goes faster when someone else reads it out loud because I can’t read so fast. But it’s the same words,” she offers, as a rationalization.
“You’d better watch it or she might become a lawyer,” he cautions, grinning. I shudder.
“I want to be an astronaut.” She tucks into her sherbet as Dennis begins to read. I’m charmed, and for some reason I feel proud that he reads the material so well, acting out all the parts with the skill of an old Irish raconteur. Maybe it’s a cultural thing; storytelling runs through his veins. Of course, that ability has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he’s the man I think I would like to be my boyfriend, but it does indeed make me proud. And Zoë is very picky when it comes to reading aloud. She can be quite a scathing critic. I find myself noticing Dennis’s mouth as he reads, wanting to kiss him, remembering how soft his lips were the first time we kissed and wondering what he might taste like this time. The fact that he’s got a flair for reading and is so good with Zoë is also a turn-on
“Okay, that’s two chapters and no skipped pages,” he says, closing the book. “There’ll be a quiz in the morning.”
She takes this literally. “Will you be here to give it to me?”
Dennis and I exchange an awkward glance. “I don’t think so, sweetie,” I tell her, although I’m certainly thinking about it. He’s pretty irresistible right now.
“Oh.” She pauses momentarily before switching gears. “Do I have to go to sleep now?”
“That’s usually why it’s called a bedtime story, Z. Say thank you to Fireman Dennis for reading to you and for doing such a good job.”
“Thank you Fireman Dennis for reading to me and for doing such a good job,” she parrots. “And you can do it again sometime, if you want.”
“The pleasure will be mine. Goodnight, Zoë. Feel better, now, okay?”
“I don’t feel better now, but I will in the morning, maybe.”
“Why don’t you go check on the pizza situation?” I suggest. Dennis leaves the room and I lean in to kiss my daughter good-night. “I’m glad you enjoyed your bedtime story. Didn’t Fireman Dennis do a good job?” I take the sherbet bowl and tray away.
She beams, then sighs, like a lovestruck maiden. “Yeaaaaah. I like Fireman Dennis a lot. He doesn’t talk to me like a little kid.”
“I’ll pass along your compliment.” I give her a kiss and turn off the light.
“She’s a good kid,” Dennis remarks, happily accepting my grateful embrace. He tastes like cinnamon red-hots. Dennis has already set the table in the breakfast nook and found all the appropriate dishes and utensils. Rather than feel at all offended or violated by the fact that he’s obviously given himself a tour of my drawers and cabinets, I’m relieved that he doesn’t act like he wants—or expects—to be waited on, when I’ve got a sick child to deal with. “I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and did this,” he adds, gesturing at his handiwork. “Kitchens are kitchens. A firehouse isn’t that much different than a lady’s home.” In a gentlemanly gesture he pulls the chair out for me, and his hands graze my shoulders when he seats me. It feels delicious.
“No, it’s great. Thanks. You did a very thorough job. I’m surprised you didn’t find the pornography.” I wink, making sure he realizes I’m kidding.
He laughs. “Ooh, there’s pornography?” He slides his chair away from the table and heads straight to one of the higher cabinets.
“Come back and sit down.” He does, and then I pop up. The porno joke lightened the mood, but made me even more aware of the sexual tension in the air, and I’m not sure how to deal with it. “I’ve got a bottle of red wine here somewhere.” I locate the Beaujolais and pour a glass for each of us.
“To…” Dennis raises his glass to toast. “I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid.”<
br />
“I don’t believe it! I thought you Irishmen are legendary for your toasts. You know…‘May the wind be at your back and the road rise up to meet you’ and all that.”
“You’re not supposed to combine those two, I don’t think. Anyway, cheers. To Zoë’s speedy recovery.”
Our less-than-glamorous dinner is punctuated by the sharing of childhood reminiscences, much laughter, Dennis’s spirited defense of Terminator movies, and the occasional awkward silence. It seems pretty clear that we’re both interested in taking whatever has been going on between us over countless phone calls and e-mails to another, physical level.
He reaches for my hand across the table. “Hey, your nails are smudgy.”
“Aaah! Zoë and I were hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“I noticed,” he says, “but I don’t care, in case you’re concerned about it. You haven’t offended my…my…manicurial sensibilities.”
He’s got me smiling. “It fits better when you’re not wearing those big Kevlar gloves,” I say, enjoying the feel of our clasped hands. Mine in his.
“About Zoë’s question…” he begins.
“Which one?” I realize we’re both whispering.
“The one about me being around tomorrow to quiz her on the Charlotte’s Web chapters I read to her.”
“Oh, that one.”
“Claire, you’re blushing.”
“So are you.” There are a few moments of heavy silence. A real pregnant pause. “I don’t think it’s a good idea…tonight, I mean…but…but…” I’m scared to say this. More than just nervous. Really scared. I haven’t been with another guy, apart from Scott, since I was a senior in high school. And Scott was only the second man I ever made love with. And what if Dennis isn’t thinking the same thing…I mean, I think he is…but what if…? “I really do want to, though. Eventually. And I don’t mean too far away eventually. Soon eventually.”
“I understand.” He doesn’t sound pissed off or rejected. Whew.
“It’s just that with Zoë…and this is only a first date, such as it is, and all…”
He’s watching me dither, a confused muddle of words that are meant to express my current state of womanhood and motherhood and longing and desire and fear.
“It’s okay, Claire. I understand,” he repeats. “I really do. I’m not bullshitting. I don’t do that. There’s no reason for us to force anything, or feel we’ve got a timetable here. If it’s okay with you, I’m not going anywhere.” He chuckles. “I mean, except home tonight.”
We clean up the kitchen together, and then he says he thinks he’d better start heading back.
I’m a little disappointed. “So soon?”
“Yeah, I think so. Because if I don’t leave now…”
It’s my turn to understand. “It’s okay. Can I kiss you good night?” Dennis takes me in his arms. At first his mouth just brushes mine. Then he truly claims it, deepening the kiss with a passionate urgency. He hugs me to him, caressing my back, shoulders, and neck, and it’s quite a while before we come up for air. I love the way it feels to be held by him, the softness of his lips, the scent of his skin. “You taste like pizza,” I whisper.
“Then maybe next time, you’ll try the pepperoni,” he breathes into my mouth, then pulls away and starts laughing at what I might be taking for a dreadful double entendre.
I give him a playful smack on the upper arm. “That’s terrible!”
“I didn’t mean it that way, I swear I didn’t!” We’re both laughing hard now, and fall into each other’s arms. “You do believe me, don’t you?” he says, kissing me again.
“Oh, yeah, sure, of I course I do,” I giggle. “And I do want to try the pepperoni.”
Chapter 18
For the first time in my life, I’m scared to live here. I mean, after the break-in, I don’t feel like my apartment is safe. I threw out half the clothes they dumped on the floor; I was too skeeved to touch them again. Not the nicest reason to buy new underwear. Charles helped me put the place back together and we got a locksmith to put so much hardware on the door, I feel like I’m the one who’s in jail every time I get home and flip all the locks. The guys who broke in are waiting for their trial. I’ve heard they’ve both got rap sheets a mile long. If convicted—which they’d better be—they’re probably looking at a long time in the can. And one of them violated his parole when he robbed me. Dickhead.
“You need an alarm system,” the locksmith told me. I figured he was just trying to sell me more stuff.
But Charles thought he had a point. “You don’t have to get something traditional,” he said. “My friends John and Maria don’t have a bell or some horrible noisy thing like those car alarms, which always make me want to take a crowbar to the cars. They have two dogs instead. And they bark like crazy when anyone is anywhere they’re not supposed to be.”
“But what if the thieves ignore the barking and go for it anyway?”
Charles licked his lips. “They’re dinner.”
“Well, this much I know,” I told him, as we took a walk to a local pet store. “A burglar alarm can’t stomp roaches or reach my light fixtures to change a bulb. And a dog needs to be walked at least twice a day. Can you honestly see me doing that? And we all know I am not a morning person. Any dog I’d get would have to learn to walk himself!”
We passed the pet store and decided to head to a bar instead. “And,” I added, “I get my most creative ideas when I’m shopping or screwing, so it’s a wise career move in the long run.”
Charles gave me a funny look. “Mia, you just made some sort of leap that went too fast for my fragile little masculine synapses. What’s a wise career move in the long run?”
Oh. Had I not made myself clear? “A husband.”
“Aaaaand…where are we going to find such an item?”
I looked around the bar. No prospects there. At least, not now. “Will you help me go over my Excel sheets?” I just happened to have them in my purse. Since they contain such personal details, I got weirded out about having them around the house after the robbery. As long as my bag doesn’t get snatched. Charles knows about the spreadsheets and finds them wildly amusing. In fact, he thought he might try the same technique. Besides, it’s cheaper than therapy. Maybe I could start a trend. A self-help psychotherapy/dating/computer skills combo. You know, “Learn and master a popular software package while understanding why you’re such a fuck-up as a lover!”
Spring is, like, in a few days. Didn’t Celestia say my love life was supposed to look up around now?
Charles ordered two apple martinis. The waitress looked at us like we were tourists. “This is a real shot and beer place,” I whispered to him.
“Does that mean I have to drink them?” he said peevishly. “And if she gives us attitude, I give her a shitty tip.”
“Sounds a bit harsh.”
“It’s the same give and take in the cutthroat world of guiding. Just ask your sister.”
Charles and I don’t see eye to eye on this kind of thing. Yeah, I know the place is empty, more or less, so in his view, there’s no reason for her to cop a ’tude just because we asked for green girl-drinks. But I always tend to think there’s more than the obvious going on. Maybe she got dumped by her man last night. Maybe her dog died. Maybe she’s PMSing. Of course, Charles could be right; maybe she’s just a bitch!
I laid out the charts on the small table. I have the pages taped like sheet music so it’s one long chart that folds out, accordion-style. “My, God, you’ve dated more men than I have!” Charles exclaimed. He looked at my categories. “Oral?”
“Sex.”
“Duh. I already guessed that. I didn’t think it was their favorite toothbrush brand.” He threw up his hands. “That’s too vague, Mia. You’re giving me nothing here. Does that mean they like you to do it to them or they like to do it to you, or both?”
I gave him a look. “I’m the common denominator here. Figure it out.”
“Oh. Right. But it
doesn’t say whether they were good at it, and if so, how good. I mean if it’s an important enough factor to have on the chart, I think there should be some kind of a rating system. Don’t just have Y or N. Make it a Y on a scale of one to ten, or one to a hundred.” He pointed to another category. “What’s DB?”
“Dresses badly.”
“Again, not detailed enough. What’s ‘dresses badly’ mean? Mismatched socks? Blue with brown? T-shirts that say stupid things?”
“All of the above.”
Charles unfolded my Guy Chart section by section, skimmed it, and sighed like a Jewish grandmother. Our drinks came. From the way she looked over his shoulder, the waitress seemed intrigued by my somewhat scientific autobiographical presentation. You’d think, from her hawklike look, that she’d dated some of the same guys.
“Okay,” he said, entwining his fingers around the V of his martini glass. “You’ve got a lot of Peter Pans here. And how you act is what you attract.” He looked pleased with his little aphorism.
“You sound like a gay, white Johnnie Cochran.”
“I’ll ignore that pathetic attempt at humor. You want to make a real stab at commitment, you need to make a serious effort to present that to the world.”
“You mean act predatory?”
“Well, no. And yes. If you’re clear—in your head—that you feel it’s time to quit dating fly-by-night guys who make you feel good—not that there’s anything wrong with that—and become interested in spending your increasingly precious dating hours only with men who have a future that includes marriage—and kids, if that’s what you want, too—then that will be the kind of person who will gravitate to you. If you go on acting like the good-time gal that you are, you’ll only attract good-time guys.”
“Are you saying I’m not supposed to have fun? Not be me?”
“No. And yes.”
“You’re driving me crazy with that, you know.” I dipped my fingers into my water glass and flicked a few drops in his face. Charles flinched. You’d think he was the Wicked Witch of the West. “Afraid of water, are you?” I teased.
Play Dates Page 26