Date Night: Romantic Tales

by Liz Madrid

  DATE NIGHT

  Romantic Tales

  LIZ MADRID

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Starting Over

  A New Beginning

  Date Night

  His Present

  Letting Go

  Thank you for reading!

  Also by Liz Madrid

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2014-2015 Velvet Madrid

  All Rights Reserved

  To Elena

  INTRODUCTION

  DATE NIGHT: Romantic Tales is a collection of some of my short stories. The title story, Date Night, is a story I wrote for my sister-in-law after she complained about the dearth of stories featuring older, married women.

  The rest of the stories feature old an new characters. Some of them feature familiar characters from my books, like Riley and Ashe from Loving Ashe, and Sam and Martin from Finding Sam. The rest are standalone short stories introducing you to new characters who may end up with story continuations—you never know.

  I hope you enjoyed reading these stories of date nights, both planned and unplanned ones, of new beginnings and romantic connections.

  STARTING OVER

  Darby and Tom

  Just her luck, the flight was canceled. She looked up at the flight board again and groaned. No, all flights to New York were canceled.

  Every. Single. One.

  So much for starting over, Darby thought. She should have checked her notifications before she got into that cab and bounded for the airport. That she hadn’t bothered to check whether the storm managed to dump more than ten inches of snow and close down the airport in the process was all her fault.

  Darby could also say that it was all Jake’s fault. That’s because she’d been too busy crying her eyes out over him to check on her phone in case the airlines had notified her.

  Yup, Jake and the woman she’d seen him kissing through the coffee shop window. The very coffee shop they used to call theirs only because that’s where they got their morning coffees since they started living together six months ago. It had been theirs until yesterday, considering that he was now kissing another woman in the very same spot he would kiss her. Only Darby hadn’t received the memo that he’d already moved on.

  Darn notifications again, Darby thought as she leaned her back against the wall of Gate 27 and slid down to the floor. Thank her lucky stars, space had opened up against the wall so she could rest her legs. With Gate 27 and the surrounding areas filled with stranded travelers like her, it was going to be an uncomfortable night. She should really start checking her new phone more often.

  But just because she finally caught up with the 21st century and finally gave in to a smart phone didn’t mean she had to forego her journals and her art pads. She still loved working with her hands, holding a pen to paper, and drawing, writing, pouring her heart out like ink blooming in patches on paper, mingling with her tears to form beautiful shapes of many colors and shades.

  No one had to know she used her own tears this time. Nor did they need to know that those tears were named after Jake. She’d shed so many tears that she’d lost count of them as they fell onto her 100% cotton content watercolor paper and, according to the label, “acid-free, pH-neutral, gelatin-sized, and air-dried” to boot. Thus her tears, the ones named after Jake, were now air-dried to perfection, her delicately executed scrawls on paper now appearing like perfect roses in varying shades of fuchsia, pink and red on a white background. She’d even managed to put a few dots of green, watered down by her tears again to represent the roses’ leaves.

  But if there was to be a silver lining in all this, at least Darby had something to show for falling for someone like Jake. That she thought she could change him was a huge mistake, and now she was paying the price. Still, there was a silver lining, she reminded herself as she opened her art portfolio and looked through her work, was right in front of her.

  She didn’t know how the art series would be received. She’d only been working on it for the last five months, and it had gotten some amazing feedback from her instructors. The least she could do was try.

  “That’s amazing work,” said a voice next to her and she immediately slammed the portfolio shut, turning her head to see who dared disrupt a stranger’s thoughts. That was the problem with crowded airports when flights got canceled and everyone who opted to forego the comfort of a nice hotel bed ended up having to claim a spot on the floor, get comfortable and be in each other’s face - for a time.

  The owner of “the voice” which Darby had to admit was divine, like warm chocolate, was a blond man wearing a gray sweatshirt over faded jeans. He had a thick wool coat folded next to him, and next to it, a leather backpack that had probably seen too many days and nights out in the open. It was weathered, but she liked it. It had character, just like the man who was now grinning at her.

  “It looks like we’re in for a long night,” he said. “My name’s Tom. What’s yours?”

  “What if I don’t tell you my name, at least, for now, Tom?” Darby said, reluctantly holding out her hand which he took. His grip was firm though it told her nothing that she could use for reference other than, he had a firm grip. She often marveled at how people claimed they could tell a person’s character from the grip of a handshake though Darby preferred looking at their eyes. Eyes usually told her more about the person more than anything else. Though when they held her gaze long enough, like what Tom was doing at that moment, it also told her more than she wanted to know.

  She turned her attention back to her portfolio, now shut on her lap. On the opposite side of her, a woman was busy texting on her phone, which was plugged into the socket between them. She also had earphones on, and Darby could hear the faint strains of the song she was listening to.

  “Are you an artist?” The man name Tom asked.

  Questions like that irked Darby. If one could see that she had a portfolio on her lap, and a pencil in her hand, sometimes more than one pencil for that matter, didn’t that tell them that she was an artist? Why bother asking then?

  But before Darby could say anything, she paused. It was a harmless question, nothing more. She was just upset about Jake.

  She sighed. Why did everything have to go back to Jake?

  “Yes, I am,” Darby said. “Or I’m trying to be. I just graduated from art school, and I’m hoping to make it big in the art world, like all artists dream of, I’m sure.”

  “Well, I don’t know that much about art, but what I saw was beautiful. I’d have something like that on my wall if I could afford it.”

  Darby nodded. “Well, anyone can afford art if they really want it.”

  “True,” he said. He had been sitting cross-legged, but now straightened his legs in front of him. They seemed to go on forever, Darby thought as she stole a glance at his face again.

  He had dark blue eyes, its outside corners crinkling whenever he smiled, which was often. Soft curly hair graced his nape, and though he apparently needed a hair cut, his smile was infectious. Was he flirting with her, she wondered? If he was, her man-radar was definitely off, only because it was still trained, brokenly, towards Jake - Jake who was now probably sleeping with her best friend, Camilla. Because that was who she’d seen him kissing - with tongues - at the coffee shop that used to be theirs.

  “Are you alright?” Tom asked.

  Darby
realized that she’d lapsed into silence, though for how long, she didn’t even know. She felt like an idiot feeling so brokenhearted, the one who’d just been dumped for her best friend. How long had Jake and Camilla been seeing each other? Had it been going on all this time and she had no clue because she was so intent on finishing her art project to get it to New York in time? Only that was going bust because there were no flights till morning - or until the snowstorms passed through the East Coast.

  She chuckled drily. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Then why are you crying?” He handed her a handkerchief, which caught Darby by surprise because she didn’t even know if men still carried handkerchiefs. With their wallets and their phones, where would they have room for a handkerchief and a neatly pressed one at that?

  “Thank you,” she said, dabbing the tears from her eyes as delicately as she could. Thank goodness she didn’t wear make-up because if she did, her mascara would have been running down her face long before she’d have gotten to the airport, and she didn’t want to leave her spot by the wall socket just to wash her face.

  “You’re sitting on prime airport real estate, you know.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” She asked, glancing at her phone which was still charging at 30 percent. “All this small talk is really just that, right? Small talk?”

  He shrugged. “I was here first, and then you scooted in while I was removing my coat.”

  “Oh,” she said, biting her lower lip. There was a man whose back had been turned to her when she claimed the spot earlier. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’ve got one of those portable power packs, so I’m good.” He took a deep breath, exhaled and smiled again. “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she said, handing her his handkerchief back. She noticed the initials TCH embroidered on it. “What does H stand for?”

  “Hennesy,” he said. “Tom Hennesy, at your service.”

  “Did your girlfriend embroider that?”

  “Nah, no one embroiders by hand these days,” he replied, slipping the handkerchief into the pocket of his folded woolen coat. “No, these were a present from my mother. She’s old-fashioned that way. She believes that no matter what the fashion, every man should always have a handkerchief on hand, even if he’s just wearing jeans.”

  Jake didn’t even own a handkerchief, she remembered now. If she needed one, he’d grab a tissue from the tissue box or if all else failed, a table napkin or worse, toilet paper.

  “So what was his name?” he asked when she lapsed into silence again. “I'm presumptuous, of course, but it’s just a wild guess that those tears were for a boy.”

  She chuckled. “You’re right about the boy part because he definitely was a boy. Definitely not a man.”

  “Oy vey,” he said, grimacing. “I’m sorry. My kind can be quite clueless sometimes.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for him. You’d be doing it forever if you had to apologize to every girl who’s had her heart broken by your kind,” Darby said, laughing. “I’m a big girl anyway, and I can take care of myself.”

  “Is that him in your portfolio?” He asked, and Darby paused, glancing down at the vinyl cover of her portfolio, where she’d drawn Jake on many sheets of watercolor paper.

  She nodded. “Yeah, it’s him. Kinda makes it hard to look at them, though, after what he did.”

  “What did he do, if I may ask? Though you don’t have to answer-”

  “He cheated on me with my best friend. I saw them just this morning, at the coffee shop where we used to hang out, doing an oral examination right there by the window for all to see.”

  “Eew,” Tom grimaced again, and Darby laughed at the face he made, though his expression turned serious. “Are you planning on going back to him?”

  “No!” Darby exclaimed, staring at him incredulously. “But I’m angrier at her than I am with him. Boys are a dime a dozen, but I always thought friends - good friends - were priceless.”

  “But if she’s a good friend - and priceless at that - she wouldn’t be letting him do a throat examination as she did now, would she?” He asked.

  At his words, Darby choked back the onslaught of tears that came, unbidden. Tom began to apologize, handing her his handkerchief again as she buried her face in her hands - and his handkerchief - ending her crying fit by blowing her nose into it. She might as well. Tears and snot usually went together, especially when one was having an excellent cry.

  And whether Tom liked it or not, she was going to have one right there at Gate 27.

  “I guess you won’t want this now,” she said, embarrassed, as she held up the handkerchief, folded as neatly as she could.

  “I’m good,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You can keep it, really, please do. My mother sends me a pack every Christmas, and it’s not everyday I get to hand it to a girl in need of one. The only person who’s happy about them is my dry cleaner since they come with every suit I drop off to him to clean.”

  At this, Darby peered closely at him. In his gray sweatshirt and jeans, worn boots that just like the backpack, had seen too much of the outdoors, he did not look anything like a man who’d be comfortable in a suit. But the wool coat folded neatly next to him seemed to prove his story. It was exquisite, and though she wasn’t an expert on tailoring, it looked tailored. Or maybe not.

  But what did she know really?

  Jake was the one who was into the brand names, the one who spent a thousand dollars on a piece of clothing because it was in some major magazine, even if it meant that he couldn’t afford to pay his rent that month and that she had to cover the share that he was short on. But he looked good, and for those six months that they lived together, she bought his belief that looks were way better than a roof over one’s head. Thank goodness, Darby always believed in the benefits of having a place to live, and so she sold her artwork online, creating everything from t-shirts, art prints, ebook covers and also doing original commissions.

  As she slipped the handkerchief into the side pocket of her backpack, Darby wondered then if maybe Tom lived with his mother. Why else would he mention his mother so many times if he didn’t live with her? Why else would she give him handkerchiefs every Christmas, maybe even underwear, though this fact, if it were true, she appreciated his not sharing with her?

  “You’re thinking so hard that I swear I’m seeing smoke coming out of your ears,” he joked.

  “Fair enough,” Darby laughed. “I was just wondering if your mother washes and then irons the rest of your clothes, the ones that don’t need to go to the dry cleaners.”

  He laughed, a loud one, this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling even more. He had beautiful teeth, Darby thought, his wide smile reaching his eyes and making him look like he was eighteen though she knew he must be in his late twenties. Early thirties, if he was one to take excellent care of himself. Maybe even a metrosexual, like Jake, who was twenty-six to her twenty-two years.

  “Now that’s a good one. I like that one,” Tom said.

  Overhead, an announcement came on the speakers - something about the flights bound for New York, and Darby and Tom stopped laughing so they could hear it. Flights would resume in the morning, the female announcer said.

  Darby heaved a sigh of relief as she heard her flight number and its corresponding new departure time, confirming that it would board at Gate 27 as well. Tom only looked up as he listened, nodded to himself and then pulled out his phone to text someone before slipping it back into his jeans pocket. She wondered if he was texting a girlfriend.

  “So does she?” Darby prodded, hearing a few pops as Tom flexed his neck to each side, right ear almost touching the right shoulder and then left ear to left shoulder. Then he stretched, twisting his torso towards his left, and raising his right arm above his head, left arm down to his side.

  “Does she what?” He asked when he was done, exhaling loudly.

  “Wash and iron your clothes for you
.”

  “Oh, you mean my mother? Nah, only when I was younger,” he replied. “Unless she’s discovered a way to reach through the continuum that separates us in time and space since she lives in Killarney and me in New York. But as far as I’m aware of, she’s still there, probably just washing and ironing my dad’s clothes, while I have to contend with the wash and dry service in Midtown.”

  “Sorry,” she said after a few moments of silence.

  “What for?”

  “For being nosy.”

  Tom shrugged. “I was nosy first, though that hasn’t gotten me anywhere with your artwork, which is still, it seems, under lock and key in that portfolio.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “And what for now?”

  “For making you work to see them,” she replied. “My artwork.”

  “Yeah, you better be sorry. I’m sweatin’ here and still, I’m gettin’ nothin’,” he laughed, speaking with a thick New York accent.

  His effort at the accent, which seemed put on just for her, made her giggle. For a moment, she even forgot about Jake.

  “Maybe I just want you to work harder to see them. Earn the right, so to speak,” she teased.

  He suddenly became serious, frowning. “But what if I don’t want to work any harder than I already have? What then?”

  She looked away, not knowing what to say. Why did Tom have to work harder, she thought? Was it because he was a man, and she was punishing him for what Jake had done? Or was it because she wasn’t so confident about how her pieces would be received? And she was just insecure, not about being a woman flirting with a man - if that was what they were doing - but about her art?