I force a smile. “I’m such an idiot,” I mutter.
“No worries,” he says before returning to his mission.
As I stand there helplessly, I imagine it is Doug—and not Ben—coming to my rescue. I remember the time I got a brush stuck in my hair, and Doug spent almost half an hour extricating it. And the time he used an entire Tide Stain Stick on one of my skirts when someone accidentally spilled tomato sauce on it at a dinner party. Those things never fazed me as I considered it part of his job. But this is different. I don’t even know Ben’s last name, except that it starts with a C.
“Got it.”
I snap out of my nostalgia as Ben guides my arms out of my jacket. “Thank you. I’m so sorry.”
Ben winks. “It was nothing.”
A few minutes later, the ice has been broken, and we’re chatting easily over a glass of wine. I tell Ben how I spent thirty minutes the previous night screaming at my remote control for not working before I realized it needed new batteries. “If something breaks in my apartment, I’m better off replacing it than trying to fix it.” This reminds me that the hook Doug glued to the bathroom door to hold our towels fell off. Since I have no idea how to fix it, I’ll be throwing my towels over the shower rack for the foreseeable future. “And I break things a lot, which doesn’t help.” I shrug sheepishly and take a sip of my wine.
Ben clinks his wine glass against mine. “Welcome to my world. I’m totally accident prone too, but I compensate by being pretty decent at putting things back together.”
I open my mouth to tell Ben he is welcome to come over to my apartment to fix my towel hook, but stop myself. At this point, I would be saying it facetiously. I wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea, so I change the subject. “How long have you lived in the city?”
“I moved here not long after graduating college.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“Pennsylvania. It was a big transition. Especially not having a car.”
“Do you miss having a car?”
“Not at all. I have a license and everything, but I don’t particularly like driving.”
“Me neither. And I’m not a very good driver. It took me three driving tests to get my license.” Why I admit this, as if it’s something to be proud of, is beyond me. No wonder no one ever wants to take a drive with me on the rare occasions I borrow my mom’s car.
Ben’s face gets red. “Me too.”
I chuckle. “We have a lot in common. Both accident prone and shitty drivers.”
Pointing at his face, Ben says, “And we both have freckles.”
I smile at Ben while making a mental note to ask my dad if a half-brother from another mother is among the many secrets he’s kept from me. Then I think of something. “When’s your birthday?”
Ben raises his eyebrows. “Why? Thinking about what to get me? Remember, anything besides tickets to the circus.”
Giggling, I say, “Just curious.”
“December 7th. What about you?”
“July 12th.” I’m relieved he’s not my long-lost twin brother separated at birth.
Twenty minutes later, Ben and I are exchanging stories about our respective careers over a cheese plate when the volume of music increases and “Reign in Blood” by Slayer blasts over the speakers. Ben and I stop speaking and lock eyes for a second before laughing. “Interesting choice of music,” Ben says.
“Heavy metal isn’t exactly what I would expect to hear in a wine bar,” I agree.
“I think I heard both Black Sabbath and Anthrax earlier.”
Layering a slice of Manchego cheese between two small pieces of raisin and nut bread, I say, “Personally, I prefer the glamour rock bands like Guns N’ Roses and Def Leppard.”
“I love Def Leppard. Saw them at PNC—”
“Art Center,” I interrupt excitedly. “So did I.”
The corners of Ben’s lips rise. “You weren’t the chick who streaked across the stage, were you?”
“Probably.”
“Funny. Okay. Time to get personal.”
I bite my lower lip. “Okay…”
Ben lightly taps his hand over mine. “Don’t look so scared. I just wanted to ask if you’d ever been married.”
“Nope. Never been married. What about you?” I hope the answer is also “no” so Ben doesn’t feel the need to bombard me with a list of questions to determine how a seemingly normal, attractive, and well-adjusted woman such as myself made it to thirty-nine without getting hitched.
Lifting his glass of wine to his lips, Ben says, “Never been married either. I did live with a girlfriend for several years, though.”
“So did I.” Then I correct myself. “Of course, in my case it was a boyfriend.”
“No way,” Ben says, his eyes opening wide. “When did you guys break up?”
“Last July.”
Ben stares at me. “So did we. This is super freaky.”
The twin theory re-forming in my brain, I’m about to ask to see Ben’s driver license to make sure it says December 7th and not July 12th when my eyes catch his hand precariously placing his wine glass back on the table. I think he’s too busy marveling over our parallel lives to pay attention to the actual location of the table, because the glass lightly hits the corner before slipping off the edge. Ben manages to catch the glass before it hits the ground. But not before a significant amount of wine spills onto the floor. His cheeks blush charmingly. “I’m a bit clumsy.”
Not at all surprised by this confession considering all of our other similarities, I say, “Me too.”
As it approaches ten o’clock, I barely suppress a yawn. Ben’s eyes twinkle, and I know I’m busted. “Nothing personal.”
“I’m beat too. Shall we call it?”
I thank Ben for picking up the tab, and he follows me to the exit. Before heading outside, we stop to arm ourselves for the brutally low temperatures. Ben studies me putting on my jacket. “You going to be able to zip it?”
“I’m not even going to attempt it and risk not being able to get it off later.” I slip my arms through the sleeves. “I’ll use the snaps and skip the zipper for now.”
Grinning, Ben says, “Snaps are snaptastic.”
Tightening the belt around my waist, I say, “True that. One of the reasons I bought this coat.” I throw my neck warmer over my head and face Ben. “You ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
Once outside, we stand face-to-face on the sidewalk. My heart pumps one beat faster as the awkward conclusion of the date approaches.
“I had a great time,” Ben says.
“Me too. Thanks again,” I say truthfully. I did have a nice time. But I’m not ready to kiss him.
“I hope we can do it again.”
“Me too,” I say with a nod of my head. In all honesty, I’m not sure where I stand with respect to a second date. I am happy for the safety of my bed and the comfort of time before I have to commit to one.
“Great. I’ll be in touch,” Ben says before leaning down and planting a quick kiss on my mouth. With a wave, he crosses to the other side of Third Avenue, and I head south in the direction of my apartment.
Even though it was a fleeting kiss, devoid of any passion, I can still feel it on my lips as I walk home. I’m not sure if it feels good or bad.
* * *
Cheryl and I exit the Broadhurst Theatre first and stand off to the side to wait for my mom and Aunt Helen. We took them to see Mamma Mia for a very early Mother’s Day celebration.
“Such a cute show, though I’m sure my mom will have some constructive criticism to offer,” Cheryl says with a chuckle.
I concur but keep my mouth shut. It’s one thing for Cheryl to say something negative about her mother, but it’s another for me to agree with her. Unlike real sisters, we don’t have the advanta
ge of openly and honestly commiserating about our mothers, and we’re both highly protective of our respective female parent.
“Oh my God, they are beyond slow,” I complain. This is one point on which we always agree, and I sigh loudly in frustration as I watch nearly every theatergoer walk onto the street except our mothers. The cold air seeps through the snaps of my coat since I haven’t found the motivation to get the zipper fixed yet. Waiting in below-freezing temperatures might be the push I need.
“I know. My mom likes to stay through the credits at the movies, but unless she’s waiting for an encore performance of ‘Take a Chance on Me,’ I have no idea what’s holding them up now.”
“Maybe my mom wanted to use the bathroom,” I say just as I spot them walk out. Their heads are close together, and I bet they’re discussing the highs and lows of the show, or maybe where we should go for dinner. Either way, they appear seemingly clueless that we’re waiting for them in the brutal cold. My mom spots me and her eyes light up. She is instantly forgiven.
When she approaches, I say, “Did you like it?”
Squeezing me in an embrace, she says, “I loved it. Thanks for treating me, sweetheart.”
“My pleasure. What did you think, Aunt Helen?”
Aunt Helen smiles, revealing a lipstick-stained tooth. “Wonderful. So much better than the movie. Merry Streep was so poorly cast.”
I glance over at Cheryl and try to maintain a serious expression. Cheryl shakes her head at her mother and points to her mouth. “You’ve got lipstick on your tooth.”
Aunt Helen wipes her tooth with her finger. “Where are we eating?”
Cheryl says, “Maggie recommended Le Rivage on Restaurant Row. It’s a French place.”
“Maggie has taken me there before,” my mom says. “They have duck with orange sauce on the menu.”
“Sold,” Aunt Helen says.
The restaurant is only one avenue and two blocks away, but between the number of tourists crowding the sidewalks and our mothers’ inability to walk more than three steps a minute, it takes us close to a half hour to arrive and be seated.
There are more off-limit topics of discussion than usual, so once we’ve exhausted conversation about the show and what each of us is ordering for dinner, there is an awkward silence. Cheryl and I make eye contact across the table, and I silently pray the meal will proceed without anyone getting insulted.
“Your mother tells me you went on a date the other night,” Aunt Helen says.
My mom busies herself spooning French onion soup into her mouth and pretends not to notice me glaring at her. Unlike most daughters, I like sharing personal information with my mother, and it was a relief to get my breakup with Doug out in the open. But she should know not to share my business with Aunt Helen unless I authorize it. Thankfully, Cheryl knows this, and I never have to remind her. I don’t discuss Cheryl’s marital difficulties with my mother for the same reason.
“Yes, I did.” I take a sip of water, hoping my failure to elaborate will clue her in to my preference to drop the subject.
“Did you like him?” Aunt Helen asks.
Thanks for playing. Try again. “He was very nice.”
“Are you going to go out with him again?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I mumble. I give my mother a pleading look.
My mother smiles at me softly. “Let’s leave Maggie alone, okay?”
Aunt Helen smirks. “Oh, I get it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you get?”
“He didn’t ask you out again.”
My eyes bug out as Cheryl says, “Your assumption is based on what, Mom?”
Keeping her stare on me, Aunt Helen waves her hand in dismissal. “Well, did he?”
“Yes, he did.” Ben did ask me out again, but if he hadn’t, I would hope Aunt Helen wouldn’t be so pleased about it.
Aunt Helen mumbles something I can’t hear.
My face burning up, I say, “You don’t believe me?”
Aunt Helen drops her spoon into her bowl of lobster bisque. “I believe you, dear.”
My gut tells me she thinks I’m lying and is merely trying to placate me. Determined, I pull my iPhone out of my bag and locate his latest email. I shove the phone in her face. “See?”
Aunt Helen lets her glasses rest on the bridge of her nose while she reads the email. Then she glances at me from under her eyelashes. “I told you I believed you.”
She takes another spoonful of soup while I stare at her with my mouth gaping open. It boggles my mind that Aunt Helen insists on being a supporting player in my dating performance but takes only a backstage role in Cheryl’s trial separation. If I weren’t so loyal to Cheryl, I’d be tempted to tell Aunt Helen to worry about her own daughter’s floundering marriage and stay out of my love life.
“Of course he asked her out again. Who wouldn’t want to date my Maggie?” my mom says while beaming at me.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper.
“I never said Maggie wasn’t lovely. But why aren’t you sure you want to go out with him again?” Aunt Helen asks.
“I’m afraid I’m not emotionally available for another relationship yet,” I confess.
“Well, your biological clock is not going to wait for you to be ready. What if this man meets someone else? Aren’t there more single women than men in this city?”
“Mom,” Cheryl says in a warning tone.
Aunt Helen’s blue eyes widen. “Well, aren’t there?”
“I guess,” I mutter.
Cheryl mouths, “I’m sorry,” from across the table.
“Well, don’t shoot the messenger,” Aunt Helen says. “I was merely stating a fact. If this man fancies you, and you think he’s nice, don’t you think you should give him another chance before someone else catches his eye? Doug moved on. You should too.”
Since I can’t think of a valid reason not to—at least one good enough to satisfy my aunt—I elect on the spot to go out with Ben again.
Some say peer pressure is the biggest motivator for people to do things they aren’t sure they want to do. I say those people never met my Aunt Helen.
It’s my second date with Ben, and we’re feasting on ribs and cold beer on the top floor of Blue Smoke, a barbeque restaurant near my apartment. Since I don’t typically make a man privy to my messy eating habits and propensity to get food stuck in my teeth until I’m certain he likes me enough to let it pass, I assume my agreeing to eat ribs with Ben so soon means I’m either truly at ease with him or his opinion of me doesn’t matter. As I take a sip from my pint of Sierra Nevada, I contemplate which one it is.
“Have you ever been to the jazz club downstairs? Jazz Standard?” Ben asks.
“A few times, actually. I live so close, and my ex loves live music.” I second guess mentioning the ex while on a date, but my comfort level with Ben makes it difficult to remember proper dating etiquette. “You like jazz?”
“I do. Not as much as glamour rock though,” he says matter-of-factly. Then he smiles. “Obviously.”
I chuckle. “Obviously.”
“What do you think about getting tickets to the show tonight? It doesn’t start until eleven thirty.”
My heart immediately jumps into my throat as if he suggested we fly to Las Vegas and get married by Elvis. Listening to live music in a dark lounge late on a Saturday night strikes me as very intimate. When I channeled my inner cheerleader to psych myself up for a second date, I told myself it was just dinner. No big deal. I’m not prepared for Ben to change the rules on me.
Apparently I’m taking too long to answer, because Ben lets out a laugh. “Or not.”
I mentally chastise myself for getting so flustered, and the heat rises from my neck to my forehead. “No, it sounds fun. I’m not sure whether we can get tickets on such short notice, but if so, let’s do it.”
I will leave it in the hands of fate. Going to a jazz club with the guy doesn’t obligate me to let him hold my hand under the table while he caresses my palm with his thumb to the beat of the music. Like Doug used to do.
Ben beams at me. “Great.”
When the waitress comes over, Ben asks about the show, and she suggests going downstairs as soon as possible since it’s first-come, first-served, and if you don’t have a reservation, an available table is unlikely.
Ben pays the tab, refusing to accept my offer to take care of the tip, and we hurry down to the club. The coat check girl says there are no tables available, but there is room at the bar. I try to contain my relief. A bar stool is much more casual than a dark table in the corner. Feeling more at ease, I try to tune out my inner Jodie, who is mocking me for getting so worked up over a second date.
An hour and a half and a top notch performance by Freddy Cole later, we make our way out of the bar onto the street. March is making its slow metamorphosis from lion to lamb, and I breathe in the brisk, clean air. It is welcome after being in a dark basement.
“What a phenomenal show. The acoustics were amazing,” Ben says.
“Definitely a great venue.”
“I’m glad the show wasn’t sold out. One more thing I can cross off my bucket list.”
Ben starts walking in the direction of my apartment, and I follow him, trying not to worry about whether he expects an invitation to come inside. “Was seeing a show at Jazz Standard really on your bucket list?”
“Not my bucket list per se. But my to-do list.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “I’m glad I was able to help you strike something off of your to-do list. If you can help me find a new job, we’ll be even.” I stop in front of my building. Looking up, I say, “This is me.”
“I didn’t know you were on a job hunt.”
“Yeah. It’s not urgent or anything. I think a change could do me good.”
How Do You Know? Page 18