All Summer on a Date: Three Romantic Comedy Short Stories

by Geralyn Corcillo

  She moved to shove her way through the glass doors when she heard the auditorium doors burst open behind her.

  “Jesse!”

  She turned around. There was he was, across the lobby. Peter. He was wearing a white shirt buttoned all wrong and a pair of faded jeans. His feet were bare, his hair wild, and one eye was still covered in make-up. But it was definitely Peter.

  “You're a plumber,” he said, a cautious smile threatening to break across his face. He looked at the business card in his hand then back across to her. “You're an all-night plumber.”

  Jesse shifted from foot to foot. “Do you mind? If you do, please, tell me so at once.”

  “Mind?” Peter closed the distance between them in a nano-second, but he stopped just short of touching her. “Jesse, I thought … I thought … the way you just took off … I had no idea it was work. It was after midnight and I thought … I thought you were married. And when you didn't want me to see your car, I figured it had a car seat in it or something and you actually had kids waiting for you at home. I thought Valentine's Day must have been some wild night out for you. I was crushed.”

  Jesse stood there with her mouth dropped open and her eyes round as gumballs. “That's why you called me a soccer mom—because you thought I was actually a soccer mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But what about a milf? You called me a milf. What's a milf?”

  Peter blushed as he ran a hand across his face. “Jesse, really, it's nothing—”

  “Oh, my God. It's something bad. Like a frumpy goblin or something. You called me—”

  “Jess, it's a Mother I'd Like to Fuck.”

  Jesse looked at him, still as a doe. “Um,” she finally said. “I'm not actually a mother. That's not a deal breaker, is it?”

  Peter let out the breath he was holding on a laugh. “Definitely not.” His eyes traveled slowly up her body. “Definitely not,” he said again, more softly.

  “Well ...” Jesse said, “I guess maybe it's worth considering now that I'm not the other woman.”

  Peter snapped out of his haze. “WHAT?”

  “I thought you were shacked up with a prima donna ballerina. When you went down to the garage, I found a pair of black tights in the couch and … and then I snooped. I saw ballet slippers and … I'm so sorry Peter. For snooping and everything. I never even considered that you could be the dancer.”

  He nodded, considering. “You found my black tights?”

  “What were they doing in the couch?”

  “That's where I fold my laundry.”

  Jesse shook her head at her pathetic deductive skills. “But what about the poster of the ballerina? You Xed her out. I thought she must mean something to you.”

  He moved closer. Head down. “It wasn't the ballerina, Jess. It was the show. When I wasn't cast as—well, things got bad. I left the company. That show, that tour, mark the beginning of the end of my career. You may as well know the worst of it, Jesse. I'm a dancer on the downslide of my glory days.”

  “But you're The Prince. In Swan Lake.”

  “In Los Angeles,” he said. “It's a solid company, but it's a step down.”

  “Well … maybe you can be a football coach next,” she suggested. “There are so many teams out here, high school and college. You know, show those running backs some moves so they can juke all nasty through the tackles.”

  He tipped his head and looked at her. “You mean, you don't care? That I'm almost a has-been?”

  “Of course I care,” she said softly. “I don't want you to be unhappy.”

  “Jess ...” Peter pulled her close and kissed her. And kept kissing her. And she kissed him back with a silky warmth that threatened to unravel him. “Jess,” he whispered. “I know we barely know each other. We just met and got everything wrong. But I think this thing between us is more than just electricity.”

  “Me, too,” Jesse said, trying to catch her breath.

  “Jess, I swear, when I'm with you, it feels like it does when I'm dancing.”

  “Peter,” she said on a sigh, her gaze going all dewy. But then her eyes snapped wide open. “Oh!” She jumped back.

  “Jess? What's wrong?”

  “I … Oh, no! Peter, I can't dance! At all. I'm talking Elaine from Seinfeld. I've got no rhythm. I've got no body flight!”

  Peter laughed. “It's okay, Jess. If I were a doctor, I wouldn't expect you to remove a gall bladder.”

  “But just about anyone can dance!”

  Peter took her hands in his. “Yeah, but you're not just anyone.”

  Jesse tried to smile, but her eyes were still huge and frightened.

  “Jess, it's okay,” Peter assured her again. “I mean, I can't fix a damn thing. Not a leaky faucet or a flat tire—nothing. And what the hell is a Phillips-head screwdriver? There are different kinds of screwdrivers? Why?”

  “Seriously?” Jesse looked like a kid who'd just won a free Coke on a McDonald's scratch card. “You can't fix stuff? And you don't pretend that you can?” A glow of sheer joy reached into her eyes. “It's going to be better than okay, Peter.”

  He couldn't take his eyes off her. “What do you say we get out of here?” he asked quietly. “My place is five minutes away.”

  She looked at his feet. “Even without shoes?”

  “Even without shoes.”

  Jesse smiled, looking up at him through her lashes. “Sounds good.”

  As they left the lobby and walked across the flagstones into the late afternoon sun, Peter bumped his shoulder into Jesse. “And don't worry about the dancing,” he said. “Stick with me, and I'll show you a few moves.”

  She bumped him back. “I'm counting on it.”

  For Ron and McRib:

  the best plumber and the best dancer

  Jane Austen Meets the New York Giants

  First published in the New York Times Bestseller

  The Right Words at the Right Time: Volume 2, a Marlo Thomas anthology

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman should never come between her man and his Sunday football.

  But what can I say? I couldn’t resist. It was Sunday—a time of exhaustion after a six day workweek. I needed my fix of Pride and Prejudice. I wanted to escape into a good strong dose of Napoleonic waistlines, rakish secrets, and parlor room discussions about screens embroidered with I know not what.

  “Jesus, Ger, I was in the middle of the game!” Ron was not happy.

  “You weren’t here.” I offered my defense without peeling my eyes from the screen. I mean, seriously, how could I? It was my favorite part, the end of tape three when Darcy proposes to Lizzy at Rosings. Anyway, halftime lasted half an hour.

  As it turns out, halftime does not last half an hour—plus it was only a commercial during the first quarter. Ron had simply quit the couch for a minute to use the bathroom. He didn’t boot me out, though, or wrestle the remote from me. No, Ron tried to reason with me. He pointed out that I watched my tapes of Pride and Prejudice all the time, so much so that I had them memorized—that he practically had them memorized through osmosis. Then he patiently explained that the Giants played only sixteen games all year. He even accused me of being rude. At that point, I tossed him the remote. Not because he’d shamed me into politeness. Darcy had just taken his dignified leave of Lizzy and tape three was over.

  So I got up from the spot on the couch I’d stolen just moments ago, and Ron got lost in his plays and whistles. I took a turn around the room, snagging Nancy Drew and the Mystery at the Ski Jump on my way past the bookcase. I’d seen the beat-up classic in the used bookstore by the gas station, and I hadn’t been able to resist. What girl doesn’t love Nancy Drew? As I shuffled into the bedroom with my dusty treasure, I closed both the hall door and bedroom door behind me. The crowds faded away.

  I leaned against the closed door, smiling as I hugged the threadbare hardback to my chest. I was about to get lost in adventure with the amateur sleuth. But before I got comfy, I had to fix th
e pillows. Ron never put the pillows right when he made the bed. They were supposed to be tipped up, leaning back against the wall where a headboard would be—if we had one—not just lying flat on the comforter. Finally, settling into the adjusted shams and ruffles, I opened my book and eased into the simpler time of 1950’s Nancy Drew and 1980’s Geralyn.

  1980’s Geralyn was the girl who’d daydreamed about what life would be like someday, once she’d found true love. She was the girl who hadn’t already found him and woken up to life. The one who hadn’t painted herself into a corner that she was always hoping to paper over.

  A surge of NFL music blasted through the closed bedroom door. I threw aside the story. Nancy Drew with her titian hair and teal blue convertible wasn’t doing it for me. Oh, hell, Ron wasn’t in love with me anymore, I was sure of it. How could he be? How could something like romance—something like true love—survive life after thirty? How could it keep its soul while doing battle with routine? Not burn out while chasing debts that made you yell and snap and cry?

  I curled onto my side in single spoon position and ran my finger along the piece of paper taped to the wall by the night stand. It was the card my friend Rebecca had made me for my birthday last year. She’d printed out a picture of the smitten Mr. Darcy and written a caption that made it seem as if he had eyes for only me. “My dearest, loveliest Geralyn, it is your birthday, and that is the material point.” Rebecca had smashed together some bits of Darcy dialogue to make a birthday greeting that was very ill indeed, but I loved it all the same. Rebecca and I were both hard core P&P fans, slipping lines of Jane’s dialogue into our lives where we could.

  I suppose a part of me wanted to live the romantic classic because the best part of my own story had already been written. I had fallen in love six years ago, then committed myself to the guy four years later. Now there was no room left to dream. No great beyond. I crushed my face into the pillow. Dream of what, though? What did I want? Anything beyond what my choices had given me? I heard a whistle and put the pillow over my head.

  Three hours later, I woke up to an unfamiliar cooking smell. I climbed off the bed and shuffled to the kitchen where I found Ron in the midst of A Project. Whatever he was concocting, it needed two pans, all three pots, and every spice in the cupboard. He was making shrimp fried rice. What? I thought Ron was allergic to shrimp. Nope, he explained, that was clams. I was still dubious. After all, I’d never seen him eat a shrimp. What if he didn’t like it?

  “But it won’t put me in the hospital,” he answered. “That is the material point.” He cracked an egg.

  I looked at Ron, his words still ringing through my head. That is the material point. Had Ron just quoted Mr. Darcy like it was no big deal? Had he actually slipped a line of Pride and Prejudice dialogue into ordinary conversation? That meant he knew the story. He understood how much I loved it.

  That is the material point. It was such a minor, off-the-cuff thing to say, but it rocked my world. Ron noticed the small stuff. About me. That was the material point.

  The feeling swept over me like one of those waves in the ocean that knocks you down and tumbles you into shore. Why did I escape into beloved classics when I had the story to trump all dreams of romance right here?

  I never knew myself until that moment. But my moment of truth—the best part of my story—had nothing to do with vengeance, secret affairs, betrayals, or subterfuge. My love story was in the small stuff, folded in with the socks and towels. It was about the toilet seat I never had to put down myself. The bed I never had to go back to make if I was the first one up. The newspapers stacked neatly in the magazine rack. The light bulbs I never had to change. The baseboards he’d dusted when I’d asked. The stick shift sports car he’d traded in for the automatic Golf that I could also drive. The pretty little ring on my finger.

  The countless things that had never been part of Ron’s life until I’d come along.

  And what kind of dream lover was I? I tried to steal his forty-eight hours of TV time a year and complained about the way he made the stupid bed.

  I walked over to where he stood at the stove and slipped my arms around him. I pressed my cheek into his sweatshirt and hugged him tight.

  “Did the Giants win?”

  For Ron and Robert

  (and Chase Blackburn)

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading my short stories. I hope they made you smile. Please consider taking a moment to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads in order to help other readers decide whether they might like this book. I know your time is precious, so I greatly appreciate all reader reviews, which are so helpful to spreading the word about an indie author.

  Reading sure can be an adventure, and I hope it always brings you joy!

  Sincerely,

  Geralyn Corcillo

  About the Author

  When she was a kid, Geralyn Corcillo wanted to one day become the superhero Dyna Girl. So, she did her best and grew up to rescue animals and constantly pick up litter. At home, she loves watching black and white movies, British mysteries, and the New York Giants. Corcillo is a native of Chinchilla, Pennsylvania and now lives in a drafty old house in Hollywood with her husband Ron, a guy who's even cooler than Kip Dynamite.

  You can see all of her works at ‪author.to/GeralynCorcillo