Chancing a quick peek at my phone for the time, I wondered again why I’d allowed my cousin to talk me into this. Why was she so adamant that I dated someone? At least Angela hadn’t suggested that I sign up for online dating; she’d just insisted that I meet the brother of one of her sorority sisters. It had been a few years since she’d seen him, but she insisted that he was super sweet, cute, and every time she’d seen him, he’d had a book in his hands. So worst case, if we had nothing else in common, at least we could talk about books. Assuming he didn’t read space operas or horror novels. Those were the two genres that I couldn’t seem to get interested in reading.
And that was what I was starting to realize … The reason my marriage had failed, the reason that every guy I’d dated before Dick hadn’t worked out. I hadn’t shared an interest in anything that they enjoyed.
Sadly, that was partly my fault, because other than books, movies, and wine, what did I like? My son. But that conversation would only interest Dick, probably the reason my marriage had made it to the fifteen-year mark. We’d shared two loves: talking about our son … and sex.
“Jana?”
I bolted upright in the chair, spilling coffee on the cuff of my long-sleeved white shirt. What was wrong with me? “Yes … I’m Jana. Sorry.” I motioned my hand for Kyle to sit, then squirted some spring water from my bottle of Zephyrhills on to my shirt and dabbed at it with a napkin.
“No, I’m sorry,” Kyle said as he handed me a couple more napkins. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
I wagged my head. “You didn’t. I scare myself, I think. Sometimes I zone out. I get so deep in thought that I don’t realize what’s going on around me.” Nice conversation starter, Jana. First, you prove that you’re a klutz, then you tell him you’re a ditz. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that I was purposely trying to sabotage any chances of starting a relationship with another man. Maybe I was.
Kyle laughed. “You too?”
My lips curved up slightly. I wasn’t sure if Kyle agreeing with me was a good thing or not. “So, Angela tells me you’re an exterminator?” When Angela had first mentioned exterminator, I immediately had thought about my request that she knock off my ex-husband. As much as Angela and I had laughed, something told me that I didn’t want to bring that up in the first five minutes either, especially since I’d already proven that I was jittery and a space cadet.
“Yeah …” he said. “Not exactly glamorous, but it pays the bills.”
Well, at least he wasn’t high and mighty about it. All jobs were important, but it always amazed me how some people were pompous about their jobs, especially given the fact that most people fell into their jobs. “How did you end up being an exterminator?”
“I started as an apprentice in high school, doing the dirty jobs that sales reps didn’t want to do, then … after a few years of that, I was able to get my license.” He paused to take a sip of coffee, then started right in, “One of my first jobs was at a triplex. One of the tenants moved out and then all of a sudden, the other two became overrun with pests …”
My mind wandered off as Kyle rambled on and on about palmetto bugs as large as the palm of his hand, fruit rats, and a plethora of insects and rodents I didn’t care to hear about over coffee — or anywhere else for that matter. Now I understood why an intelligent, well-read, and decent-looking man was still single at thirty-two. I hadn’t been a fan of all of Dick’s stories about irritating car shoppers, but I’d be willing to listen about picky shoppers for another fifteen years than stories about bugs. Eww …
I’d like to think that Kyle could discuss something other than his job, but since he’d gone into the sordid details within the first five minutes of meeting me, I had to believe that he couldn’t.
The one thing I knew more than anything when it came to men: you couldn’t change them. Being raised by my father had taught me that. Just watching him go from relationship to relationship, each one ending almost exactly the same way, I understood that fact better than any other facet of human behavior. My father was a good man, but he liked to drink, fish, and play, and no matter what a new woman in his life thought or wanted, he’d never change.
As sweet as Kyle seemed, people didn’t change. At thirty-four, I was too old to take a car home and see if it grew on me. If I didn’t like a car during the five-minute test drive, chances were I’d never appreciate it.
At the first sign of a pause in Kyle’s next account about mice, I glanced at my phone. “Well, it was very nice meeting you, Kyle, but I have to pick up my son.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. I did have to pick up Eric, but not until after practice. But Kyle didn’t know that. I’d purposely scheduled our coffee date for one-thirty, though, as most people knew that high school got out around two.
“Oh, sure.” He stood as I got up, again showing that he was a sweet guy, but I wasn’t willing to train a new man. I’d leave that task up to some other woman. Maybe a fellow exterminator.
“Thanks for meeting me —”
“I know you’re in a hurry,” he interrupted, “so I’ll just throw this out there. Would you like to have dinner sometime?”
I smiled. “You’re a nice guy, Kyle, but I think it’s just too early for me to start seeing someone. I didn’t realize how hard it would be.” Another lie, but I’d told the lie so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings. After all, some women liked mice, so they might like his stories. What did I know?
“Sure, sure … I understand.” He held the door open for me. “You have my number. Call me if …” he trailed off, seeming to understand that there wouldn’t be an if.
I opened the door to my truck and offered him a smile. “I will, Kyle,” I said, though, because who knew where I’d be in a year? Maybe I’d go deaf or suddenly have a houseful of pests. Or maybe I would become desperate. Still, after meeting Mr. Forgetful, I was pretty sure that when I was ready to find another man, I’d be able to. When the time was right.
I was starting to think that the right time just wasn’t right now.
Chapter 7 – New Hobbies
While I typed up my review for the next day, J’Austen laid her head as close as was catly possible to the keyboard.
If I thought she did it because of lack of attention, I’d feel bad, but I knew that wasn’t the case. Actually, I didn’t know why she did it. Because once I finished whatever I was typing, she would trot off and lounge around somewhere else in the house. Lately I’d been finding her basking beneath a slice of sun that had taken residence for a few hours during the day across the bottom of Eric’s bed. But next week, she might take up residence on one of the barstools that surrounded my kitchen counter.
As it was, it was getting harder and harder to write reviews on contemporary romances, so as endearing as J’Austen was, I needed to think. It wasn’t that the last book that I read wasn’t good; it was. The writer had a firm grasp of the English language, which was always a plus. I understood a few errors here and there — we’re all human — but when I had to stop and reread sentences throughout the entire book, it detracted from the pleasure of reading. The author had also researched her story, which I appreciated. I couldn’t stand reading a romantic-suspense book where the writer misquoted laws that were easily researchable or wrote a story where every cop and politician in a town was corrupt, except the one champion who would save the woman who had secret information that would take down an entire city. Bleh!
The writer of the book I’d just finished hadn’t done any of those things. She’d done the worst thing of all. She’d broken every rule when it came to boy-meets-girl and living happily-ever-after. Sure, I believed in love-at-first-sight, a too-good-to-be-true man, and everything working out perfectly for the rest of forever … just not all in the same book.
Maybe I was becoming jaded with reality, since the last three dates I’d gone on after Mr. Bugman had been total flops.
I blew out a breath. “How am I going to write this review, baby kitty?”
J’A
usten looked up at me and fluttered her eyelids.
I gawked at her in disbelief. “You’re telling me to lie?”
She crinkled her nose, which I took as, No, don’t lie … just write the truth … gracefully. Maybe J’Austen was right. Maybe some women still wanted a fairy tale, a real fairy tale. Because in the old fairy tales, things weren’t always sunshine and roses. Those princesses had to work hard for their happily-ever-afters.
If only men would read some of these books, they’d know what women wanted and what not to do.
Before I knew it, my fingers were moving across the keyboard, but I wasn’t writing the review. I was writing my thoughts.
Instead of laughing at your date’s chosen profession, maybe ask how she ended up doing something you never heard of as a career.
Instead of talking about bugs, talk about the people who were thankful, the reason you love your job.
Instead of beeping your horn to let your date know you’ve arrived, get out of the car and walk to the door.
Instead of assuming that your date likes weird ethnic food, maybe ask before you choose the restaurant.
Instead of getting turned off by the fact that a woman is raising a fifteen-year-old boy solo, learn about her before you beg her to go out on a date.
Instead of getting furious that your date doesn’t want to hop into bed with your greatness on the first date, maybe try proving you’re great instead of telling her how great you are for hours on end.
I looked down at my list and all I could think about was my father. How he’d been right up front with women, and truly, some women probably would have enjoyed all the things he loved. But he wasted so much time with the fakers, that he never met a woman who’d love him for who he was. My father was a gentleman, a great listener, and he was intelligent. But he also liked to hang out at biker bars and fish. And I understood that. Truthfully, I respected it. He knew what he wanted.
What did I want? Why did I care about what men were like on dates when I wasn’t meeting men who were doing things I liked anyway? Shouldn’t that be the first step? Who cared if a man held open the door if he bashed what I did for a living? Who cared if he liked what I did for a living if he spoke about bugs the rest of the time? Who cared if he had a great job and was handsome if all he wanted was to get into my pants?
“What do I want?” I said aloud.
J’Austen stared up at me again.
“Exactly, baby kitty! I wanted you, and I went out and found you. What else do I want to do?”
I sat back and stared at the screen, then started typing again.
What do I like? Reading, wine, dancing, the water, exercise …
I already had the reading down, but what else could I do? Dancing … I was certain I could find free dance classes somewhere. Exercise … but maybe I could do more. Maybe there was a class at my gym where I could learn martial arts or something. The water. I couldn’t afford to own a boat. Dick had kept the boat. But … he’d left the kayak he’d bought for him and Eric.
That’s what I needed to do. I needed to stop worrying about finding a man, and start finding myself. And I needed to stop reading sappy romance novels.
In my search of free hobbies, since my budget didn’t allow for paid fun, I’d discovered that there were several nightclubs that offered free line-dancing lessons. I’d also found a free self-defense class, but figured I’d do that after I learned how to dance since I was certain that balance was important. Sadly, I wasn’t what most people would define as graceful. I was also aching to learn how to use the kayak that neither Dick nor Eric had used more than a handful of times, but since it was large and bulky, I figured I’d better wait until I found a dolly on Craig’s List. That way I could transport it from the truck to the water without throwing out my back.
As it turned out, tonight was ladies’ night at the local country western bar. I had no desire to hang out and drink all night, but according to the ad on Google, they offered free line-dancing classes from seven-thirty until nine o’clock. And everyone in the ad was nice looking and having a nice time, so clearly it was the place to be. Everyone knew that advertisements never lied. According to the calendar, Thursdays were Improver to Intermediate night, and I was pretty sure I could fake it. After all, I’d been to umpteen weddings in my life, and nothing — including my two-left-footed ex — had ever kept me from jumping up and trying to do the Boot Scootin’ Boogie and the Cha Cha Slide.
I fished through my closet for the pair of cowboy boots I’d bought back in college. In the process, I stumbled on the one pair of jeans I’d saved too. I hadn’t worn them since I found out I was pregnant. I pulled them down from the top shelf, hoping they’d still fit.
No such luck. I guess only the shoes and T-shirts I’d owned since college still fit. But I didn’t have too far to go, so instead of tossing them, I hung them up on the door of the closet. They’d be my inspiration.
I slipped on my most recently purchased jeans, dabbed on extra mascara, and pulled my mop of hair up into a clip. Even though I knew I looked better with my hair long and flowing, I didn’t think that sweating profusely on the back of my neck would look attractive.
Besides, learning to dance wasn’t about meeting a man, it was about doing something I wanted to do. If I started thinking about the men around me, I wouldn’t be able to have as much fun dancing.
When I walked into the country bar, I immediately imagined I was at a down-home shindig set inside the town’s largest barn.
Of course, it was a rectangular steel building on the outside with plenty of exposed steel beams and rafters on the inside, but the walls and bar area were lined with naturally stained pine and the massive dance floor was filled with dancers of all ages and sizes. From the college girls in their short-shorts, tank tops, and cowboy boots to grannies in large smocks over polyester pants.
As I suspected, there weren’t a lot of men, which elicited a sigh of relief from me. I really just wanted to learn how to dance. Once I learned how to dance, if I liked it, then I’d consider meeting a man who liked to dance. After all, what if I hated dancing in a bar as opposed to a wedding where I knew everyone? What if I realized that dancing was sweaty and tiring, but then I suddenly met Mr. Wonderful, who just so happened to love dancing so much that he wanted to go out every weekend.
Jana, my friend, I thought to myself, you really should start seeking professional help because really … you might just be going insane. I gave my psyche a good chiding for picking on the practical side of myself for thinking ahead for once and then allowed my fun-loving self to trot over to the dance floor. Way in the back of the dance floor so that no one could single me out.
I passed a few men who were entirely too young for me, and then a few who looked like they might be gold prospectors, but thankfully, all of them just smiled and concentrated on their own hops and claps.
After just a few dances, I felt at home on the dance floor. I’d never been great, but I enjoyed dancing. When I was in college, I never missed a chance to dance.
An hour later, the instructor informed the wannabe dancers about the specials if they chose to stay after the dance lessons. She smiled widely when only a few people cheered. “Oh, you want to hear about tomorrow’s special?”
A few more dancers cheered at that announcement, encouraging her, it seemed.
“Who hates Valentine’s Day?” the woman screeched in response.
The floor came alive with stomping and hooting. Even I couldn’t help but applaud for that question. I’d almost forgotten about the lovers’ holiday. And why shouldn’t I? If I dwelled on the fact that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, I might start feeling sorry for myself, and that’s the last thing I needed. For the first time in more than fifteen years, I had no one to bring me candy and flowers. Meh! Chocolate was fattening and flowers just made a mess of my counter top and then died anyway.
“That’s more like it,” the announcer continued in her drawl. “Tomorrow night we’re havin’ an Anti-Val
entine’s Party. Don’t forget to wear blue if you’re single.”
Blue … Other than blue jeans, I didn’t own anything that was blue. I racked my brain for something that Angela owned. Ooh … that silky tank top she’d worn for New Year’s Eve a couple years ago … that would work. I pulled on a pair of jeans and just a basic T-shirt, then texted her I was coming over.
Before leaving the house, I downloaded the Uber app I’d seen advertised at the bar since the bar offered a twenty-dollar credit. Not that I planned to drink much — drinking at a bar definitely wasn’t in my budget — but I figured why take the chance? I wasn’t opposed to accepting a paid-for drink if a man was so inclined. It was Valentine’s Day after all.
Angela chuckled as she sifted through her closet.
“Why are you laughing, Ang?” I bit out. “Do you think it’s too dressy?”
“No, not at all,” Angela grunted as she nearly got down on her knees. “It’s perfect. Hang on …” She rummaged through the shoe boxes on the floor.
“Angela, you’re going to hurt yourself. I have shoes —”
“No, you don’t,” she cut me off, “you have boots.” She exited the closet with the top draped over her shoulder and a shoebox in her hands. She threw the box on the bed and then handed me the ruffly and sequined silk blouse. It really was quite beautiful.
I slipped the top over my head, noticing that it fell lower than I thought it would. I liked the pockets of these jeans and had wanted to show them off.
Angela leaned back, shaking her head. “Now, get rid of those boots and jeans.”
“But … what will I wear with the top?”
My cousin rolled her eyes. “It’s not a top, Jana, it’s a dress. You never actually saw me wearing it since you and Dick went to that party at the country club he’d wanted to go to.”
I darted my eyes to hers to confirm that she was serious, then stared down at the tiny patch of fabric between me and my legs. “You’re kidding me. My butt will hang out in this.”
[What's Luck Got to Do With It 01.0] Some Lucky Woman: Jana's Story Page 5