by J. J. Murray
You could be.
I’m too old to play around like that.
No, you’re not.
What would I look like with a child like that in my life?
Happy? Imagine the sex, Jack.
I’m not going there.
You’re no fun. Dan would have lowered the price on the Mustang provided she could get him a discount at Gold’s Gym and some one-on-one, sweaty instruction both at the gym…and in the house.
No, Dan would have said the wrong thing at the wrong time and gotten slapped in the face.
True. But, he wouldn’t have washed his face for a week.
At noon, I leave the house just as the mail carrier arrives. Other than the usual mail trying to interest me in equity loans and credit cards, there is one piece from my agent, Nina Frederick.
The reviews have arrived!
I get in the Mustang, and adjust the seat back several inches.
Jenny was short.
Shh. I’m reading.
The seat’s still warm.
Shh.
As usual, there’s no cover letter from Nina, just two blocks of type on one page. The first review is from Kirkus: “Wishful Thinking, by D. J. Browning, is a promising debut novel,” I read. Promising. Hmm. Not really an endorsement there. “Quirky…blah blah blah…innovative…entertaining; a solid first novel.”
Not a single negative—or true—word.
I read the other review from Booklist. “Blah blah blah surprising social commentary…blah blah blah…colorful characters and warm humor…a sizzling summer read.”
Not bad.
Not correct.
Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s a first novel. You’re allowed to make mistakes.
The whole novel was a mistake.
I toss the reviews onto the passenger seat and drive downtown, find a spot in front of the library, and wait, watching the digital clock change from 12:15 to 12:16 to 12:17….
You’re nervous.
A little.
It’s only lunch.
It’s my first date in seven years. I have a right to be nervous.
At 12:35 exactly, Diane walks out the front entrance, carrying an umbrella and wearing a tan overcoat.
Curvy.
Shh.
I get out of the Mustang, and she smiles.
Nice smile.
Yeah.
I walk around, open her door, and watch as she has trouble getting settled into the bucket seat. She hands the mail up to me.
“Oh, sorry about that,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
I close my door, return to my side, and get in, tossing the mail in the back. “You look nice.”
She looks straight ahead. “But you can’t see what I’m wearing.”
Hmm. “What are you wearing?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
I look in the side mirror and see a jam of cars coming our way. Instead of punching it and racing out ahead of them, I let them pass.
“How long were you waiting?” she asks.
“About fifteen minutes.”
Why’d you tell her that?
It’s the truth.
But that makes you sound desperate!
It makes me sound punctual.
The traffic doesn’t want to end. “Is it always like this downtown?” I ask.
“It’s the lunch rush. I usually walk.”
I turn to her. “Would you rather walk today?”
“It’s supposed to rain.”
“Oh.”
I see a gap in front of a Suburban and hit the gas pedal, and the Mustang leaps out ahead. I glance to my right and see Diane’s hands pressed into the dashboard.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
You’re driving too fast.
I slow down. “Um, where should I park when we get there?”
“There’s a parking garage across the street.”
“Okay.”
I take a ticket on the first level and circle higher and higher until I find a space on the top level in the cold, open air. Diane gets out before I can get my door open.
What’s her hurry?
She only has an hour for lunch, remember?
I catch her looking back at her seat and frowning as she shuts the door.
That bucket seat must not have been kind to her booty.
Shh.
“Is this your wife’s car?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.”
She blinks once.
“I’m, uh, trying to sell it.”
Diane only nods.
“I may have found a buyer this morning.”
We walk to the elevator as the first drops come down. I should have brought my umbrella, and it isn’t proper form for a man to share a woman’s umbrella, is it?
You’ll be closer to her.
True.
The elevator doors open, and Diane steps inside. We’re not the only ones on the elevator; another couple stands in the corner. I stand behind Diane as the elevator descends.
Get closer!
We’re being watched.
So? At least make small talk.
But I can think of nothing to say!
31
Diane
He’s nervous.
Me? I’m just glad to get out of that car. It was creepy being in his dead wife’s car. They were in a car accident, right? But there was nothing wrong with that car except for the seat. That seat wasn’t made for my booty. His wife must have had no-ass-at-all. So, maybe they wrecked in a different car. And from the way Jack was driving, he might have been driving. I can only imagine that kind of guilt.
And why are those two in this elevator gritting on us? We could just be coworkers out for lunch, or two perfect strangers who just happened to get on the elevator at the same time.
Perfect strangers. I guess that’s how all relationships start out. We’re all just perfect strangers…who can’t think of a single thing to say to each other!
The elevator opens, and we walk out through the bottom level to the street, and like the weatherman said, it’s raining “cold and hard.” I open my umbrella and hand it to Jack. “You’re taller than me.”
Now anyone seeing Jack and me will know we’re together, but I don’t care. I spent far too long this morning getting my hair just right to have it sopping wet and ruined, and I don’t want to be sitting next to or across from a soaking wet Jack.
Bandini’s is already pretty crowded by the time we get there, so we have to wait a few minutes behind several other groups. When it’s our turn, the hostess asks, “Two?”
“Yes,” Jack says.
I was wondering if he could speak. He hadn’t spoken since we got on the elevator.
And why is this place so crowded? I don’t mean the number of people. I mean, why are the tables so densely packed together? I have to walk sideways to a little table off in the corner, and I know my booty brushed quite a few backs.
The hostess places two menus on the table. “Enjoy.”
Jack pulls my chair out—how nice—but I need to take off my coat first. He gets the hint and takes my coat from me and drapes it over the back of my chair. I pose in all my burgundy glory for Jack, he smiles and nods (as he should), I sit, and he scoots the chair in as far as it can go. I pick up the menu and actually feel the heat from the back of the man sitting directly behind me.
I feel like a suede sardine!
Jack removes his jacket and sits. “Is it always this crowded?” he asks.
“This is my first time.”
In oh, so many ways!
“Mine, too.”
I look at the menu and check out the lunch specials. Prices and selection are decent, and “15-minute service on lunch entrees or your meal is free” makes me feel less rushed. I look side to side, you know, to see who’s here (as if I’d know anyone) and to see who else might be gritting on us.
No one is.
They’re all grubbing—as they shoul
d be.
“What are you going to have?” I ask.
“The lasagna,” he says, putting down his menu. “What about you?”
I’m torn between the fettuccine Alfredo and an antipasto salad. “I haven’t decided.” I look up at him. “If your lasagna is good, will you share it with me?”
He smiles. “Sure.”
“Do you like fettuccine?”
He nods.
“Good. I’m having fettuccine.”
We don’t have to wait long to place our drink orders—we both get sweetened iced teas—and then…we stare at the table.
Awkwardly.
“Um, I got my first reviews today,” he says, after three solid minutes of silence.
I look up. “From whom?”
“Booklist and Kirkus,” he says.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Were they…favorable?”
He looks up at the ceiling. What’s up there? I don’t look, though. “They were okay.”
“Just…okay?”
He looks directly at me. “They didn’t tell the truth.”
“They were bad?”
He shakes his head. “They were great. They say my book is ‘quirky,’ ‘innovative,’ and ‘entertaining.’ But they’re all lies. I’ll bet my publisher paid for them.”
“Why do you say that?”
He sighs. “It’s really not that good of a book, Diane, and I’m sure once real readers get hold of it, they’ll be trashing me on-line.”
I need to change the subject, but before I can, a huge hairy man wearing an apron comes over to us. “Hello,” he says, in a sexy Italian accent. “I am Paolo Bandini. Is this your first time?”
We both nod.
“Then let me welcome you to my restaurant.” He looks around. “We are a little shorthanded today, so I will personally take your order.”
Italian men are hot! Hairy, but hot. We give him our orders, he does this little nod thing, and we watch him go back to the kitchen.
“The owner himself,” Jack says.
Did Jack plan this? “Do you know him?”
“No, but I know his girlfriend.”
Say what?
“I mean, I know of her. He’s dating Marissa Thomas.”
Is this supposed to mean something to me?
“You know, Marissa Thomas, the black woman running for mayor.”
Oh, her. Pushy thing, and a truly black black woman. Not bad-looking for a woman pushing forty. And she dates an Italian man? Hmm. Maybe Jack and I aren’t being trendsetters at all. But how does Jack know…“How do you know Marissa Thomas?”
“She spoke to the kids at Monterey last year on career day. She’s a dynamic speaker, let me tell you, but what do you expect from a lawyer? She had those kids in the palms of her hands.”
I need to change this subject, too. “Jack, how old are you?”
He smiles. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. Thirty-five?”
He blinks. “I’m thirty-two.”
“Sorry.” Oops. Tragedy ages people. “I’m twenty-five, in case you want to know.”
More opposites. When Jack graduated from high school, I was in the fifth grade. When he graduated from college, I was just starting to get my caboose. He’s been married. I’ve never married. He’s as white as a ghost. I’m suede. He’s had a son. I’ve never even had sex, and—
I’ve never even had sex.
I had a few close calls, but nothing so close that I couldn’t escape. I traded hands in high school with boys who, um, burst before I knew what was happening. My prom date only gave me a good-night kiss, which was fine with me. He had an overbite.
And I had two consecutive men in college (forever nameless to me now) who broke up with me because “I got needs, and you ain’t givin’ me what I need.” Oh, the second man was more eloquent than the first. “I am a man,” he had said. “I have the needs of a man, and you aren’t making me feel like a man.”
He was an English major.
Then…nothing. It’s not that I don’t have the desire—I do. I have wicked desire and a battery bill. It’s not that I’m afraid of the act itself. I know what I want to do. It’s the after part, the part that either becomes “happily ever after” or “see you after a while.”
I look up to see Jack staring at me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You seemed lost in thought.”
“Sorry.” Just reliving my sex life. What did that take? Sixty seconds? I need a life!
“Here we are!” It’s the owner again with our order to save me from explaining. “Enjoy!”
And then…we enjoy. The table is small enough that we can put the plates side by side and eat easily off both. I’m afraid I’m eating too much at times, but it is delicious! And other than sharing food on our first date—I’m sure Gran Anderson and Emily Post are turning over in their graves—we don’t act as if we’re on our first date. We smile, laugh, and…hardly talk at all. Hmm.
Yeah, we’re on our first date, and the food is taking the place of conversation.
“Where are we going for our New Year’s date?” I ask once we’ve polished off all our food and a basketful of breadsticks.
“It’s going to be a surprise,” Jack says, wiping his lips with a napkin. “I will pick you up in front of the library at nine.”
And leave my car downtown? “What about my car?”
“Oh, yeah, um, I guess I could pick you up at your apartment.”
Do I look like an apartment dweller? “I own my own home, Jack.”
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Over in Northeast behind Breckinridge Middle School.”
He smiles. “I know where that is. Noël and I looked over there when we were house hunting.”
He said her name. It’s a pretty name, but it’s…distressing for me to hear it, for some reason.
“We were going to get a ranch on…some street back there, I think, but I’m no handyman. It had a great big backyard, though.”
“I’m over on Fleming,” I say. I write the address on a napkin. “And you can pick me up around nine-thirty.” Wait a minute. He said nine. He must have a reason. “Unless you’ve made reservations for earlier?”
He smiles. “Nine-thirty will be fine.”
Hmm. A later dinner date. This could be interesting.
Mr. Bandini brings the check. “How was everything?”
“Marvelous,” I say.
“Delicious,” Jack says.
Mr. Bandini leans down. “Since this is your first time and your order took so long to get to you,” he whispers, “I would like to offer this meal on the house, provided you return for dinner sometime soon.”
I blink at Jack, and Jack blinks at me. We have a blinking moment.
“Is that okay?” Mr. Bandini asks.
“Uh, thank you,” Jack says.
Mr. Bandini straightens. “It is good to see you two here. You must come back often.”
Then he leaves.
“That was weird,” I say.
“Maybe he, uh, likes the fact that we’re…you know?”
That almost made sense, but I know what he’s saying without saying it. “You think he gave us a freebie because you’re white and I’m black?”
“Don’t you?”
I decide to be cynical, though I kind of agree. “He just wants us to come back at night when we’ll have to pay higher prices and drink lots of wine.”
Jack smiles. “Is that so bad?”
“No.”
“I like this place,” he says. “Maybe we could come back here on New Year’s.”
What? “I thought you already made reservations.”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to, Diane. Nothing was open when I called around this morning.”
Then you should have called last night! I don’t want to come into this…claustrophobic place on New Year’s Eve! It will be wall-to-wall people. We’d be packed in
here…tightly.
Wait a sec. That might work out.
“I guess it would be all right,” I say. “But what if it’s crowded?”
Jack shrugs. “Then we’ll just…go for a walk or something.”
“Okay.”
Either way, I’m going to be with Jack. Either I’ll be pressed up against his body with a wineglass in my hand, or I’ll be out walking with him hopefully with his hand in mine.
I check my watch. “I have to be getting back.”
It’s a different kind of ride back to the library. Not only does Jack seem more relaxed, but the seat also seems more comfortable, for some reason. And he drives more slowly, more smoothly than before.
I just had a nice date with a nice man. And it took less than an hour.
The rain has stopped by the time we park. Jack gets out, comes to my door, opens it, takes my hand, and helps me out of the car. He just…takes my hand as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Thank you,” I say.
“May I walk you to the door?”
I giggle. This is all so old-fashioned! “Sure.” It’s so…high school.
But it’s wonderful.
We don’t walk fast, we don’t walk slowly—we just…meander to the door, not speaking, not humming, barely making any sounds. He holds the door to the foyer, and I walk in.
“May I call you later this evening?” he asks.
Music to my ears. “Sure.”
He steps a little closer. “Um, Diane?”
Here? Just inside the foyer? People can see us! “Yes, Jack?” I don’t look up into his eyes. I don’t want him to see my fear.
“May I…give you a hug?”
Whew. At least it’s not a kiss. And if anyone says anything, I can play it off as a friendly hug, nothing serious about it at all. “I could use one, Jack.”
He steps closer and puts his hands around me, drawing me gently to him, my cheek brushing his neck. He’s bony, all right, but it’s a nice hug, not too long, not too short. He steps back. “Thank you. I needed that.”
Whoo! So did I. But I can’t tell him that yet. I even want to say something wild like, “Come in for change anytime, Mr. Browning, and I’ll touch your palm a certain way,” but I can’t. I’m sure I could eventually say something like that at the rate we’re going. Instead, I say, “See you tomorrow at nine-thirty, Jack.”
“I can’t wait, Diane,” he says.