My Favorite Mistake

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  “Yeah, I’m aware,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop. You just say the word about anything and I’ll stop.”

  “You don’t have to stop.”

  “Okay then,” he said.

  We worked for a little while longer, until my eyes were crossing. The lack of sleep the night before wasn’t really helping with my attempt to cram a bunch of information into my brain.

  “I’m done,” I said, closing my book.

  “Me too. I like economics, but I like you more.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “You can shower first. I know it takes your hair longer to dry.”

  “This is true.” His dried in about five seconds.

  I grabbed some clothes and hopped in the shower, singing Taylor Swift as loud as I wanted, knowing Hunter could hear me through the door.

  I shaved extra careful, because if we were going someplace fancy, he was going to make me wear a dress. I wiped off the steamy mirror and checked my naked self out, turning from side to side. Meh. Nothing special, but nothing hideous either. Hunter didn’t seem to care, but he hadn’t seen all of me either.

  The closest I’d been to naked was a tank top and booty shorts. He’d never seen my stomach, and I was pretty sure he was still unaware of my belly ring. I’d managed to keep that little secret for myself.

  I slipped on a robe and padded back to our room, drying my hair with a towel.

  “Cruel, that robe is cruel,” he said, looking up from the book I’d bought with Megan at our last mall trip.

  “Why?”

  “Because it covers everything up.”

  “Exactly. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

  He shook his head and grabbed his shower stuff. I’d never told him, but sometimes when he wasn’t around, I’d open the top of his body wash and smell it, which was weird. He wouldn’t do anything that creepy.

  As I waited for him to come back, I scrunched my hair up so it would dry better and kind of wavy. I’d recently seen this cool twist idea online that I wanted to try. Hunter came back to find me jamming bobby pins in my hair.

  “What are you doing?” He only had a towel on. Of course. He stood behind me and reached for my hair.

  “What are you doing?” I ducked away from his meddling hands. “This took ten minutes to get like this.”

  “Wear it down. It looks better down.”

  “I’ll wear it however I want.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning away, but stopped and reached out to tug a little piece out so it framed my face. “There. Perfect.”

  I studied the effect in the mirror and sighed. The updo was pretty, but it wasn’t me. It looked like me dressing up as a lawyer for Halloween. I was never going to be able to find all the pins.

  “Okay, you win. Give me a hand.” Hunter and I spent the next ten minutes rooting though my thick hair to find all the pins. Our hands kept bumping into one another.

  “Do you do some special girly hair treatment?”

  “No, why?”

  He removed his hands and stepped back. We were still wary around each other after the blowup.

  “Because you’ve got amazing hair.”

  “Good genes, I guess.” I did a mayonnaise treatment every now and then, but I only did it when I knew he wasn’t going to be around. I didn’t care if he saw me flipping my retainer, but beauty treatments were personal.

  “There. I think that’s the last one,” I said. My hair tumbled around my shoulders. I fluffed it and called it good.

  “That’s what I like to see. Natural. I’m going to get un-naked, so you might want to stay turned around. Unless you want to give me a hand…”

  “No, I’m good. I’m going to go, um, brush my teeth?” It sounded like a question.

  “Have fun with that.”

  I did end up brushing my teeth and came back when I was sure Hunter had enough time to be clothed.

  “Wow,” I said. He was wearing a black button up with khakis and even a pair of dress shoes. Where the hell had those come from? I’d never seen them.

  “I have my secrets too, Miss Caldwell.”

  “You look very nice, Mr. Zaccadelli.”

  “Yours is waiting on your bed.”

  He’d picked out a black cocktail dress that I’d bought on sale on a crazy whim because Megan had told me every girl needed a little black dress.

  “I thought it would look good on you. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”

  “No, no. I like it. I’ve just never had a place to wear it.”

  “Now you do.”

  “I’m gonna go get ready,” I said, and he left.

  I locked the door before I slipped the dress on. It was slinky and fell just short of my knees, but came up high on my neck in the front. It reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. I found a necklace of black beads and some matching earrings that I’d borrowed from Tawny and never returned. By the time Hunter came back, I was putting on mascara.

  “Don’t poke yourself in the eye.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “Okay, okay.” He watched me for a moment and then left, probably to give me some more privacy. Good boy.

  I was just about ready when he knocked on the door.

  “Are you ready, Miss Caldwell?”

  “Yes I am, Mr. Zaccadelli. You may escort me now.”

  He opened the door and even though he’d seen me before, his eyes still popped.

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Shall we?” He held out his arm. I took it and we left.

  “Where’s Darah?” I asked.

  “She had to work.”

  “Oh. She didn’t say good-bye.”

  Hunter shrugged. Huh.

  He did all the things he was supposed to do, the door-opening, and the escorting and such. The feminist in me balked at the idea that I couldn’t open a door, but it was nice not to have to do those things for one night. Letting Hunter pull out my chair for one night wasn’t going to set the women’s liberation movement backward. I hoped.

  “You’re in charge, Missy. I see that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “It’s not a sin to let me open a door for you. I know you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”

  “Who said it was?”

  “Okay, then.”

  The restaurant, The Broadway Public House, was in a brick building in downtown Bangor, a few minutes away from the college. Somehow Hunter found a parking spot for his Pontiac Sunfire right next to the restaurant.

  “I’m lucky,” he said as he opened the door for me.

  The restaurant was in a strip of brick buildings that went all the way down the main street, with an old brick mill on the end.

  It was all white linen and candlelight and French things on the menu. Thank goodness I knew enough of that to know what was what.

  The waiter had an accent, which probably meant his family was French Canadian, and had just come over the border. We ordered hors d’oeuvres of French bread and a goat cheese dip and mozzarella, basil and tomato skewers in a balsamic sauce.

  We didn’t want to risk the fake ID’s so we both got sparkling water.

  When it came time to order, I went with the pesto fettuccini with garlic bread, and then it was Hunter’s turn.

  “Peanut butter and Jelly with a side of the asparagus.” The waiter gaped at him for a second, but wrote it down.

  “What type of jelly would you like?”

  “Strawberry.” The waiter wrote it down and left, shaking his head a little.

  “We come to this fancy restaurant and you order PB and J?”

  He shrugged, unfazed that the waiter was probably telling the entire kitchen about the crazy guy who had ordered peanut butter and jelly.

  “I’ve never eaten here, so I don’t know what’s good. Peanut butter and jelly is always good. You can’t screw that up. Peanut butter and jelly has always
been there for me and is one of the constants in my life. Peanut butter and jelly has never done me wrong. It’s my favorite.” His eyes bored into me as he said it, and I had the feeling we weren’t talking about a sandwich.

  “Should I leave you two alone when it gets here? Sounds like you don’t need me.”

  “I might be projecting my views of someone else onto the sandwich.”

  “Just a little.”

  The waiter had composed himself by the time he brought our dinner out. They’d done what they could in the kitchen to make the sandwich look fancy, but really, it was still a PB and J. It looked silly sitting on the plate with parsley on the side and some sort of drizzle around the edge of the plate.

  “I propose a toast,” Hunter said, raising his glass. I raised mine as well. “To peanut butter and jelly. My favorite sandwich.”

  “PB and J,” I said, and we clinked our glasses. Some of the other diners gave us weird looks, but I ignored them. They just didn’t understand the awesomeness of PB and J.

  “You want a bite?” Hunter said, holding up his sandwich. One woman looked absolutely horrified that he’d just held up his sandwich for me to take a bite.

  I leaned over and took a bite. Damn. That was good. The peanut butter had to be organic, and it had just the right amount of crunch. The jelly was also clearly homemade. Yum.

  “You want a bite of mine?” I fed him a bite of my amazing pasta.

  “Not as good as mine.”

  “Whatever. Eat your sandwich, Mr. Zaccadelli.”

  “Yes, Miss Caldwell.”

  We chewed some more, and I soaked in the quiet ambience of the restaurant. Soft piano music floated from one corner where a professional played, and the clink of china added to the cozy feel. It was definitely a nice place, and I did feel a little out of place.

  “So, you want to play a game?” he said.

  “What kind of game?” The mind reeled.

  “I say something and you say the first thing that comes to your mind. Then you can turn it around on me.”

  “Okay.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of water.

  “What was the first thing that came to your mind when you saw me?” he asked.

  “Crap.”

  “As in, ‘Oh crap, that is one hot guy?’”

  “More like, ‘Oh crap, that is not a girl.’”

  “Fair enough. What was the second thing you thought when you saw me?”

  “Trouble.”

  He laughed loudly, startling the other diners.

  “Is it my turn?” I said.

  “Go ahead,” he said, leaning back as if to prepare himself.

  “First thing you thought when you saw me?”

  “I had three simultaneous thoughts. One —” He held one finger up. “— stunning, two —” Another finger. “— this can’t be real, and three, that I really, really hoped I was going to get to share a room with you so I could stare at you all the time.

  “You were only supposed to use one word.”

  “Missy, one word can’t describe you.” I’d say the same about him.

  “Okay, how about this. What’s the first thing you think when you wake up?”

  “You.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What about you?” he said.

  “First thing I think is, ‘Oh crap, I have to get up.’ The second is, ‘I hope Hunter’s blanket is pulled up.’”

  “Liar.”

  I blushed. Sometimes it was a lie.

  “What did you think when you woke up that morning when we were together?” he asked.

  “Safe,” I said without thinking.

  “Me too. And warm.”

  “You do get pretty hot when you sleep. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Missy, I’m always hot,” he said, leaning back farther and smiling.

  “Whatever. Okay, how about when I punched you?”

  “First was, ‘Ow, she has quite a right hook,’ and second was, ‘That’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.’”

  “Really?”

  “Missy, nothing is sexier than a woman who can take care of herself. As far as I’m concerned, the 1950s are over. Although, you would look damn cute in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes. But I like you better when you can show your knees and speak without being spoken to. Not that you would have followed those rules anyway.”

  “Damn right. I would have been a horrible housewife.”

  “Yeah, I can’t see you saying, ‘How was your day, dear?’ and handing me my pipe and slippers.”

  “I’d probably chuck them at you.”

  “Probably.”

  “And then I’d have to punish you,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “Would you toss me outside on my ass?” His smile fell.

  “I am so sorry about that.” He stared down at his empty plate. I still had some pasta left, but I’d done it on purpose so I could bring some home with me. I never left a restaurant without a doggie bag.

  “I know. I just… I’m scared that you’re going to be sweet and nice now and everything will be fine and then I’ll do something and it will happen again. I’ve… I’ve seen how abusive relationships work, and I don’t want that.”

  “I would never, ever want you to be afraid of me. Ever.”

  “Then make sure it doesn’t happen. Because if it does, I’m gone, and you’ll probably be missing one or more appendages.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said. I put my fork down and the waiter came to ask us if we wanted desert. “Want to share something?”

  “Do you have red velvet cake?” I said.

  “Of course,” the waiter said, as if this was a ridiculous question. How dare I assume that they didn’t have red velvet cake. The nerve.

  “Bring two forks, please,” Hunter said. The waiter nodded. “You want to keep playing?”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay, how about the first thing you thought when you saw me in human sex?” A woman who had been eavesdropping from the next table nearly choked on her filet mignon. That was what she got for listening in.

  “Honestly? Oh, fuck,” I whispered the last part so the woman wouldn’t actually choke. I didn’t want to be responsible for that. “You?”

  “Score.”

  “Ass.”

  The cake came and it was glorious, with tons of cream and chocolate drizzle and it was almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

  “Ladies first,” Hunter said when we each went at it with our forks. Damn right.

  I nearly had a cakegasm at the table. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I moaned.

  “Sweet Christ.” I opened my eyes to find Hunter watching me with the strangest expression on his face. “What? It’s really good; you should try some,” I said, pushing the plate at him. It was a testament to how embarrassed I was about the cakegasm that I was even sharing at all.

  “I swear, if there weren’t a table between us, I would be kissing you right now. And none too gently.”

  I put my fork down and swallowed so I wouldn’t choke.

  “You didn’t seem to mind about the recliner,” I said.

  “True. But there wasn’t an audience, and that’s a very ugly recliner. This is a very nice table. Also there is glass and sharp things I wouldn’t want hurting you.”

  “Good point. Please, have some.”

  “If you’re going to make that noise and that face again, I don’t know if I can let you have any more.”

  “I’ll be good. I swear.”

  “You’re not good. That’s the problem.”

  “You’re right. I’m not,” I said, giving him my own smirk. “I do try, though.”

  “Cruel. That’s the word to describe you right now.”

  “Just have some cake.”

  He picked up the fork and took a bite.

  “Damn. That is good.” He had another bite and then I had to fight him for the rest of it. I was able to refrain from any further public displays of cake affection
.

  “I told you.”

  “That is some mighty fine cake,” he said with a southern accent. My jaw may have dropped a little. “What? You know I’m half-Texan. I can whip it out every now and then. I tried to get rid of it, but it comes out every now and then, especially when I spend time with my family.”

  “Do you have more family in Texas?”

  “My dad’s family relocated there from New York when he was a kid. I don’t see them much.”

  The waiter came to take our cake plate, and I sat back in my chair. I was satiated.

  “Would you excuse me?” I raised an eyebrow at his overt politeness. “I’m being a gentleman, don’t ruin it.”

  “Yes, you may be excused, Mr. Zaccadelli.”

  “Thank you, Miss Caldwell. I will return momentarily.” He got up and left the restaurant. What the what?

  “Are you ready for the check?” The waiter was back.

  “Um, sure.” He looked at Hunter’s empty seat with disapproval as if he’d run away and left me.

  “He’ll be right back,” I felt the need to say.

  “Of course.” He soooo didn’t believe me.

  I spent the next thirty seconds staring at the door, praying that Hunter would walk through it. He finally did, and he had something with him. His guitar.

  What the hell was he up to?

  He didn’t come back to the table, but went right to the guy who was playing the piano, interrupting him in the middle of a song. Hunter leaned in to speak to piano man, who, to his credit, kept playing. Hunter gestured with his hands like he did when he really wanted to get his point across. Piano man nodded and then Hunter said something that made him smile.

  He finished his song with a flourish and got up. The entire restaurant turned toward that spot. Piano man waved at a waiter and quickly explained the situation. Waiter went and got a stool and moved the mic away from the piano. I could see where this was going.

  Hunter sat down on the stool and pulled his guitar out, settling it so he could play. Everyone watched in fascination.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m sorry to disturb your dinner. I’ll only take a few moments of your time.” He adjusted the strap, and I could tell he was nervous. His knee was going a mile a minute. “I just wanted to play a little song for my girl, Taylor, over there. She agreed to come here with me tonight, even after I wasn’t very nice to her. This is part of my apology. I hope you like it.”