Not the Marrying Kind

by Kathryn Nolan

  Max

  It was just after 5:00 pm, and I was supposed to be planning the menu for the dinner I was cooking for Fiona tonight on our second date. But instead, I was currently sitting across from Pop at one of the chessboard tables at Central Park, contemplating calling Fiona for backup instead.

  We were having a Pop Dating Emergency.

  “You sure you want me to call her?” I asked one more time.

  Pop shook his head, looking green around the gills. “Yeah. Fi’s got, you know, experience dating.”

  I pointed at my chest. “Uh, so do I?”

  He gave me a pointed look. “It’s not dating in the same way, though.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it. He was right. “Okay, old man. Give me a sec.”

  I stood up, jamming one hand in my back pocket, and called Fiona. The instant she picked up, her warm-honey voice made me feel like a million fucking bucks. “Are you calling to say you’re obsessed with me and can’t wait until tonight?”

  Yes, I fucking am.

  “I wish I was calling about that,” I said. “Actually, the Devlin men need your dating expertise.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I looked over my shoulder at Pop. Who did not look well. “Well… no. Angela is meeting Pop here at Central Park in about an hour, and my dad is moments away from having a stress-induced heart attack, I think.”

  Which I related to, given the number of terrifying heart sensations I’d experienced since Fiona had climbed onto that fire escape.

  “I’m assuming you have meetings, so its fine if you can’t come. But if you are a little free, Pop needs a pep talk, I think.”

  In the background, I heard her fingers typing quickly on a keyboard. A bit of paper shuffling. “This is perfect timing. I can sneak off for an hour. I just need to grab a cab and relay a few messages to my secretary.”

  I let out a big sigh. “Much appreciated.”

  “I’ll see you at the chessboards.”

  “And I am obsessed with you,” I said. “I want to make that clear.”

  “I knew it.”

  Chuckling, I turned back to Pop, flashing him a thumbs-up. Then realized another call had come through while I’d been chatting. I assumed it was Charlie, the guy from Rusty’s. Which made my stomach jump all over the place—and not in the good way.

  But it wasn’t Charlie at all. I’d missed a call from my mom.

  “You okay, Max?” Pop asked.

  I rubbed my forehead. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, just spaced for a second. Fiona’s on her way. You know she’ll help.”

  Pop’s knee was shaking like a leaf in a storm. I touched it, tried to catch his eye. “It’s only first date nerves, right? Nothin’ else is wrong?”

  Pop tore up a napkin into tiny little pieces. “I haven’t, like, tried to do this since your mom left. So I’m extra, extra nervous. Used to keep dating to a minimum. Kind of…” He trailed off, looking a little embarrassed. Talking about sex with your son probably felt like eating hot coals to my dad.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I get it. You weren’t doing anything real romantic.”

  “Yeah, no.” He shook his head. “Me and Angela, though, we’ve been talking for a while. I like her.”

  “That’s good, Pop,” I said. “I know why you’re nervous.”

  He ripped up some more pieces, arranged them into a tiny little stack. “Because of being hurt, of feeling hurt, I didn’t want to ever do it again. Your mom, well, her personality was always pretty flighty. I was the first guy she’d ever stayed with. When we got married at City Hall, I couldn’t believe it. Your grandmother told me I was making a huge mistake. But you were born a year later, and then I knew why I’d met your mom. It was so that I could have you.”

  Me and Max were a real team.

  I was silent. Totally unable to crack a joke or a smile or do my Max Devlin thing.

  “But I remember that first year,” Pop continued. “I’ve been through a lot of tough shit, especially with The Red Room. Running that business ain’t easy but having your mom leave was worse. Makes me a little gun shy.”

  I reached out, grabbed his hand. “Pop. I’m so sorry. About mom, about not being here. You deserve better.”

  “I want… I don’t know, to not throw up or make a complete fool of myself.”

  I laughed. Understood he’d reached his emotional limit. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Fiona walking towards us in a cream-colored pantsuit, red lips quirked in my direction. Last night, I’d gotten to hold a sleepy, cuddly Fiona against my chest while listening to her parents play music next to Mateo and Rafael and Pop. I’d been confused as fuck after, but that didn’t mean I’d felt bad during. Nope. I’d felt safe and happy and only had to put up with Mateo teasing me about smelling Fiona’s hair like a weirdo for a little bit today.

  Honestly? I’d spent the whole day wearing a goofy grin as I called bands and confirmed their time slots for the benefit show. I knew I needed to be thinking about L.A. and getting a place and shipping my stuff. But I wanted to just hang out with my dad and take Fiona on dates.

  “Well, don’t worry,” I said. “Wonder Woman is here.”

  She waved at me as she approached. My palms activated their sweat glands, and about a million dumb jokes came to mind.

  “Max.”

  “Yeah, Pop?” I was still staring at Fiona, watching her like a slow-motion movie.

  “She’s the best of us.”

  His words startled me out of my dreaming. “Wait… what?”

  “Fiona.” He nodded at her. “She’s the best. I’ve known her most of her life. She’ll fight for what’s right and keep that family together, and she’ll never, ever, let you down. And she’s head over heels for you, Max.”

  “So the hell am I,” I said softly.

  He gave me a knowing look. “Yeah, you’re real fucking obvious about it.”

  “Okay, you don’t gotta rub it in.”

  Fiona was close now, and I wanted to jump from my seat and go to her.

  “If I can do it, you can do it,” Pop said. “The scary stuff. The letting-yourself-get-hurt stuff. I don’t want what your mom did to make you feel like you can’t be there for her. You’re not like that, no matter how hard you try.”

  I didn’t get a chance to respond because Fiona breezed right up to us and I was instantly stunned, nervous and sweating.

  She dipped down to give Pop a hug. “You look extremely handsome, by the way.”

  He’d opted for a nice, button-down shirt and real pants, not torn jeans.

  “Aw, Fi,” he said, turning red. “It’s no big deal.”

  I pulled a third chair over and dusted it off before presenting it to Fiona to sit in. She did, passing me a discreet smile and entwining our fingers together beneath the table.

  “What are those?” She pointed to the bouquet of red roses we’d picked up from the flower stand across the street.

  “I told Angela I’d be holding roses so she’d know for sure it was me,” Pop said.

  She bent down, smelled them. “She’s going to love them.”

  Pop fiddled with that pile of paper again. She flicked her eyes toward mine. I winked at her.

  “What can I help with?” she asked.

  He shrugged, grumbling a little. “I’m a little… out of sorts. Like on a first date, what the hell do you even talk about?”

  “All kinds of things,” Fiona said. “But mostly what you have in common. It sounds like Angela has two sons and grandchildren. I think talking to her about family, hers and yours, is a great step. I think you’d want to know if she was someone who had the same values as you.”

  “What are those?” he asked.

  She touched his arm. “You love your son unconditionally and would do anything in the world to make him happy. I think Angela is looking for that trait too.”

  “And music,” I said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay.” He was starting to loose
n up a little. “You don’t think she’ll take one look at me and run away?”

  “Nope,” Fiona said firmly. “She emailed you, remember?”

  “And be honest, Pop,” I said. “Be honest, be yourself. She’ll like you for you. I promise.”

  His eyes went wide. “I think I see her.”

  Fiona picked up the roses and dropped them on the table. “Then that’s our cue to leave.”

  He looked so nervous I wanted to fucking cry. “Pop.”

  “Uh, yeah, Maxy?”

  “What if…” I swallowed. “What if we stayed over there for a few minutes? If you feel weird or anything, we’ll take you out to the Westway Diner instead. Sound good?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Pop.”

  “Uh huh.” He was staring behind us—I was guessing at Angela. Staring wasn’t the word. Maybe transfixed. Fiona took my hand, and we walked briskly to a park bench nearby.

  I recognized Angela from her pictures as she walked slowly up to Pop. Her yellow dress and cheerful body language had Pop smiling the biggest I’d seen in a long time.

  “This might be the single most precious thing I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life,” Fiona whispered.

  “Yeah, same,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

  Pop stood up from the table, ran a hand over his bald head, and presented the roses to her. He looked nervous but sincere. When she sat down next to him, Pop flashed us a covert thumbs-up.

  Fiona turned to face me on the bench. I leaned in, gave her a proper kiss. “Hello.”

  “Hello.” She grabbed my shirt, pulled me in for one more. “How’s that obsession going?”

  “How’s that crush?”

  “Growing bigger by the minute.”

  I pulled her against my chest and kissed her temple. “Thank you for coming. I forget sometimes, how hard it was for him after my mom left. I think he closed off a lot of chances for relationships, to fall in love, after that.”

  “That makes sense. Plus it is nerve-wracking, as you and I can very recently attest to.”

  “The nerves are real.”

  She glanced at her watch, grimacing. “How does a late dinner date sound?”

  “Fucking amazing.”

  “What are you cooking me anyway?” she asked.

  “Oh, you’ll see. You supply the wine and the good music, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  “I’ll be in pajamas by the way.”

  I kissed her ear. “You really know how to make a man hard.”

  She laughed, shoved my shoulder. Then she grabbed me back. “Oh my god, look.”

  Angela was speaking to him excitedly, hands moving in the air, and Pop was… Pop was…

  “Holy shit, my dad’s laughing. Like really laughing.”

  The pair stood up and began strolling together. Pop gave us a discreet wave, and we waved back. And he gave me a pointed look, a see what we can do look.

  I got the message.

  “Before I forget,” I said, reaching beneath my leather jacket. “I may have stolen one for you.”

  I extended a single red rose toward her. Her bright eyes flew up to mine. “For me?”

  “Always for you.”

  She took it, fingers shaking slightly, and pressed it to her nose. “Thank you. It’s so pretty.”

  Fiona is the best of us.

  Hearing what Pop had said had made me uncomfortable for a lot of different reasons. But one of them was the reminder I didn’t need that my own mother had left a relationship, fled her responsibilities. What had always seemed romantic and liberating in the past seemed off to me now. It left a sour taste in my mouth—and I still wasn’t sure why she’d called.

  Fiona’s phone started chirping, and she sighed. “I have to go, as much as I’d love to watch your dad go on this adorable date.”

  “I think he’s gonna be just fine,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Go, before I try to get you to have sex on this bench.”

  “I mean, who knows what this second date will bring.” She stood up, brushed a wrinkle from her jacket, and then fixed a smile on her face. “Eight o’clock, and it’s a date?”

  “I can’t wait, princess,” I said, voice huskier than normal.

  And then she walked down the path, smelling that rose and grinning like she was having the best damn day of her life.

  I knew the feeling.

  32

  Max

  A few hours later, I stood outside of Fiona’s apartment in a nice condo building in Chelsea near her office. There was a cute welcome mat and a wreath of flowers on her door. With a paper bag of groceries in one arm, I knocked softly. Waited. My stomach was nervous, and my mouth was dry as a bone. I’d changed into, and out of, four separate shirts before deciding on the same plain white one I wore all the damn time.

  Pop’s words had rattled me.

  Not entirely in a bad way—they were hopeful, and he believed in me. But he’d poked a big hole in my world view, and now I couldn’t really see past it.

  I don’t want what your mom did to make you feel like you can’t be there for her. You aren’t like that, no matter how hard you try.

  Fiona pulled open the door with a bashful smile. And holy shit did I want to be there for her. Our first date was test enough. A second date, at her apartment, where I fucking cooked for her, was as advanced as I got.

  I didn’t expect to need her so much. All of three hours had gone by, and I was starving for her.

  “Pajamas,” she said, pointing at her worn NYU sweatshirt and tiny shorts. “And wine.” She held up a bottle of red, barefoot and without any makeup. I dropped the bag on the ground and yanked her towards me for a long, soulful kiss.

  “I missed you,” I said.

  “I just saw you,” she teased, fingers in my hair.

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t enough.”

  I let her go with a whole lot of regret. Grabbed my bag and stepped inside Fiona’s home. I cocked my head toward the music, coming from her sitting room. “Fleetwood Mac. Rumours album?”

  She led me inside. “I think it’s good for second date ambiance.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Like all Manhattan apartments, Fiona’s was no bigger than a shoebox, but it was bright and neat and full of interesting things. I set my bag of groceries on her galley kitchen counter, then strolled into her small sitting room. French doors led to her bedroom. One whole wall was full of records.

  “This all you?” I asked, tugging out a Catch-22 album and a Dead Kennedys album with Bikini Kill nestled in between.

  “It’s all me.” She came to stand next to me. Decorating the shelves were photos of her and her family, academic awards, ticket stubs from concerts and shows. “It’s funny. I told you last night about the cacophony I grew up in. But I very rarely don’t have music on when I’m home.” She bit her lip, casting a quick look over at a tiny office desk. Above her laptop were taped lists, calendars, sticky notes. “Last year, when I was systematically dating potential husbands, I never turned on music during the very rare occasions that I invited them here.”

  “Why not?” I nodded at the shelves. “This is you.”

  She blew out a long breath, reaching for my hand. “And a week ago, I told you my soul mate was probably a fan of yacht rock. With a straight face. It should have been a sign I was going about things all wrong. But I was so sure I had to deny my truest self to reach that goal. As if, I don’t know, your partner and husband are an item to place on a shelf like this and not a living, breathing person.”

  I tugged on the end of her ponytail. “You’re playing music for me, though.”

  Her smile was warm and vulnerable and so very pretty. “I didn’t think twice about it either.”

  Fiona Quinn controlled my heart rate just by breathing or standing next to me. It was like my heart had to hammer itself to death against my ribcage. “Come cook me dinner?” She swayed back to the kitchen and began pulling down glasses. I was momentarily stunned by
the giant black-and-white posters on the wall: Debbie Harry, Annie Lennox, Stevie Nicks, Patti Smith, Joan Jett.

  I shook my head. “Fucking incredible.”

  “Oh, my tribute to my favorite formidable women?”

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my jaw. “These men you dated, what did they say when they saw these portraits?”

  There was the sound of wine pouring into a glass. Then Fiona, in a tight voice, saying, “They didn’t usually recognize them.”

  Our eyes met over her wine glass. “You were okay with that?”

  “I’m learning I don’t know anything about love.”

  I grinned. “Well, you helped Pop today, and he was very thankful. He and Angela are still on their date. Out to dinner now at a local spot near her apartment.”

  “You’re serious?”

  I collected the glass of wine and lightly tapped it against hers. “The Devlin men are learning all kinds of things about their hearts these days.”

  I wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a series of kisses on her cheek as she laughed. “Two dates in, and you’re suddenly a romantic, huh?” she teased.

  “You don’t know shit, princess,” I taunted, opening her cabinet and searching for pots. I found one, filled it with water, and popped it on her stove. “And be prepared to be blown away by my culinary skills.”

  “You’re cooking me a delicious, traditional Puerto Rican dish courtesy of Mateo’s mom, right?”

  She was perched up on her kitchen counter, feet swinging, smirking as she sipped.

  “Hate to disappoint you, but no,” I said. “For that, Mrs. Rivera will cook us dinner one of these nights, and you’ll be much more impressed than if I tried to recreate dishes I haven’t made since I was a teenager.”

  I removed hot dogs and a of box macaroni and cheese from my grocery bag.

  “Tonight I’m cooking you the meal I used to cook for Pop when he worked late nights at The Red Room.” I pointed a fork at her laughing face. “Don’t knock it till you try it. I was a half-decent cook for a kid.”

  “I remain unconvinced.”

  I added the pasta and greased a skillet. Then I turned and planted myself between her legs, skating my fingers up her thighs. “I’m starting to notice a pattern here.”