Haven’t posted in a while so here’s chapter two of First Year. Hope you enjoy.
| Chapter two |
Saturday, I got dressed up in a casual gray jacket, black slacks and running shoes, and parked in the Music Center garage. I checked my make-up in the rearview mirror, smoothed my hair, admired the effect, and walked up to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Rob Anderson was standing on the steps outside the doors, scanning the crowd. I didn’t remember him being so tall. He looked big and a little forbidding compared to the people around him. I also didn’t remember him being that good-looking, I mused as I trudged up the steps. He was positively dapper in a suit and tie, and I was positively underdressed compared to him, I noted uncomfortably as I waved to get his attention. His eyes lit up and he ran down to meet me.
“Have you been waiting long?” I asked.
“No, I just got here myself.”
We stood, smiling and nodding at each other, a little stupidly. The difference in our heights was even more daunting when we were on the same level. Maybe it was because I was wearing flats, but I had to lean back to look up at him.
“Six foot three. Why?” he said when I asked.
“No reason,” I replied and mentally vowed to wear heels from now on—or start learning the lyrics to Follow the Yellow Brick Road. “Well, should we go in?”
“Oh! Sure.” He pulled two tickets from his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how good these seats are. I got them last Wednesday.”
The usher directed us to the fourth floor, second balcony. Our seats had absolutely no legroom. It was like flying coach—the only thing missing was peanuts. And we were so high up the pigeons were worried about us. We could see the orchestra, but it was basically a black blob in the distance. These were not great seats.
I tried to cross my legs but quit when I kicked the woman sitting in front of me. I finally splayed my feet out so I could keep my knees together without getting a cramp. Rob was even worse off because he was roughly twice my size. He hunched his big shoulders around his knees and smiled at me weakly.
“Do you come to the symphony often?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic; it just came out that way.
Rob smiled ruefully—he had a whole repertoire of smiles to take the place of words—and said, “Not on Saturday. Look, this is terrible. If you’d like to leave…”
“Oh no, we’re here now. I might as well see what it’s all about.”
The orchestra started out with a weird little ditty by somebody I’d never heard of. It was all clanks and tinkles; there was no recognizable melody, and you couldn’t dance to it. The audience was so full of coughers it sounded like a TB ward. I huddled in my seat wishing I’d never come.
Then they played Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. It started off slow and soft and then turned into a party. No music I’d ever heard made me feel like that, almost exultant. At the end I had a silly grin plastered on my face. I turned to Rob who’d been watching my reaction. “How come I’ve never heard that before? It’s wonderful!” I exclaimed.
Rob said, “I’m glad you like it. I grew up with Beethoven. My mother played it every night before we went to sleep.”
We smiled at each other delightedly. Conversation be damned, contact had been made. We didn’t even fight over the armrest during the second half of the program. Rob gallantly volunteered to hold my hand—-if I had no objection, of course. I didn’t. My arm fit snugly inside his. He wasn’t huge anymore, just big enough to fit comfortably around me.
After the concert he offered to buy me a drink. “It’ll have to be downstairs,” he said apologetically. “I took the bus because it’s such an expensive hassle to park here.”
“I’ve got my car if you’d rather go somewhere else,” I offered.
“Tell you what,” he said, “how about if we go to my place and pick up my car. I can lose this tie and get into something more comfortable. Then I’ll take you to a piano bar in Old Pasadena. How’s that sound?”
I’d spend my formative years in the Valley, so Pasadena sounded like an adventure to me.
“But we take my car, okay?” I stipulated. I wasn’t about to get trapped with someone I didn’t know very well without wheels. The fact that he was big enough to knock me on the head and take the car and me didn’t filter through my little brain.
I followed his directions and in ten minutes we were at his Echo Park apartment. I’d never been in this neighborhood either. Funny how you can spend your whole life in a city and not know much about it.
I hesitated when he invited me in while he put on a sweater, but curiosity won out over caution. You can tell a lot about a person by how they live. He seemed to sense my distance and the reason for it because he was careful not to crowd me. Which was hard in his tiny studio.
I stood in the doorway briefly taking stock. Rob Anderson was either in training to be a Spartan or a monk. The whole apartment consisted of three rooms: a tiny bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a tiny living area. In the living area were a desk and chair, a couch (a hide-a-bed, I assumed), a tiny color TV, and a monster stereo system perched on a brick and board arrangement. He had one floor lamp by the couch and a table lamp on the desk. Two ties hung off the doorknob of what turned out to be a closet. Everything was so small I felt like Gulliver. I can’t imagine how someone his size tolerated it.
I sat on the couch and looked around some more as he rummaged in the bathroom. He had a CD collection of half classical music, half rock & roll. A large pile of magazines was right next to me on the floor, so I ruffled through them: Time, Stereo Review, National Geographic, Playboy (on the bottom), and Car & Driver.
There was a portrait on the desk that showed an unsmiling couple in their sixties. All they needed was a pitchfork to be a reasonable facsimile of Grant Wood’s American Gothic.
Rob came out of the bathroom and grabbed the jacket hanging on the desk chair. I gestured to the picture. “Those your parents?”
He grinned. “Yeah. We can’t get them to smile in front of a camera. It makes for a depressing picture.”
“It does look like a mug shot,” I agreed then gulped. He just laughed, thank goodness.
I surveyed his cell again trying to think of something charming to say. “You’re so neat,” I commented gamely.
Rob laughed again. I seemed to delight him. “It’s not much, is it,” he said, “but it’s cheap. Let’s go. You know how to get to Old Pas from here?”
I didn’t, of course, and since he’d earned a measure of trust by not immediately jumping my bones, I offered to let him drive my Miata. “But only if you know how to drive a stick,” I warned.
His face lit up at my suggestion. “Stevie, just give me the keys,” he said confidently.
It was a wild ride up the Arroyo Parkway. I don’t mean to imply that he took unnecessary chances, but he put the car through its paces. He wound it out in every gear and took joy doing it. Compared to him, I drove like a little old lady. I sat in the passenger seat, white-knuckled, through the curves. I guess he noticed I was a little pale around the gills. “Don’t worry,” he shouted over the whine of the engine, “I’ll get us there in one piece.”
He whipped into a minuscule parking space, led me to the bar, and ordered me a gin-tonic. The exhilaration of the drive had worn off his shyness and I didn’t have to work hard at all to pry information out of him. I found out that he did in fact work for the City of Los Angeles as an engineer and specialized in hydraulics. He told me that he was 27 years old, had grown up in South Dakota, and had been in the Marine Corps.
“The Marines?” I interrupted, unsettled. Weren’t they supposed to be the gung-ho psychotics of the armed forces? “Why’d you join the Marines? Did you want to like…kill people or something?” I asked with an uncertain smile.
He returned my smile, amused. “I spent most of my time as a clerk,” he explained. “I needed money for college. And the discipline didn’t hurt either.” He continued with his recitation. He had gotten his bachelor’s degree at South Dakota State University and was working on a special water project for the City of Los Angeles. He was a registered Republican (“A Republican!?” “I know; it’s not politically correct.”) and had never been married. His parents and three married older brothers still lived in South Dakota. He was a real solid citizen; not the type that I’m normally attracted to—probably because I’d never met one before.
He sipped his beer. “I don’t usually talk that much. Your turn. Tell me about you.”
Usually I didn’t listen that much, and I wasn’t sure where to start after all that.
“Well, I’m a Democrat,” I began.
He blew that off. “I figured. Are you originally from California?”
“Yup. Angeleno born and bred,” I said.
“You must like it here.”
“I guess so. I’ve never really spent time anywhere else, so I haven’t got anything to compare it to. Well, I lived in Texas because I have relatives there, but I was only there about a month because I couldn’t stand…” I broke off because I didn’t like getting this personal about myself. “Never mind, it’s not important. What else do you want to talk about?”
He seemed faintly surprised at my abruptness, but he obligingly switched topics. “So, tell me what you do.”
I told him about my MFA in theater, my part-time teaching job at a community college, and the trials and tribulations of a struggling actress. He looked impressed.
“I thought you looked familiar. I bet I’ve seen you on TV,” he said with a pleased smile.
“Probably. I’ve done some commercials.”
“Have you done any movies?”
“Small parts in lousy films.” I shrugged. “I call them lousy because I ended up on the cutting room floor.”
“It sounds exciting. You must like it.”
I swirled my drink around. “I thought I would. You know, when you’re in college you do great theater, plays by Tennessee Williams or Eugene O’Neill. You get to be a person. But that’s college. The movie parts I get sent out for are either prostitutes or mommies. They’re all one-dimensional characters, mostly all victims, and they’re all supposed to get naked. It’s pretty boring. And I won’t strip so I don’t get cast a lot.” I sipped my gin-tonic.
“Why don’t you do theater?” he asked.
I smiled wryly. “No money. And I have the same problem with professional theater. The stuff that’s being produced these days, at least in Los Angeles, has to be cutting edge, which means nudity. Apparently, it’s in the writer’s handbook that if you have a woman in a play, she has to spend a certain amount of time prancing around in the buff. And let me tell you, those stages are cold and drafty. You could get pneumonia up there. But to be fair, the current theater scene has become an equal opportunity exploiter. Everybody has to take off their clothes, not just the women. I almost feel sorry for the men with their whozits hanging out. One of those cold drafts hits them and their genitals shrivel up like a chicken neck and two acorns. Not very impressive.” I surprised a yelp of laughter out of Rob, and I grinned impishly. “I hope you’re not shocked.”
“Maybe a little bit. But it’s funny.”
“Well, I always say if you can’t laugh about things, you’ll probably end up jumping off a building. But really, I hope I didn’t offend you. Sometimes my mouth takes off before my brain engages,” I apologized with a droll look.
We smiled companionably at each other until Rob found another subject that interested him.
“That’s a great little car,” he started. “But it seems sluggish. When’s the last time you had it tuned up?”
“Tuned up?” I asked blankly.
“Yeah, tuned up.” He looked at me narrowly. “You know what a tune-up is, don’t you?”
I find that sort of question condescending and chauvinistic and I was going to reply tartly that, of course, I knew what a tune-up was—except I really didn’t. I’d heard about them on TV, of course, but I had no idea what was involved. This was the first car I’d ever owned, it had taken me forever to learn how to drive it, and I hadn’t gotten around to reading the maintenance section of the owner’s manual. I knew all the catch phrases so I could talk a good show but that was about it.
I was still trying to think up a good response to the tune-up question when he interrupted with, “When’s the last time you had the oil changed?”
From the expression on my face, it was obvious that I didn’t have a good answer for that little chestnut either.
“It still runs,” I muttered defensively.
“How long have you had the car?” he asked incredulously.
“About a year. I don’t know what you’re getting so excited about. I wash it every other week.”
I got a brief lecture about car maintenance. Not taking proper care of your car, in his opinion, was analogous to not taking care of your body and could have the same disastrous results.
“Okay, okay,” I capitulated, “I’ll take it to a mechanic when I have time.”
“Tell you what,” he said patiently, “I’ll come over some weekend and do it for you. As it is, I’ll worry about you being stranded on the freeway.” And he shook his head.
Part of me was irritated at his assumption of command because he clearly thought I was incompetent. Another part of me was starting to hum “Someone to Watch Over Me”.
“Whatever,” I said and checked my watch. “Wow, it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive. We’d better go.”
He drove back to his place slowly like he wasn’t in a hurry to say goodnight. I was getting set for the wrestling match I was pretty sure was ahead of me when I tried to get my keys back. When Rob parked in front of his apartment, I briskly jumped out of the passenger seat and ran around the car. I stood with my arms crossed loosely in front of my chest and was smiling coolly, ready to fend off any unwanted clinches as he unfolded from the seat.
“It was fun tonight,” I said pleasantly as I held one hand out expectantly for my keys.
“Yeah, it was,” Rob agreed and handed the keys over without a quibble. “I’ll call you about the tune-up,” he said and held the car door open for me.
This man was a revelation. There was no chance of him getting in my drawers, I was borderline rude, and he was still a gentleman. Maybe decency wasn’t dead in the world after all.
“I’d like that,” I said. What that my voice? I hadn’t sounded so sweet and dewy since I was sixteen.
“Good.” We shared an awkward pause. “Well, goodnight then.”
I got in my car, he closed the door firmly, and I drove off. In my rear-view mirror I saw him standing there, watching me, and I grinned goofily. Warm fuzzies were cuddling in my stomach, which is distinctly uncharacteristic. Cynicism, anger, contempt; these were all familiar emotions for me after dates, but warm fuzzies? The Iron Woman in me felt a patch of rust coming on.
All the next day I waited by the phone expecting to hear from Rob. Nothing. Monday, still nothing. Tuesday, I got distracted by a callback on a beer commercial, which I took as a great compliment. Beer ads specialize in pretty women, and I was flattered to be considered in that light. My feminist side scolded me for allowing myself to be used as a sex object; I should insist on being appreciated for my mind. But let’s face it, honey, I told my feminist self, ain’t nobody paying cold hard cash to admire my mind. I find a mild case of schizophrenia common in most women my age.
Wednesday, I was notified that I had the beer job which shot on Monday and Tuesday of the next week. I still hadn’t heard from Rob but by then, I’d given up on him. I scolded myself for allowing myself to get so goofy. I’d been alone for so long I was probably imagining virtues in Rob Anderson that he didn’t possess. If he didn’t call again, I’d survive; he was just another man who hadn’t followed through. Life could be worse. I had my classes to teach and my laundry to do. My agent wasn’t being snotty with me, I still had Leslie to play with, and Pudgy helped keep me warm at night. I went to the library and checked out some bodice-rippers.
Sunday the son-of-a-bitch called. I was pleasant but cool after he identified himself. Rob could tell that all wasn’t as it should be.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said loftily.
“Maybe I should call back later.”
“Depends on what you called about,” I replied, undercurrents rippling through my voice.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked cautiously.
“Me? Mad at you? Why on earth would I be mad at you?” I said with my best Noel Coward airy laugh.
“Perhaps I called too soon. I wasn’t sure when a good time would be. I know you’re busy and I didn’t want to bother you.”
What we had here was failure to communicate. I’d been pissed off because he hadn’t called soon enough, and he was just trying to be polite. I thawed considerably.
“I’m sorry, I guess I expected…” How was I supposed to finish that? That I expected him to be on my doorstop with concert tickets last Sunday (that he didn’t have my address was beside the point); that I expected my condo carpeted with roses; that I expected him to battle a dragon for me on a white horse; that I expected a damn phone call much, much sooner?
“…nothing,” I finished lamely.
“I was hoping you were free sometime this week,” he continued.
“This week?” I dithered. “Well, I’m shooting a commercial tomorrow and Tuesday…”
“Really!? What for?”
I told him the brand of beer, that I actually got a few lines and that if it played nationally, I could earn megabucks. He crowed and congratulated and made much of me. And if that doesn’t cause your kidneys to flow into your pantyhose, nothing will.
“Let me take you to dinner Tuesday to celebrate,” he suggested, and I graciously accepted. We made arrangements for him to pick me up at home—yes, I gave him my address and directions on how to get there—and we regretfully parted to pursue other aspects of our respective lives.
I immediately called Leslie. She listened to my excited babbling calmly. “I don’t want to pop any bubbles,” she said, “but I don’t understand all this excitement. You told me yesterday that you’d probably never see him again and now he calls and you’re all nuts. What’s with you anyway? You hardly know the guy.”
That stopped me. What was with me anyway? In the cold light of Leslie’s rationality my reaction was inappropriate. I didn’t know what to say.
“Shut up!” I mumbled and went to bed. I’d worry about my lunacy later. I had a long day ahead of me.
The shoot went smoothly. I was in a buoyant mood and didn’t even object to my costume of T-shirt and short shorts. The only bad moment came when the director asked the costumer if they couldn’t get a padded push-up bra, so I looked like I had ‘something’. I had ‘something’ all right, I mentally snarled, they just weren’t of zeppelin proportions. But I rose above it. I didn’t even get mad when the costume lady asked me if I’d ever considered installing implants. Installing—what a word for it. It sounded like she was talking about putting two washing machines on my chest instead of silicone sacks. I politely told her ‘no’ and she tsked tragically like I’d rejected chemotherapy. You gotta love the business.
I paid particular attention to the actors on the set. If my response to Rob Anderson was the result of mere neediness, I’d probably go bonkers over them, too. They were handsome young men, not particularly bright, but very charming. We had some laughs, but nothing went twang. Curioser and curioser.
Tuesday night I got home in time to switch from heavy camera war paint to street make-up, change clothes, and feed Pudgy. Rob rang my bell punctually which was good; it’d been a long day and I was hungry. Rob looked impressed when I let him in—not with me, with the condo. My townhouse was a two-story, three-bedroom, two-bath place. It had a fireplace, formal dining room, and a breakfast nook in the kitchen. It was light and airy and even had a small yard.
He looked around in appreciation. “How can you afford the rent on a place like this?”
“I own it,” I said.
He looked surprised. “You must be more successful at acting than you let on.”
“Maybe I’ll explain over dinner. Let’s go, I’m hungry.”
He led me out to his car—an eight-year-old Buick sedan. My gallant knight was going to whisk me away in the chivalrous equivalent of an oxcart. Now, most twenty-something men I knew didn’t drive family cars. I don’t consider myself a snob—all right, I’m a snob—but a Buick sedan went right on the debit side with Republican membership. I was disgusted with myself for wasting a week being in such a stew over this man.
I am not a well woman.
Then he opened the passenger door for me, got me settled, and shut my door before going around to the driver’s side. My opinion of him did another whipsaw. Not only do most twenty-something men not open the car door for you, you’re lucky if most parts of you are in the car before they take off.
“I thought we’d go to the Charthouse unless you’d rather do something else,” he said.
“Fine with me,” I agreed, and we putted off in the Buick.
“You’ve kept your car in good shape,” I commented, attempting to be charitable.
He glanced over at me and smiled teasingly. “It runs. I bought it from my dad two years ago when he got a new one.”
He bought his father’s old car. What was I to make of this new information? This could mean a) he was poor, b) he was cheap, c) he had weird taste in cars, or d) none or all of the above.
“Oh?” I said encouragingly, hoping he’d tell me more.
He stopped at a red light and turned to look at me. The amused look in his eyes told me he knew perfectly well what I was getting at. “I’m saving my money to go back to school,” he explained.
I hate getting caught in my finagling. “You must think I’m awfully nosy,” I apologized.
“I’m flattered that you’re curious about me, Stevie.”
We exchanged a smile. I decided to sit back and let him unfold in his own sweet time. He seemed to have broken the sound barrier, so it wasn’t up to me to poke and prod and pry. Besides, I was tired.
Shooting a commercial doesn’t look difficult but keeping your energy level controlled and up, take after take after take, takes a lot out of you. It felt good to sit back and sip a glass of cabernet. Rob was attentive but not intrusive, capable but not overbearing. I was relieved that my initial positive impression of him had been correct.
He asked me about the shoot, and I rambled on about that until our table was ready. He asked me questions about my teaching, my MFA—just general stuff. He was a great listener which is terrific because, even tired, I’m a great yakker. He laughed at my silly stories, admired my initiative, and seemed interested in me generally. Which was a real departure for me. Most of the men I’ve dated want me to flatter and listen to them. It was fun being on the other side and definitely good for my ego. We were having coffee when, looking a little uncomfortable but determined, he said, “I know it’s none of my business, but this has been on my mind since I saw where you lived. How do you come to own such a nice place? And your car isn’t cheap. Teachers don’t make that kind of money, especially part-time ones, and you said that you didn’t earn all that much acting. So, tell me; how can you afford it all?”
“Why? You want to ‘borrow’ money?” I asked with a side-long look at him. “Most of the men I meet at least wait until the third date to try to get cash out of me.”
He seemed shocked. “I would never ask a woman for money!” he declared.
That’s what they all say. I sipped my coffee and stared at him. “Just wondering why you want to know.”
He met my eyes levelly. “I was curious. Now I’m sorry for asking. Would you like an after-dinner drink?”
Okay, the man wasn’t after my fictional millions. He just suffered from perfectly normal curiosity. If I could pry, I guess he could too.
“You know what? Since you’re driving, I would like another glass of wine. And to pay for it, I’ll tell you the whole silly story,” I offered.
I flagged down the waitress and ordered. He had more coffee. We waited until she brought the wine and I started.
“Well, my mother was a Latina from Texas, I look like her…”
“She must have been a beautiful woman,” Rob murmured.
“She was,” I agreed, smiling. “And my father, I think but I’m not sure, was an illegal immigrant from Northern Ireland. Anyway, my mother’s family were good traditional, Catholic control freaks who had Mom’s life all planned out for her. They disowned Mom when she married some poverty-stricken nobody like my dad and left home for California. Which doesn’t seem to have bothered her much. She always went her own way. I guess Dad must’ve gotten legal when he married Mom because I don’t remember any trouble with the INS. But I never had any contact with any extended family either. Anyway, Mom and Dad had a bar and grill out in the Valley. Dad ran the bar—figures, doesn’t it? Irish and all that? —and Mom was in charge of the restaurant. They owned that property, and we had a nice little house. I was an only child and, boy, did I make out. I remember Christmases, Mom and Dad would…”
I found I was having a hard time talking.
“Throat’s dry,” I said gruffly to Rob and turned my head away. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to grab me and moan over me. I mentally blessed him for his restraint.
“Listen, we can talk about this some other time,” he said quietly after a moment.
I sipped some wine and said, “That’s all right. I’m told it’s good to discuss this sort of thing. Of course, the people who say it usually feed off other people’s misery, but I suppose it’s possible they’re right.”
He nodded so I plunged on.
“See, my parents were killed in a car accident when I’d just turned sixteen. Drunk driver. It’s sort of ironic. They were on their way home from closing their bar. I got the call at four o’clock in the morning.” I had another sip of wine. “Well, to make a long story short, they both left good-sized life insurance policies, the business, and the house. I sold the real estate, bought the townhouse, and invested the rest. I paid for the Miata out of my own earnings. I’m not rich but I’m doing all right.”
I smiled cheerfully, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but he still looked puzzled.
“But you were only sixteen, didn’t you have a guardian?” he asked.
“That’s another ugly story. The authorities contacted my mother’s family in Texas. They weren’t interested until they found out how much money was involved; then they took me in. See, the idea was to turn me into a good tortilla-making incubator while I “contributed” toward my upkeep with the cash. I lasted one month with them then ran back to California and petitioned the court for adult status. The court allowed me my freedom as long as I agreed to their choice of school and assigned an attorney to be trustee of the estate. For a fee, of course. But I figured better the attorney than the familial sharks. The attorney turned out to be pretty honest and only took what was legal. When I turned twenty-one, the bulk of the estate reverted to me and you see me as I am now, educated, in possession of a condo and a car, and struggling the rest of the time to make ends meet. I learned long ago not to touch the principal. So, anything else you want to know?”
He pushed his coffee cup around. “What do you do at Christmas?”
“Have dinner with whatever friends don’t have family obligations. Or Jewish friends. Christmas doesn’t mean much to them. I’ve even just gone to a movie and had dinner with my cat. Have you met Pudgy yet? She’s a great cat. We’re each other’s family.”
He pushed his coffee cup around some more. “You’ve really had it tough,” he said finally.
“Just for a couple of years. Don’t waste pity on me. There’re a lot of people who’ve had it a whole lot worse.”
“What do you do when you get sick or in some sort of trouble? You don’t have anybody to fall back on.”
“Sure, I do. That’s why God made friends…and money. You’d be surprised how independent that makes you.”
He obviously didn’t believe me. “No downside at all?”
Sympathy was nice but this was getting a little ridiculous. This was a date not a sensitivity session, so I looked him right in the eye and said, “Not really.”
He backed off, thank God. “Sounds like it works for you.”
“It does.” I finished my wine. “Well, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. Are you ready to go?”
“Anytime you are.”
He paid the check and we left. We talked of inconsequential things, like traffic patterns, on the way. I was priming myself for a goodbye scene. I know, I know, he’d been a perfect gentleman at the symphony, but this was the second date. Time for a big move. My gut feeling about this man was that he was decent, but my experience warned me…Well, in my experience the act at the front door involved some heavy-duty maneuvering, particularly if the man paid for dinner. The quid pro quo seemed to be satisfactory sex, at least on the man’s part, a shower, and possibly breakfast if the man found you worthy. I was tired, over-fed, owly, and emotionally drained from my stint in the confessional. Besides, I’d made it a policy not to part with sexual favors after one dinner. I’ve read that some prostitutes command $300 per session and I’ve never had a meal that cost anywhere near that.
He parked on the street and walked me to my door.
“You’re quiet,” he observed.
“Just tired,” I said, mentally girding myself for the whining and guilt-tripping when I didn’t invite him in. It takes a lot of concentration to shut a guy down without ending up with a broken jaw. I could evade the Roman hands and the tongue thrust down my throat like an undigested oyster, I encouraged myself and checked my mental focus. Yeah, I was ready. I had my keys out, ready to unlock and run. Rob appeared thoughtful during the short walk up the sidewalk.
I unlocked the door and turned to him, all defenses up. “Thank you for dinner, Rob, I enjoyed it.”
He put his hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes, and said, “So did I.” He leaned forward and kissed my mouth firmly but briefly. Then he stepped back and asked, “Can I call you again next week?”
Wait a minute. He’d done it to me again. Where was the clutching, the oyster, the whining? You get your mind all prepared for something awful and when it doesn’t happen you feel like you’ve stumbled. I was so flummoxed all I could do was nod and mumble, “If you really want to.”
He tipped my chin up, kissed me again, and said, “I want to.” Then he walked to his car.
You know, he could have tried a little harder. Dammit, now that I didn’t have to kiss him, I wanted to. On the spur of the moment, I called out, “I thought you were going to fix my car.”
He stopped and turned back to me. “How about Saturday?” “It’s a date,” I said. By God, he’d get some kissing then.