Chapter 8
Marilyn
Something only my boyfriend would know.
My mind is blank.
Ricky nudges me with his shoulder. “I can go first.”
“Good, because I’m currently floundering.”
Tiny dimples appear in his cheeks as his smile grows. “I drink my coffee black, and I’ve been told I snore.”
“I don’t snore,” I say. “And coffee with cream, not milk. Vanilla-flavored is even better.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He eyes the partially filled glass in front of me. “And you drink beer, good wine, but prefer ice cream. Flavor?”
“Caramel is the best, but few places make it well. My grandma made homemade caramel ice cream. We used to hand-spin it in an old bucket. There was ice and salt around the silver center.”
Ricky’s stare intensifies, his brown orbs sparkling.
“What?” I ask.
“That…what you were just saying. You really meant it. I could see and hear how happy those memories made you.”
Nodding, I look down and back up, meeting his gaze. “Do you have memories that make you happy?”
“Yeah.” He lifts his chin and purses his lips. “I have no complaints about anything from my childhood. I think everyone is supposed to have some trauma that shapes them or some shit. If I did, I blocked it out.” His eyes open wide. “Devan. Yeah, she’s my trauma.”
“Devan was your trauma?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“Now, hear me out. Imagine you’re a ten-year-old kid. Life is going great. You have all your parents’ attention, baseball, football, friends, woods to explore, fields to wander…”
“Living the dream.”
“Exactly,” Ricky replies. “And then, out of nowhere, this tiny pink, crying, diaper-soiling troll comes into your home, and your world is never the same.”
“I can’t wait to tell Devan that description.”
“No,” he says quickly. “This is secret boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. You can’t tell anyone else.”
“Oh, those are the rules?” I’m not sure if it’s the beer or the company, but my dread leading up to this evening has disappeared.
“You have siblings. How much older are you than your sister?”
“Eight years, but Marcus came first. I don’t really remember life without all of us around.”
“You are definitely Marcus’s trauma.”
I shake my head.
Ricky leans closer, the warmth of his arm radiating to mine. “You’re telling me you had no life-changing trauma?”
My lips come together. “Not in my childhood.” I lift my eyebrows, ready to accuse Ricky of being my life-changing trauma. It wasn’t the sex. I’d been a willing participant. It was the aftermath.
He stares for a moment before saying, “Maybe we should change the subject.”
“Probably a good idea.”
Could he read my thoughts?
Ricky’s phone vibrates. After he looks at the screen, his smile returns. “Saved by the buzzer. Our table is ready.” He lifts his hand, signaling to the bartender.
As I reach for my purse, Ricky shakes his head. “I asked you to meet tonight to work on our plan. Tonight is on me.”
“I can pay for myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” He lowers his chin and widens his brown eyes. “Please, Marilyn. You’re doing me a favor.”
Against my better judgment, I acquiesce.
At our table, he asks me more questions. “If your significant other were to plan the perfect date, what would it be?” When I don’t answer, he offers, “Jetting to Paris, dinner, and a walk around the Eiffel Tower?”
I shake my head. “I’m much simpler.”
“Tell me.”
My lips curl at the idea. “I’ve never planned my own date, but if I did, I’d say dinner, but not at a restaurant. A home-cooked meal that includes some of my favorite dishes.” I giggle. “Here’s a secret—I’m not the world’s healthiest eater. Those dishes would include fettuccine or spaghetti.”
“Carbs.”
I nod. “And dessert.”
“Caramel ice cream.”
“Or cheesecake. No fruit, just a thick slice of cheesecake.”
The rest of the evening, we spend talking about mutual friends and avoiding the more personal subjects. It isn’t until our meal is complete that Ricky brings up tomorrow night’s dinner.
“If you tell me your address, I can pick you up for the dinner.”
“Where is the dinner?”
“Hotel Carmichael.” He grins. “Walkable from here.”
“Fancy.”
“Really? How fancy?”
I eye him up and down. “Dark-suit-fancy.” My thoughts go between the idea of Ricky in a tailored suit and wondering what I will wear. “I wasn’t expecting such a nice venue. Hotel Carmichael has only been open a few years.”
Ricky suddenly looks concerned. “I have one suit.”
“The partners are old-school. Change up the shirt and tie, and the suit won’t matter.”
He inhales, his nostrils flaring. “I’m feeling like tomorrow’s dinner is an interview.”
“Essentially, it is.”
He shrugs. “Even if I don’t get the job, I’ve had a good time tonight.” His lips curl upward. “What you said about the world beyond Riverbend being lonely, it is. And I have a roommate. Tonight was great, talking to someone and not having to pretend to be someone else.”
A roommate?
Is Ricky in a relationship?
Why ask me to this dinner?
“A roommate? Why not take her to the dinner?”
Ricky laughs. “Because she is a he.” He lifts his hands. “Always has been, to my knowledge. And in a nutshell, Max is the opposite of stable.”
I let out a breath, thankful he isn’t living with a woman, while also chastising myself for caring. “Ricky, tomorrow, don’t pretend to be anyone else. You’ve worked hard enough to be invited to this dinner. That doesn’t happen to everyone. The partners already see something in you. Just be you.” A smile lifts my cheeks. “I’m not sure I can refer to you as Rich or Richard.”
He reaches out, lifting his hand palm up on the table. “We’ve known each other for a long time and have been dating off and on.” He meets my gaze.
The din of diners around us disappears as I slowly lift my hand and place it in his. The warmth of his touch envelops me as he wraps his fingers around mine. When I look back up, he’s still staring at me.
“We’re on again,” he says, his deep voice rumbling like thunder, warning of an approaching storm. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Retrieving my hand, I inhale and sit taller. “This was nice, talking to someone. I hope you get the job you want, but remember what you said—no strings. As soon as tomorrow’s dinner is over, we’re off again.”
He nods as his Adam’s apple bobs. “No strings.”
“If you give me your phone, I’ll add my number and address.” I wink. “Probably something a boyfriend would know.”
“Good idea. Give me yours, and I’ll do the same.”
We exchange phones. As I enter my name into his contacts, I see it’s already there, listed as Marilyn J. Do not answer. My blood boils. “It seems you have my number.”
He looks up at me with large eyes. “Oh, I forgot. I’ve had it for a long time. I don’t have your address.”
My hands start to shake as I enter my address in the contact information. Emotions I’d tempered begin to build. He’s had my number and never used it. Not only that, but he had a reminder not to answer. I add my address but leave his note intact.
As we again exchange phones, Ricky says, “I didn’t know if you had a new number. That one has been in there for a while.”
“Like seven years?”
His countenance changes. “We’ve established I’m an ass, or I was. Can we move beyond that?”
Can we?
“Sure,” I say curtly. “The reminder is good. You’re an ass. I’m an angel for helping you out, and soon, we’ll be off again, like we’ve been for seven years.”
“Marilyn, stop. Tonight was nice. Let’s play on that.”
Pressing my lips together, I watch as the waiter lays the black folder on the table. “What time should I expect you?”
“Cocktails are at six thirty.” He tilts his head as he opens the folder. “I can pick you up at six.”
Clenching my teeth, I watch as he places his credit card in the folder. Once it’s closed, I push my chair back and stand. “Thank you for dinner. I need to go.”
“I can walk you out to your car.” He stands and looks down at the folder, obviously torn about what to do.
“No worries, Richard. I can walk myself to my car.” Just like I’ve been doing for the last seven years.
I don’t say the last part. Instead, I lift my coat and purse from the back of the chair and turn away before he can see the tears teetering on my eyelids.
By the time I reach my car, the salty traitors have glided down my cheeks, followed by more. My temples ache from my swift shift in emotions. I don’t even notice the cold until I press the button, start the car, and the heat radiates from the vents.
Ricky had my number.
It would be better if he didn’t—but he does.
He’s just never called it.
“This was a bad idea,” I say aloud. “Get your shit together, Marilyn. One more evening. Play nice and never speak to him again.”