3. Darby
3
Darby
Improv, but Say No
D o I need to buy three new outfits in the airport? Maybe not, but when pants fit this well, and I find a long dress that doesn’t drag the ground on me, I’m buying them. Two new pairs of pants, tops to go with them, and one dress isn’t all that extravagant. The price tags? Yeah, I’m trying not to think about those. But after the day I’ve had, I deserve to treat myself a little.
I carry everything out of the dressing room and wander around in search of the only other thing I need. Just when I’m about to give up, the sales clerk asks if I need help finding anything else.
“I’ve looked around and I don’t see any, but I’ve never had to buy a change of clothes at the airport, so I’m not sure if you sell them or not, but—”
Before I can finish dragging out my question, she smiles and leads me to a drawer, where she reveals a limited selection of underwear. I’ve never been so grateful to see granny panties in my life.
Okay, maybe they’re not that bad, but they’re not sexy. Not that I’m trying to be sexy in the airport. Why did I even think that? Who cares what they look like?
I add three pairs of very plain black underwear to my purchases.
“I notice your tote doesn’t zip,” the clerk says. “And it looks pretty full. We do have quilted totes with zippers. They hold quite a bit.”
“If I’m going to have to carry something else, I may as well just carry a shopping bag.”
“We have a wheeled version as well.”
“Of course you do. Show me.”
They’re all quilted, even the wheeled version. And the patterns are . . . well, my grandmother would be thrilled to own any one of them. I’m definitely giving it to her after my trip. That almost justifies the expense. “I’ll take that one.”
The saleswoman asks me to clarify which one I’m pointing at, which forces me to actually choose. I really don’t care. They’re all equally ugly, but I go with the blue paisley design. It’s the most understated of the color combinations.
In all fairness, I dislike patterns on the whole. I don’t know what people have against solid colors.
Two stores down, I pass a leather shop with gorgeous bags in the window, including a backpack that probably costs twice as much as what I just spent. If the sales clerk in the last store hadn’t talked me into the sensible bag that I’m now pulling along behind me, I might impulse-buy that backpack.
In light of all the money I just saved, I may as well buy myself a nice meal. Or as nice as I can find within the next five minutes because I’m seriously hungry all of a sudden.
I make a loop through the terminal, checking out the restaurant choices, and ultimately decide Italian is my best option. The hostess smiles when I approach. “You’re in luck if you want a table. I just had a two-top open up.”
“I’ll take it.”
Someone behind me immediately says, “Mind if I join you?”
I’m pretty sure I recognize that voice, so I shouldn’t be shocked when I turn around and confirm it’s Zane.
“So, you are a stalker.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve spent the last half hour trying really hard not to be one.”
“I don’t even want to know what that means, do I?”
“Probably not. But can I share your table?”
“You’re not going to offer to buy?”
“I’m still working out a plan in my head of how I can covertly pick up the tab without offending you.”
“Do you really think you’re that crafty?”
“Well, you haven’t heard my plan yet. I could tell you all about it over dinner.”
I bite back a smile. Dammit. What is it about this guy? This is the second time today he’s invaded my space. And still his presence doesn’t make me want to punch him in the face.
Maybe that’s it—his face. Being that attractive probably gets him a lot of free passes, but I’m not usually so generous with them.
A couple wearing matching t-shirts—straight to jail!—walks deliberately in our direction. There’s no mistaking they are headed for this restaurant. They look hungry. There is only one open table. Fuck me.
“We’ll take the table,” I confirm.
As soon as we’re seated, he says, “I see you got a carry-on.”
“I can’t help how ugly it is. It’s all they had.”
“Looks fine to me.”
“You probably grew up carrying a monogramed backpack with your prep school logo on it. What do you know?”
“Uniforms were mandated. We didn’t choose them. Anyway, I’d like to think my fashion sense has evolved.” He smiles across the table at me.
His fashion sense is pretty damn good. Almost like he has a personal shopper. For all I know, he does.
“I hope you’re not going to be offended when I order a steak.” I flip the menu over to be sure I haven’t missed anything.
“Why would that offend me?”
“Because you’re a vegan?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Your shoes are.”
“Right. But I bought them because I liked the shoe, not just because they’re made of vegan leather. They look good, they’re comfortable, and they’re practical. If a woman spilled coffee on them in an airport, I could just wipe them off, and no one would ever know.”
“Oh, sure. What are the odds of that happening?”
Why is he looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?
A server brings water to the table and asks if we’d like to start with an appetizer. As if we’d rehearsed it, we say in unison, “The calamari.”
We stare at each other, too surprised to do anything else for a moment.
“Would that be one or two orders?” the server asks.
Neither of us answers, obviously to avoid a second synchronized response. But also, we didn’t discuss sharing an appetizer. This isn’t a date. We’re just two strangers, sharing a table in a crowded airport.
It’s not like I’ll eat an entire order by myself, especially not if I’m having the steak, and this poor server has other tables to take care of. He can’t just stand here, waiting on us to respond all night, so I break the silence. “Just one.”
“Are you ready to order entrees as well?”
I look to Zane to see if he’s ready. He nods, but doesn’t state his order. Oh, I see. He’s waiting on me to go first. I know it’s supposed to be the gentlemanly thing to do, but I’ve met plenty of guys who put up a gentlemanly front, but were assholes to their core, so I’m not impressed by it.
Since the server didn’t ask for our drink orders at all, I start there. “I’ll have a glass of Montepulciano. The filet, medium. And a small Cesar salad.”
“And you, sir?” He isn’t writing anything down. I hate when they don’t write it down.
“The same.” Zane hands over his menu. “Go ahead and make that wine a bottle.”
I wait for the server to walk away before I ask, “What was that?”
“What?”
“Why did you order the exact same things?”
“Because those were exactly the things I wanted.”
“That’s weird.”
“Not really. Your order wasn’t unique, by any means.” He smiles again. “Plus, he wasn’t writing anything down. I never trust they’ll get my order right if they don’t write it down.”
“Because they never do. Why can’t they just write it down?”
“I don’t know, but I bet I increased our odds of getting what we ordered.”
“Time will tell.”
“Think positive thoughts.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” I dig my phone out of my purse because I just had a thought, and I probably need to act on it right now.
“Thinking positively now might make today better.”
“What exactly is there to be positive about? The fact that I got fired this morning? That I’m stuck in an airport? Or that I just found out every Minute Suite is booked for the next twelve hours, so I either get to stay awake all night or try to sleep sitting up?”
“I can solve one of those problems.”
“Oh, yeah? You’ve got a sleep pod connection?”
“Better. I have a hotel room. You’re welcome to share it.”
Our bottle of wine arrives, and as soon as the server pours mine, I take a healthy sip. Once he’s gone again, I politely turn down Zane’s incredibly inappropriate offer.
“We cannot share a hotel room. We are complete strangers.”
“That’s not true. I know you went to public school. You got fired this morning. The beach is your happy place. You like Italian wine. And calamari. See, I know all sorts of things about you. And I didn’t have to stalk you to learn them. You told me. Or showed me.” He lifts his glass and swirls the wine, never taking his eyes off me as he does it. “Would you have done that with a complete stranger?”
“On a normal day? No.” I take a healthier sip of my wine. “Wait. How do you know the beach is my happy place?”
“It’s where you’re headed for vacation. People don’t usually book vacations in places they don’t enjoy.”
“Right. Well, I still think we’re strangers.”
“Maybe after a second glass of wine, we won’t be.”
“I’m not having a second glass of wine with you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m just not.”
Maybe because I don’t trust you. Or myself. I’m vulnerable. I just got fired. And you have those hazel eyes and that dimple in your right cheek and your stupid musician hair.
“Are you a musician?”
“Would you dislike me less if I were?”
“I never said I didn’t like you. I said I didn’t know you.”
“Let’s get to know each other.”
“Why?”
“I’m not asking you to tell me your deepest secrets. But let’s talk over dinner, share some things, see what we have in common. It’s what people do. Part of the human condition, right?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never been big on being conditioned.”
He laughs like I said something funny.
“That wasn’t a joke.”
“I know.”
The server brings out the calamari. Good timing, too, because I need something to do with my hand other than lift a wine glass. My stomach is empty, and I don’t want to wake up next to this guy with only a fuzzy memory of how I got there.
“I know what the human condition means, by the way. If you were laughing because you thought I didn’t understand what—”
“You’re obviously intelligent, Darby. Your wit alone proves that. It’s not why I laughed.”
“Then what was funny about it?” I dig into the calamari like I’m starving, eating three pieces before he can answer. It’s good, perfectly crispy, not at all greasy, and the sauce is delicious.
“Your quick sarcasm is funny. You’d be great at improv.”
“I would be terrible at improv. You have to say yes to everything, and that’s not exactly in my nature. I’d ruin the whole show.”
“Maybe they should use you to train improv actors. You’d say no to anything you didn’t want to do, and they’d have to think quick to counter your objection.”
“Ah, an improv agitator. Okay, that might be fun.”
By the time we’ve finished our meal, and the bottle of wine, we definitely know more about each other. He still thinks we could’ve been friends in high school. Wrong. I would’ve never given him the time of day—not because there was anything wrong with him, but I always dated a certain type.
All the boys I went out with were broody and rebellious with obsessive tendencies. In other words, they made me the center of their discontented worlds. God, I can’t imagine wanting some sad sack dude obsessed with me now.
Truthfully, I don’t think I really liked it back then either, but you date one melancholic drummer with a motorcycle and an alcoholic father and BAM! You’re typecast. It happens so easily at that age.
Your first teenage relationship sets the stage, and you either settle into playing that character until graduation or you break out. I was a few years away from being strong enough to break out of anything.
Maybe I would’ve been friends with Zane in college, but probably only superficially. If we’d met in a class, we might’ve talked while we were there, but we still would’ve had totally different crowds. I can’t imagine we would’ve hung out together.
And if we’d met on a job after college? I’d have seen him as competition. It’s unlikely we would’ve become friends, and definitely nothing more. No workplaces romances for me.
I’ve only had two real adult romances, and I’m thoroughly single at the moment. After my last breakup, I threw myself into work more than ever.
I defined myself: a career woman, who struggles to make time for friends, let alone romance. It’s not that I necessarily wanted every aspect of the role, but that’s how it happened, and it fit.
I admit it’s nice to relax and put the world on hold while I had dinner with Zane. I forget all about the storm, my lack of a job, and even that I don’t have a bed to sleep in tonight, but as we sit here, waiting for the check, all those things rush back to compete for top worry.
“Thanks for the break from reality,” I say.
“Thanks for having dinner with me. You have a great laugh, by the way.”
“Well, you’re easy to laugh at.”
He laughs at that, just like I knew he would. It feels nice, weirdly comfortable.
“What should we do now?” he asks as we walk out of the restaurant.
“Well, if I were you, I’d go to my hotel room, take a nice, hot shower, and veg out with a movie.”
“Hmm, I see that going differently. I think you’d go to your room, take a shower, and then open your computer and start looking for a new job.”
I look away so he doesn’t see me smile. How did he do that? “Shows how little you know. I’m waiting until tomorrow to start my job search.”
“Wow. So, tonight you’re a free spirit, huh?”
“Is it so hard to believe that I could be carefree for one night?”
“I think I’m going to have to see it to believe it.”
“Suit yourself.”
Did I just invite this guy to hang out with me? This was supposed to be the moment we went our separate ways. Actually, that was supposed to have happened when I left the coffee shop. And when I left him standing outside the boutique.
Third time’s clearly not the charm here. I guess we’ll go our separate ways when he finally gets tired and wants to go to bed.
I openly smile at him. “Come on, stalker. I’ll buy you a drink. I owe you one.”