Chapter 12
The next weekend, Cherry went on a date with Russ Sutton.
Sort of a date—he invited her to his house for dinner.
He came to the door wearing a blue cardigan and gold khakis, and Cherry laughed when she saw his face because she still couldn’t
believe he’d walked back into her life, and this time, somehow, directly into her arms.
Russ laughed, too, and hauled Cherry inside by her wrist. “Get in here.”
His house was small, in an up-and-coming neighborhood. Craftsman-style, with two bedrooms—one for his son, Liam, who lived
with Russ not quite half the time. Russ’s ex had a bigger house in a better neighborhood. “Divorce,” Russ said lightly, fussing
with some garlic bread and putting it back in the oven. He’d also made pasta and Alison Roman’s Bolognese sauce—he had a crush
on Alison Roman.
It was more carbs than Cherry would usually have in one meal. Or in one day. (Everyone in Cherry’s family had high blood sugar.
She tried not to eat anything white.)
They ate at a small kitchen table. Russ used the dining room as a home office. Liam had a desk in there, too, “for homework
and Minecraft.” The house was very minimally decorated. There were a few framed concert posters in the living room. And lots of pictures
of Liam. (Light brown hair, Russ’s deep-set eyes. Apparently very into soccer.) Cherry’s mind skated past the possibility
of being a stepmother, then quickly skated away.
She and Russ talked like old friends. They were old friends.
They spun in different circles now, but adjacent circles.
They had so many acquaintances in common, it was a shock they’d never run into each other.
Cherry’s social life was more private than Russ’s—dinner parties, family gatherings.
Russ liked to go out. He went to fundraisers and did charity walks.
He volunteered for boards. He was like a kid building his résumé for college
applications. “Are you running for office?” Cherry asked him.
“No,” he said, like she was being silly. And then—“Not yet, anyway. I’m waiting for my state senator to run for congress.”
She smiled. “I’ll vote for you.”
“You’re not in my district.”
“Huh. I can’t believe you slept with me for nothing.”
He barked out a laugh. Russ had a great laugh. He really should run for office. He was that rare brand of charming that didn’t
seem thin or false.
They were done with dinner. Cherry was sitting across from him, winding her cloth napkin around her fingers.
“You look nice tonight,” he said.
“Oh,” Cherry said. “Thank you.” She was wearing a snug knit fit-and-flare dress, dark purple, with big blousy sleeves. It
was the most sweatery outfit she owned. (Cherry would have worn one of her old rockabilly dresses tonight if any of them still
fit.) (Maybe she should try one on; she’d lost weight since Tom left. She was solidly a size eighteen at the moment.) She’d
worn gray cable-knit tights and calf-length boots, but she’d taken off her boots at the door. She felt like a little kid,
in her stocking feet.
“You also look nice,” she said. “I like your cardigan.”
Russ looked pleased. “Thanks.”
“You always look nice,” Cherry said. “I mean . . . in my distant experience. I always liked the way you dressed.”
“You did?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. You know you’re a snazzy dresser.”
He laughed. “Snazzy.”
“I’ve always liked your glasses,” Cherry went on. She couldn’t help herself—she needed someone to talk to about him. “I’m glad you haven’t switched it up.”
“This is going really well,” Russ said.
“What is?”
“Our date.”
She laughed. “It’s going okay . . .”
He shook his head. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “No. I think it’s going really well.”
Cherry’s voice was soft—“Are you trying to hypnotize me again?”
He shook his head more slowly.
“I should tell you,” she said, still soft, “that I don’t stay over on the first date.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Cherry said, “but that wasn’t a date.”
“Huh . . .” Russ suddenly dropped from the chair to his knees.
“What are you doing?”
He was knee-walking over to her. “Well . . .” He put his hands on her hips, pushing between her knees (she opened them). “If
you’re not staying over, we better get to it.”
Cherry shook her head, laughing.
“I’m just kidding,” he said, wrapping his arms around Cherry’s waist. He craned his neck, lifting his chin up to her.
Cherry leaned over to kiss him.
Russ’s kisses were just like the rest of him: Clever. Confident. Surprisingly sweet. He brought one hand down her thigh and
then up her skirt. He stroked her tights with his thumb . . .
After a few good minutes of kissing, he pulled away and hopped to his feet. Cherry had to lean back so they didn’t hit heads.
“Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
She stood up. “Do you want me to put my dish somewhere?”
Russ was on the way to the living room. “Leave it.”
Cherry followed him.
He walked over to a very crowded bookshelf—if you ever needed to borrow the biography of a Democratic politician, Russ Sutton was your man—and motioned toward the couch.
“Sit down.” She did. “I went looking for this yesterday,” he said.
“I knew I had it. I save everything.” He grabbed a piece of paper—an eight-by-ten photo—and sat down on the couch right next to Cherry, handing it to her.
It was a black-and-white snapshot of the two of them, dancing at the Galway on the night they first met. Russ was holding
Cherry close in the picture—he’d probably just reeled her back into his arms. They were both smiling, but they looked surprised,
too, like they were completely in the moment, delighted, unsure what would happen next.
Russ looked young and gorgeous. That hair. Those dark lips. His eyes shining.
And Cherry . . .
She felt slapped in the face by how good she looked in this photo. It was like she was looking at someone else, someone objectively
beautiful. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were bright. Her breasts were practically touching her chin. This was a peach of a
girl.
“Where did this come from?” she asked.
Russ put his arm around her shoulders. “One of my friends was a photographer for the Creightonian. He took his camera everywhere.”
Cherry stared at the picture. “I can’t believe this exists.”
He squeezed her. “It’s kind of magical, right? How often do you have a photo of the moment you met someone?”
“This isn’t the moment we met . . .”
“Close enough.”
What she meant was, it wasn’t just the moment they met—it was the moment he met Stacia, too. His friend’s camera had been pointed in the wrong direction. Russ
himself had been pointed in the wrong direction.
“I remember everything about that dance,” Russ said.
Cherry shook her head, still hardly believing the photo was real. “We look so young . . .”
“You look exactly the same.” He kissed her neck.
She shook her head again.