60. Chapter 60
Chapter 60
The next day at work, Paige found herself looking forward to the evening ahead and as a result had a fairly good day, despite the fact that her boss, Linda, showed up for a few hours.
After arriving home, she quickly fed Sputnik his dinner, then went to get ready. Deciding to take David at his word, she dressed casually, starting with her favorite pair of low-heeled ankle boots and black skinny jeans that made her ass look amazing. She added a scoop-necked, white T-shirt that she left untucked, then looped a charcoal gray scarf decorated with black cats around her neck for a little whimsy, before throwing on a short, distressed, blue denim jacket.
While waiting for David to pick her up, Paige told herself she wasn’t nervous, even though this outing with him felt more like a date than any she’d been on in the past several months. She was also looking forward to it more than the other dates, which was problematic, since it wasn’t a date, and wasn’t going to go anywhere.
David arrived on time, dressed in a pair of dark-washed jeans and a light blue button-down shirt with white stripes, worn under a navy, V-neck sweater. His beard looked freshly trimmed, and his hair was slightly damp and tousled, brushing his shoulders—Paige didn’t know if he’d kept it down on purpose for her, and she couldn’t believe how much she hoped he had.
She also couldn’t believe how much her fingers itched to play with it again, like the night she’d held him on her loveseat, only this time not because she was comforting him.
“You look great,” David told her.
“So do you.”
Paige was shocked by her attraction to him. Seriously, wasn’t it wrong to be this attracted to the man you were no longer married to?
“So, where are we going?” she asked as they walked out to his car.
“You’ll see.”
David opened the car door for her, then drove to Pablo’s, a small, hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant she’d driven by many times but had never eaten at.
It reminded her of the place they’d gone to on their first official date. Her suspicion that David had picked it on purpose was confirmed after they were seated and he asked, “Do you remember that sketchy Mexican place we went to on our first date?”
“I do. God, they had the cheapest Margaritas. Speaking of which … ”
“You read my mind.” He flagged down a waiter and ordered two blended strawberry Margaritas. When the waiter left to get their drinks, they each opened up a menu and began perusing the entrees.
“What is Paige going to have?” David murmured, obviously talking to himself. “This looks good. Oh, and it’s made with poblano peppers … I wonder if those are the hot ones?”
Paige could throw shit, too. “I think David’s going to have … no, not that. What about this? It comes covered in their homemade corn salsa. Perfect,” she said, knowing how much he hated corn when it was in actual ‘corn’ form. Corn on the cob? Hell no. Cornbread? Perfectly fine.
When the waiter returned with their Margaritas—along with complimentary chips and guacamole—they both stared at the drinks, which were served in glasses roughly the size of fishbowls.
“Holy shit,” they said at the same time, before laughing.
They were still smiling as they ordered for one another, and after the waiter disappeared again, David held up his drink.
Paige did the same, having to use both hands.
“To telling the worst day of our lives to fuck off,” he announced, only to partially lower his glass. “Sorry. That might be a little presumptuous of me because the worst day of my life isn’t necessarily the worst day of yours. Given everything you’ve been through, I mean.”
“It is the worst day of my life,” she told him. Then, indicating he should raise his glass again, Paige repeated the toast. “To telling the worst day of our lives to fuck off.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“Oh, my God,” Paige wheezed, her eyes watering a little. “That’s got some kick.”
“Jesus, you’re not kidding,” David agreed, deciding he’d better drink sparingly, otherwise they’d have to take an Uber to their next destination.
They had barely started to work on the chips and guacamole when their food was brought out. After digging in—David into his steak fajitas (sans corn salsa) and Paige into her chicken chimichanga (sans poblano peppers)—he asked, “So, do you have a wedding anniversary tradition?”
His casual tone seemed a little forced, making her think the question was hard to ask, and that her answer was important to him. “Yes. I pick out a restaurant I think we might’ve gone to if we were still married and have dinner by myself. The first anniversary after the divorce, I went to Giovanni’s and actually ordered the gnocchi with sausage and peppers for you. I think the waitress thought my elevator didn’t go all the way to the top floor, but I didn’t care. I took your meal home, but then couldn’t bring myself to eat any of it and ended up throwing it away.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “And I can’t believe I told you all that. Damn this Margarita.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Paige decided to lob his question back at him, even though she knew the chances of him having one were slim, given that he’d been with Ashley and had a baby on the way when the first anniversary after they were divorced rolled around. “So, do you have a wedding anniversary tradition?”
David surprised her by nodding. “I do. I take the day off and spend it alone.”
She took another drink of her Margarita; the more she drank, the smoother it went down. “Like, by yourself, alone?”
“Is there another way to be alone?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“I meant, are you really alone?”
“Well, I don’t hole up in a cave or anything, but I do get away from everyone I know—and that always included Ashley, too. It’s a sacred day to me … so much so that I’ve never had sex with anyone other than you on that day,” David finished softly. “And I can’t believe I just told you that.”
“I’m glad you did.” His admission made Paige want to cry; she actually had to blink back a few tears. “How did Ashley feel about that?”
“Was that rhetorical?”
“No. Well, maybe. I’m assuming she didn’t like it and if she didn’t, then I really want to hear all about how she didn’t.”
“She didn’t like it at all. If she’d had her way, we’d have—” David broke off and took a bite of his fajitas. “Never mind.”
“What? You’d have fucked all day?”
The bite he’d just taken almost lodged in his throat, making him cough. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” he admitted with a grudging sigh. “We probably would’ve fucked all day.”
“Well, I’m glad you two didn’t fuck all day.”
David leaned forward, looking at her intently. “You know, there are times when you’re the person I remember. And then, there are times when you’re … not.”
Having expected something slightly more deep than how he ended that observation, Paige shook her head in amusement. “Thanks, I think.”
“It was a compliment. But both persons are good—”
“Persons?”
“People,” he corrected himself. “Both people are good. I wasn’t trying to imply one person wasn’t good. They’re just different. Shit, I’m going to shut-up now. No, wait. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How lonely have you been these past five years?”
The change of subject almost made her head spin (or was it the Margarita?) and Paige had to think for a moment. “Well, in the beginning, I was really lonely. But then loneliness took a back seat for a while, because of all the shit in my life. I was having really bad days and I spent more time being crushed and sad and frustrated and angry, than being lonely. And when I was lonely, it wasn’t generic. I was specifically lonely for you.” She tilted her head at him. “How lonely were you? I mean, before you and Ashley got together, because after that, you probably weren’t lonely.”
“I was lonely as fuck. I missed you all the time and worked long hours to avoid being in the loft by myself. But, even after Ashley and I got together, nothing really changed. I was still lonely as fuck.”
The waiter came by and cleared their plates, then left the check, which David swiped with ninja stealth before Paige could even attempt to take it.
Against her objections, he paid the bill and then walked her out to his car, opening the door for her again. They headed off to their next destination and even though she suspected what it was going to be, when they pulled up in front of a bowling alley just down the street called Glow Bowl, she cracked up.
“For God’s sake, David, I haven’t bowled in years.”
“Neither have I,” he said, turning off the car. “In fact, the last time I did, was with you.”
“Really?”
He nodded; Ashley’s idea of fun had not included bowling.
“Same,” Paige told him.
Inside, the main source of illumination was black lighting, which made everything white—including the striped pattern in the carpet, the constellations painted on the ceiling, and pieces of light colored clothing—glow like the moon. Pouring out of overhead speakers was Poison’s “Nothing But A Good Time”, doing its best to compete with the numerous boisterous conversations and the crash of balls knocking over pins. The smell of hamburgers and hot dogs hung in the air, mingling with the heavy scent of floor wax and well-worn carpet.
The place was jumping for a weeknight.
After David ignored her objections and paid for two games, they got shoes and went to their designated lane.
Paige set her purse on a chair, followed by her denim jacket before sitting down. David took the spot next to her and as they put their bowling shoes on, he proposed they make a bet.
“A bet? You’re a better bowler than me,” she pointed out. “Why don’t I just give you $10 dollars right now?”
“Playing for money is for people without imaginations. I was going to suggest something more … entertaining.”
“What do you want to play for, then? You’ve already seen my boobs.” The moment she realized what she’d said, Paige pressed her lips together in embarrassment. Had she really just mentioned her boobs? Damn the jet fuel in that Margarita. “Gah. Not that my boobs would be entertaining, or anything.”
In the dark, his teeth gleamed white when he laughed. “I actually would find them entertaining,” he said. “But I was going to suggest that the loser has to make the winner whatever he wants for dinner.”
Paige felt some of her embarrassment fade. “Wait. You said ‘he’. Whatever ‘he’ wants for dinner.”
“I know. And I already know what I want you to make.”
Trying to overlook his obvious amusement, she got up and headed for the racks of balls. He followed and insisted on helping her with her choice, as if it was a complicated procedure.
“I can pick out my own ball,” she told him, grabbing a bright pink one and swaying a bit in the process, because it was heavier than she’d expected. “There. Done.”
David immediately took it from her and put it back, sort of crowding her a bit in the process. “You need one that will give you a fighting chance.”
“That was mean.”
Ignoring her, he looked over the balls, then handed her a yellow one with mother-of-pearl swirls in it. “Try this.”
Paige took it from him. “This one’s perfect. Done.”
“You need to take this seriously. The ball’s heft needs to feel good in your hands.”
“Did you just use the word ‘heft’?”
His lips twitched. “How does the ball feel in your hands?”
“It feels like a bowling ball. Should I fondle it, to get better acquainted with its heft?”
With a grin at her saucy attitude—no doubt fueled by the Margarita—he lobbed a few more ‘ball’ innuendos at her before he was finally satisfied with her ball, then went to pick out one for himself. When his choice turned out to be bright blue, Paige couldn’t help asking, “Aren’t blue balls bad?”
“Normally they are, but this one is going to win me dinner.”
Even though she suspected he was right, she still gave him a dirty look.
Returning to their lane, Paige typed their names into the console scoreboard screen, while David pulled a hair tie out of his pocket and put his hair up.
“You look disappointed,” he told her, in response to her expression.
“I like it down.”
“I know. But I don’t want my hair messing with my game.”
“You know we’re bowling in the dark, right?”
“I know. That’s why I really don’t need my hair in my eyes. You might want to put yours up, too, since you need all the help you can get.”
Paige narrowed her eyes at the insult; he seemed to have a never ending supply tonight. Then, before she could fire back, he said, “Let’s bowl.”
“Let’s bowl,” she repeated. “You’re up first, Damon.”
Eyebrows drawing together, David glanced at the console screen, to where she’d listed him as ‘Damon’. “Seriously?”
With an exaggeratedly sweet smile, she nodded, before chirping, “Let’s see what you got.”
Clearly not intimidated, he grabbed his ball and with textbook bowler form, proceeded to bowl a perfect strike.
What an asshole. Paige got up to get her ball and take her turn, and as they were passing each other, he chirped back, “Let’s see what you got.”
Since she’d never bowled a strike in her life, she didn’t think bowling one now was going to happen without divine intervention (and God was probably too busy for that). However, ending her first frame with two gutter balls wasn’t what she thought was going to happen, either, but it did.
As did her second frame. And her third. And her fourth.
David, in the meantime, had no such issues.
When it was time for her fifth frame, Paige picked up her ball and then set it back down. She honestly didn’t think it was the ball’s fault it kept ending up in the gutter, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to get a different one, either, so she turned and headed over to the ball racks to do just that.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“To get a different ball.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like the one you picked out for me.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It won’t stay out of the gutter.”
“I think that’s because you keep putting it there,” he said, then added, “You can put up the bumpers, if you want.”
Turning her back on him and the smirk on his face, she looked over the balls before picking up the bright pink one she’d originally wanted and returned to their lane. Then, very conscious that he was watching her—and probably still smirking—Paige stuck her fingers in the holes, lifted the ball, took several steps forward, pulled her arm back, propelled it forward, and watched the ball go into …
The. Motherfucking. Gutter.
She stood there in utter disbelief for several moments. Then, above the overhead music and the crashing of pins in nearby lanes, she heard it: the unmistakable sound of slow, deliberate clapping coming from behind her.