Chapter Five If the Ocean Was Beer #3
I frown and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “You’ll have to explain that to me.”
“I’m not sure I can,” he replies, “because I can’t even explain it to myself. Ask Kevin. He’ll give you a better answer.”
I glance over at Kevin, who’s scooping ice cubes into a cocktail shaker and hunting around for the right liquor bottle. “He looks busy.”
“Yeah, well . . . the truth is I’m fighting to resist my basic impulses.”
I chuckle. “I’m confused. But it sounds intriguing. What might those impulses be?”
He leans forward, rests his arms on the table, and gives me a slightly devious look, but it comes with a hint of a grin. “If it were up to me, I’d go to cooking school and become a chef.”
I draw back slightly. “Wow. That’s not the answer I was expecting.”
He reaches for another nacho. “Eventually I’d open my own restaurant. Something classy. Fine dining. Creative presentations. Works of art on a plate, you know?”
“I do know. But why isn’t it up to you?”
He wags his finger at me. “That’s the burning question, right there.
I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately, in my own mind, ever since I started an eight thirty a.m. class in corporate tax law, which I despise.
I hate it more and more every day, and I’m not sure where it’ll bottom out. Me flunking the exam, probably.”
He sits back, reaches for the butter knife on the table, and pretends to slice his wrist.
I know he’s joking, but still, it’s sad. “So what’s the solution?”
He sets the knife down and takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I don’t want to disappoint my father. And therein lies the conflict. He’s proud of me these days, which wasn’t always the case.”
“Meaning?”
He shrugs his very muscular shoulders. “My grades weren’t good in high school, and what can I say? I hung out with a wild crowd. We skipped a lot of classes, and we liked to party.”
“Yet you got into law school,” I reply.
He glances at his reflection in the dark window. “I’m sure that came as a shock to many. My high school English teacher probably had a coronary.”
I watch his expression for a moment while he stares out the window. “You must have found that satisfying on some level,” I say.
“On every level imaginable.” He looks at me again with an infectious grin, and I smile in return. “But I worked hard for it,” he adds. “When I first started at Dal, for my undergrad, I took classes I actually found interesting.”
“What was your major?”
“Psychology.” He points at Kevin. “And now I have better friends, like that guy, who’s super competitive, which rubbed off on me. I’d never met anyone who was competitive in the classroom before. Only in sports.”
I nod with understanding.
A waiter comes by to check on us. Nate tells him he can bring the bill anytime, and I’m a little disappointed that the night is coming to an end. Then I wonder where Becky is. I spot her on a stool at the bar, talking to Kevin.
I return my attention to Nate. “So you enjoyed the path to law school,” I say because I want to keep the conversation going. “But now that you’re there, it’s not what you thought it would be, and you don’t want to disappoint your father. But maybe he’d be pleased to see you following your passion.”
Nate shakes his head exaggeratingly. “Oh no. He’s been grooming me to follow in his footsteps since I was . . . I can’t even remember.”
“What does he do?” I ask.
“He’s a criminal lawyer and has done very well for himself—big house, fancy car. But he wants the same for me, and the truth is most restaurants fail.”
I feel bad for Nate, because I know how good it feels to love your work. “Can’t you just tell him that you don’t need a fancy car and you’d prefer to go to work every day and love what you do? Maybe he’ll surprise you and understand.”
Nate scratches the back of his neck. “I highly doubt it.” He stares at me for a moment, and I feel a strange fluttering in my belly. His eyes are wistful. “Did your parents ever give you trouble when you told them what you wanted to do?”
I feel a little guilty answering the question. “No, they were very supportive. Especially my dad because he runs his own business, and he was keen to help me out with that side of things.”
“What kind of business?”
“He’s a plumber,” I reply. “And he, too, has done very well for himself. Big house and fancy car. That is, if you consider a Chevy Silverado fancy.”
Nate laughs. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Always.”
The waiter comes by with the bill, and Nate thanks him, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. He counts out a few bills and drops them onto the table.
I catch Becky in my peripheral vision, walking toward us. “Mark’s out front,” she says flatly.
My stomach drops. I’m not sure what’s happening here. Or maybe I am. I’m feeling slightly infatuated, and it’s a shock to my system because I haven’t felt this way in ages and ages.
But how can this be anything but superficial when I’ve only just met the person sitting across from me?
I regard Nate with a tilt of my head. “Gotta go.” I begin to slide across the leather bench. “Thanks for sharing your nachos.”
Nate slides out of the booth as well. “My pleasure.”
He’s a gentleman. Polite and respectful. I feel another tug in the pit of my belly, followed by a wave of dread, knowing that I’ll probably never see this man again.
“Well . . .” I sling my tote bag over my shoulder. “This was fun.”
Becky starts to back away, and I wonder why she’s so impatient to leave. “It was nice meeting you.”
I have no choice but to follow her, until Nate calls after us. “Wait a second!” I stop and turn, and he approaches. “This probably sounds like a line after that jerk came on to you, but can I call you? Maybe we could have coffee sometime.”
Trying not to sound flustered while my cheeks are flushing with heat, I say, “Sure. You have my card.”
Nate smiles and starts to back away. “Get home safely.”
“You too,” I reply and follow Becky out of the bar and across the casino floor to the main entrance, where Mark is parked outside at the curb. I open the back door of his black Volkswagen Jetta and climb in.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “You called for a taxi?”
“We did.”
Becky slides into the front seat and wraps her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Someone’s had a few too many margaritas,” he mutters with humor as we pull away from the curb.
After the martinis and tequila shots, I’m shocked when I wake up the next morning with no headache. I’ve slept in a little, though. It’s 9:30 a.m., which I consider to be wildly self-indulgent, at least for me, because I’m a morning person.
Scooter doesn’t seem to mind. He’s stretched out diagonally across my bed, snoring. I nudge him three times before he rolls over, yawns, and jumps to the floor for his morning walk around the neighborhood.
We live in an apartment in the South End of Halifax, in a historic building with marvelous character, but there’s no elevator. It’s a bit of a climb up a wide central staircase with wrought iron railings to reach our cozy abode, but Scooter and I can both use the exercise.
He’s eight years old now and comes to work with me every day.
I’m convinced he’s proud of himself—as he should be—since earning the title of office mascot, which includes the perk of a dried liver treat upon arrival each morning.
The clients adore him because not only is he a gorgeous blond Lab, but he’s a charmer as well and a big old softy.
He treats everyone as if they’re his long-lost best friend and makes them feel special.
He wags his tail, but he’s calm about it, and he doesn’t create havoc like he once did when he was a puppy.
Quite frankly, he’s my rock. I don’t know how I could have survived the past seven years without him.
After Scooter and I return from our morning walk, I’m in the middle of spooning coffee grounds into the coffee machine when my cell phone rings. I retrieve it from the kitchen table and flip it open. “Hello?”
“Is this too soon to call?” a male voice asks, and I recognize it immediately.
“Yes, it is,” I reply. “Have you no self-control?”
Nate chuckles. “Clearly not. It must have been the tequila shot.”
“Tequila can make people do shocking things.” I press the red button on my coffee maker, and it starts to gurgle. “I’m joking of course. It’s nice to hear from you. What time did you get home last night?”
“I left not long after you did.”
“You didn’t hit the blackjack table?”
There’s a pause. “I’m not much of a gambler.”
“Yet you were in the casino bar on a Saturday night.” I can admit to myself that I’m probing for information because I’m curious about this man. I want to know more about him—more than what he told me last night, which was quite a lot.
“I could say the same to you,” he replies.
“Touché.” I’m feeling impishly giddy.
“I’m calling to see if you’d like to go for a walk today,” he says. “Point Pleasant Park? After lunch?”
I fight to stay quiet as I jump around my kitchen and make a screaming face. Then I stand still and take a breath. “That sounds like fun,” I calmly reply. “Can I bring my dog?”
“Actually, I was going to ask you the same question.”
“You have a dog?” My interest is piqued. “What kind?”
“She’s a dachshund named Dolly. What’s yours?”
“A big, adorable Labrador retriever. Sometimes he’s clumsy and not too bright, but he loves little dogs. His name is Scooter.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
We set a time to connect at the ice cream stand, and it’s not until I hang up the phone and tell Scooter what’s happening that I begin to feel strange about it. Scooter was Jacob’s dog, and now I’m taking him to meet another man—a man whom I’m attracted to.
I remind myself that it’s been seven years since the accident, and I should be ready to move on by now, like Becky says. But when I imagine walking in the park with Nate, talking and laughing and having a good time, I feel disloyal, along with a bone-deep sadness, followed by a heavy glut of guilt.