Chapter Six Lightheadedness #2
He grins, and his cheerfulness reaches his eyes. “I think we have really good odds, because look . . .” He gestures toward Scooter and Dolly, who are now sitting beside each other at our feet, watching a tour boat go by. Their heads are moving in perfect unison.
I start to laugh. “They’re so cute. They seem to like each other.”
“How could they not?” He slides a glance at me. “Because they know we like each other.”
“We do.”
Nate smiles. “Shall we keep walking?”
There it is again. Shall we . . .
With a shiver of pleasure, I rise from the bench and follow him. All anxiety gone, Scooter follows too.
After our walk, Nate and I return to our cars and realize we’re both famished.
“I’d suggest a restaurant,” he says, “but we can’t leave our dogs in the car.”
“We could take them home and meet up somewhere,” I propose.
“Or . . .” He gives it some thought. “Why don’t you come over to my place. I could barbecue a couple of steaks. I live not far from here.” He points toward town. “I’m on South Park.”
“No kidding. I’m on South Park as well.”
“Not Park Victoria . . .”
My shoulders slump. “No, but I’m only a few blocks away.” Scooter tugs at his leash to reach a spilled ice cream cone on the asphalt. “That would have been weird if we lived in the same building.”
“Very weird,” Nate says while I gain control of Scooter. He looks down at Dolly, who’s panting heavily. “I should get this gal back to the car and give her a drink.”
“Same with this guy.”
We stare at each other for a few seconds, and I feel the same excitement I felt when I was dancing around my kitchen.
“I’m on the sixteenth floor,” he tells me as he backs away with Dolly trotting beside him. “Sixteen oh five. And bring Scooter, of course.”
“Great. I’ll see you in a bit.”
I watch him walk off, but then I feel creepy staring at him, so I turn and get Scooter’s water bowl out of the trunk. The poor boy is panting, and his tongue is hanging out. I laugh because I can totally relate.
I decide to make a quick pit stop at home to change out of this sweaty T-shirt, but I end up foraging frantically through my closet for something sexier. But not too sexy. It needs to look casual, like I just threw it on.
Sadly, nothing I own is quite right. If only Becky were here to put my look together. She’d know how to make great-tasting lemonade out of the rancid old fruit on these hangers.
I step back and concede that I own nothing a normal woman my age would wear to a hot guy’s apartment for a steak dinner.
But of course I’m not normal. All I do is work, so all I have are work clothes.
Stylish, yes, but not great for hanging out on a sixteenth-floor balcony on a Sunday afternoon, sipping a beer.
In the end, I choose a sundress from a wedding I attended four years ago and a pair of well-worn flip-flops, with my white crocheted sweater.
Should I bring a bottle of wine?
Definitely yes. I turn from my pathetic excuse for a closet, because a bottle of something—anything—will help distract Nate from my frumpy dress.
I dash to the pantry, open the door, and tip my head back to look up at the top shelf.
Thank goodness. I just so happen to have a very decent bottle of red, which I’ve been saving for something special.
Next, I go to the bathroom and check myself out in the mirror. All I need to do is freshen up the foundation, add a little blush, brush my teeth, and we’re off to the races.
A short time later, after walking two blocks in the heat, I’m buzzed into Nate’s air-conditioned high-rise apartment building, and I step onto the elevator with Scooter.
As soon as the doors slide closed in front of us, nervous butterflies invade my belly.
I’m buzzing with excitement and anticipation as I ascend.
How long has it been since I’ve felt like this?
But as I approach Nate’s floor, those feelings are met by a surge of guilt and discomfort.
I can’t bear the thought of Jacob seeing me with Nate.
It’s a ridiculous notion, and the rational part of my brain knows it.
Jacob has been gone for many years, and I’ve accepted it.
Truly, I have. I also understand, rationally, that it’s important for me to move on and live a full life, which is why I’m riding up sixteen floors in this elevator.
But it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve always felt like Jacob is “up there” somewhere, watching over me like a guardian angel, cheering me on or pulling strings to help me out.
Occasionally, I still talk to him when I’m alone.
I say things like, “Hey, babe, what did you think of that meeting today? Did I crush it?” And when I talk to Scooter, I often tell him how proud Jacob is of the wonderful dog he’s become, and I look up and point at the ceiling.
Scooter looks up, too, and he wags his tail.
The elevator slows, and bing!—the doors slide open. Scooter and I step off.
As we walk down the long carpeted corridor, I urge myself to accept that it’s time for me to stop talking to my late boyfriend in the ceiling, or the sky, or wherever he is—because even if he’s watching me, I’m fairly certain that he would want me to move on, to live a full life, and to be happy.
I reach apartment 1605 and knock. It takes a while for Nate to answer, and when he finally opens the door, he’s not smiling.
“Sienna,” he says in a cool tone.
I’m immediately unnerved, but I smile anyway and hold up the wine. “Hi. I brought this.”
“Thanks. Come in.” He takes it from me and turns away.
I hesitate briefly and wonder if he’s one of those hot-and-cold people who make you feel constantly on edge, worrying that you did something wrong.
But despite my reservations, I push on. I lead Scooter inside and unhook the leash from his collar.
I kick off my flip-flops and walk into the bright, sunlit living room, where I see two people sitting at opposite ends of the sofa.
Nate gestures toward them. “Sienna, these are my parents, Bill and Joan Palmer. This is Sienna MacKay,” he says to them.
They both rise, which gives me a moment to gather my composure as I move forward to shake their hands.
Joan is an attractive woman with impeccable taste and style. She wears her blond hair in a loose bun, and her pale-yellow dress complements her complexion. I’m guessing it’s Italian linen.
As for Bill, based on Nate’s description, he’s not quite what I expected.
He’s partially bald and a few inches shorter than Joan.
I can’t help but think, as I hold my hand out across the coffee table, that Nate got his good looks from his mother’s side of the family, while his controlling father looks like a little weasel.
“Mr. Palmer,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Call me Bill.” His handshake is firm.
I shake Joan’s hand as well, and they both sit down again.
Sensing some bad energy in the room, I quietly take a seat.
“Can I get you a drink?” Nate asks as he examines the label on the bottle of wine I brought. “This looks good. We might as well open it now.” He retreats to the kitchen and speaks over his shoulder. “Mom? Dad? Would you like some?”
“No thanks,” Bill says. “We can’t stay.”
Yet they remain on the sofa, staring at me as if they’re sizing me up.
I glance around the room politely. It doesn’t look like a student apartment. All the furniture is crisp and new, and the walls are tastefully adorned with modern art. I wonder if Nate’s parents hired a decorator, or perhaps Joan, with her exquisite taste, took care of furnishing the place.
“This is a lovely apartment,” I say.
Thankfully, Joan initiates a conversation. “Nate tells us you’re an interior designer.”
“That’s right.” I relax a little and sit back. “I started my own company last year.”
“That was ambitious of you,” Joan replies, while Bill simply watches me with hard eyes.
I shrug a shoulder. “Not really. I come from a family of entrepreneurs, so it seemed like the right way to go.”
“Your father’s a plumber,” Bill asserts.
I clear my throat. “Yes. That’s his trade, but he runs his own company.”
Bill lounges back on the sofa and scrutinizes me with narrow eyes, as if he wants to run me over with his car.
Thankfully, Nate returns with a glass of wine and hands it to me. I take hold but set it on the coffee table because I don’t want to be the only one drinking.
Still standing, Nate glances at the gigantic clock on the wall. Then he looks at his mother. “You said you have to get going?”
Joan observes him for a few seconds, then taps her knee and speaks jauntily. “Yes, we’re off to the Chester Yacht Club to meet some friends.”
She and Bill rise and make their way around the coffee table. “It was nice to meet you,” she says.
“You as well.” I decide to stay put and let Nate escort them to the door, where they linger, speaking in hushed, angry tones.
I wish I could eavesdrop, but the balcony doors are wide open, and horns are honking in the street. It sounds like a wedding procession.
Eventually, Joan calls out to me. “Goodbye, Sienna!”
“Bye!” I reply with a pretense of gregariousness.
They leave, and Nate shuts the door gently behind them. He stands for a few seconds with his back to me, his hand on the doorknob.
When at last he turns around, he spreads his arms wide. “I apologize for that.”
“For what?” I ask innocently.
He inclines his head and gives me a look. “You can be honest.” He moves into the kitchen and emerges with another glass of wine. “You think my dad’s a douchebag.”
I laugh. “Not at all.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want to insult his family. “He’s intimidating—that’s all.”
“You picked up on that.” Nate shakes his head at the situation and sips his wine.
“I take it you weren’t expecting a visit from them?”
“No,” he replies, “but they often do that—show up unannounced to make sure I’m not sleeping off a hangover in the middle of the day.”
The rancor in his tone gives me a touch of unease. “Does that happen often?”