8. Lillah #2
The rooftop bar Mila had chosen was everything she'd promised. The open-air deck was on the tenth floor of a hotel facing the Boston skyline, and the harbor shimmered below. We ordered wine, a Malbec for me, a Sauvignon Blanc for Mila, and we settled into a table near the railing.
"So," Mila said, leaning forward with the expression of a woman who'd been waiting to have this conversation for days. "Tell me about the hockey player."
"There's nothing to tell."
"There's always something to tell. You've mentioned him in three separate conversations this month, and the other night on video chat your face did that thing."
"My face wasn't doing anything," I said, ignoring her.
"It was. It's doing it right now." She pointed at me with her wineglass. "First your jaw tightens and your eyes do this little shift, like you're trying not to look at something that's right in front of you. I've known you for twelve years. I know your tells. You can't lie to me."
I took a long sip of my wine. "He's my neighbor, Mila. He accused poor Cooper of shitting in his yard, and he spilled coffee on me, ruining that silk blouse I probably shouldn't have bought. Also, he threw a loud party on a weeknight. He's nothing but trouble, end of story."
Mila raised an eyebrow. That single eyebrow raise was her most dangerous weapon. "End of story."
"End of story." I nodded.
"The fact that you're saying 'end of story' in that voice says everything."
"In what voice?" I asked.
"The voice that sounds like you're trying to close a door that keeps blowing open."
"I'm not."
"There it is again." She said, taking a drink.
I let out a sigh, shook my head, and took a drink.
Mila was smart enough to know when to push and she'd been my friend long enough to know that pushing me before I was ready to talk would only make me shut down.
So our conversation moved to other things.
We talked about her job, where she was up for a promotion; the trip to Napa she was planning in November; and then about the guy she'd gone on two dates with from a dating app who turned out to be married.
"What gave it away?" I asked, grabbing a piece of bruschetta from the plate between us.
"The fact that he had a tan line on his ring finger." She added, shaking her head. "A tan line like he'd removed the ring in the car."
"Oh my, what did you do?"
"I told the server to bring me my half of the check."
We both laughed and ordered a second glass, then a third.
We continued talking, the sort of conversation that reminded me why I'd moved here, to be with my best friend, a woman who had seen me at my worst and was still here, still showing up and dragging me out of the house when I'd preferred to stay at home with my dog.
By the end of the third glass, I'd relaxed. My shoulders had dropped, and I was laughing in a way I hadn't in weeks, the kind that came from your belly and made your eyes water.
We left around ten-thirty. Mila drove me home, the windows down, the October night air moving through the car, her playlist playing something upbeat.
"The blind date's on Thursday," she said as I got out of the car, leaning across the passenger seat. "His name is Hank. He'll text you the details. He has your number."
"Hank."
"Yes, Hank. He's nice, and in his spare time he volunteers at a food bank on weekends. He's a decent guy, so please give him a chance."
"I'll give him exactly one dinner's worth of a chance."
"Lillah, come on."
"Mila, one dinner." I winked.
She blew me a kiss and drove away, her taillights disappearing around the corner. I stood on my front steps for a minute, keys in hand, the night air cooling the flush that three glasses of wine had left on my cheeks.
I took a deep breath and looked over at Marshall's house. His porch light was on. His truck was in the driveway. The downstairs windows were dark, but upstairs, a single light glowed behind the curtain.
I thought about him standing in his driveway earlier, looking at my window and how that made me feel.
I went inside, locked the door, and let Cooper out the back.
When he came to the back door, I let him in, and we both went upstairs where I got undressed, hung my dress in the closet, and put on shorts and a T-shirt.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.
Maybe Mila was right. Maybe this guy she'd set me up with was the smart choice.
A man who worked regular hours and didn't travel.
One who didn't have twenty thousand people chanting his name, and didn't come home with bruises on his ribs, and didn't kiss women against brick walls like he was trying to start a fire.
I closed my eyes and tried to think about Hank.
I tried to imagine what he looked like. Mila had said he was nice-looking, which could mean anything.
I wondered what kind of restaurant he'd choose and whether he'd hold the door open for me, whether his hands would be soft, the way hands are when they spend their days on keyboards instead of hockey sticks.
Only instead of thinking about Hank, I fell asleep thinking about Marshall and the callus on his thumb that had felt so good against my cheek.
I could almost feel his body against mine, and I could still hear the sound he'd made, low, almost inaudible, when I'd pulled him closer, my fists gripping his shirt as he kissed me harder.
Some decisions weren't mine to make. My subconscious had already voted.