Eighteen
Rilee
None of the clothes laid out on my bed spoke to me.
Theater cold was a real thing. When mom complained to my dad about being cold in movie theaters he just laughed and said it was in her head.
Bastard. He told her most of her insecurities were in her head.
But theater cold is a real thing. I looked it up once.
Theaters are colder than houses, or offices, or schools.
Picking clothes to be comfortable, cute, and warm all at the same time is a tough Venn diagram to work with.
Mix in that I didn’t know what kind of signals I wanted to send to Craig and choosing clothes was just trouble.
I was also distracted by our loss. The girls had played so well but we were outclassed and there was no coaching I could do to turn it around, except to lose gracefully.
I didn’t want to feel like that tonight, so I worried about clothes. And Craig.
Black leather ankle boots with a modest heel were dressy enough without being too pretentious.
It was the tail end of winter and could still snow any time so boots were a safe choice.
Which brought me to skirt or pants. A skirt would show some leg but pants were warmer.
And I had a pair of dark thin-legged jeans which would pair with the boots well.
Casual but nice and they had a good shape.
I settled on a cream-colored sweater that hung well and the new jeans with the boots.
While working on my hair I worried about Mr. Lambert.
The game was essentially over by the end of the third quarter.
The outcome was sadly obvious when Craig walked out.
However, he didn’t get far, instead he shot the breeze with chatty Mr. Lambert.
I should have coached Craig about the risks of dating a student’s family.
Craig wasn’t direct family, but he was still living with Jackie.
When he’d given me his address I’d compulsively checked.
The situation was probably enough to require the whole registration and administrator interview.
But really what was there to talk about?
We went for coffee and we were going to dinner.
But he hadn’t held my hand or even tried to kiss me, and I hadn’t decided if I would let him.
But but but. Curling iron in hand I had to admit I should wear these jeans more often because they did nice things for my butt.
Setting the iron down to cool on the counter I walked away from the mirror before I thought about Craig’s hands again.
And what they could be doing. And my jeans.
Nothing was happening. Asking Craig to fill out a permission slip like a kindergartener for a field trip was just humiliating. For him and me. It’s just dinner, and Mr. Lambert could stuff it.
It was already dark and tiny spitting drops of rain splattered across the windshield as I drove to Liberty Lake.
The pavement was wet and there were still clumps of snow under the pines.
This week had been unseasonably warm otherwise we would be getting snow instead of rain. Pants were definitely the right choice.
The Liberty Lake Theater was an old converted farm warehouse, a mix of metal and wood exterior and a big unpaved gravel parking lot, very soggy from the precipitation.
The weather couldn’t decide if it was snow or rain, but it was still wet.
As Craig and I agreed, I was a bit early so parking was easy and I got a spot up front.
Worrying that the rain would destroy my hair I made a dash to the front porch-like overhang.
Craig stood under the eaves, his worn brown coat zipped up to his neck. As I reached him, he smiled, his handsome eye crinkles appearing in the shadow of the overhead light. I smiled at the sight of his scuffed work boots and clean but worn jeans. Pants were definitely the right choice.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I managed back.
“Get everything done, okay?”
He confused me. “Everything done?
“You had some things to do beforehand?”
Not driving with you for forty minutes in the dark? Yeah, I got that done. Though looking at his hands, thumbs looped in his front pockets, I wondered if that was what I’d really wanted.
“All done,” I admitted. “Have you been inside yet?” I asked, changing the subject.
“No. I didn’t want to miss you.”
That unreasonably set my chest fluttering. Slipping my arm through his I tugged him toward the door, “Well let’s go.”
The theater’s interior was set up with a low floor filled with chairs and then a number of raised tiers with rectangular tables and chairs all facing the stage.
It looked remarkably like the middle school music room we were in last weekend.
An usher scanned our tickets, which Craig had printed out, the luddite, and then directed us toward a spot near the side and back.
“Last tickets, so there weren’t a whole lot of choices,” Craig apologized. Everything was in a slight arch so there really wasn’t a bad seat, just better ones. Flatware, cloth napkins and stemware defined the table settings.
Taking my seat, I tried to smile reassuringly, “This looks great.” He inspected the plastic folding chair for a moment before taking his seat.
Other people were drifting in, taking their seats.
Up front a green velvety curtain obscured the stage.
Unlike our coffee date, we sat side by side, staring out into the room.
It was easier to watch the other couples than speak.
Just as the silence was becoming stagnant a black and white clothed waiter arrived to take a drink order.
With the drive ahead of me I declined the wine and accepted a diet coke, Craig stayed with water.
“So, tough game,” Craig cleared his throat.
It had been, all the more because of the nail biter victories the weeks before. “Can’t win everything,” I shrugged, wishing the soda had arrived so I had something distracting to hold in my hand. I settled for rubbing at a small flaw in the tablecloth.
“Yeah, that is a hard lesson to learn,” Craig said.
Jiggling my foot I agreed, “Some people never learn it, or they see everything as a win-lose like my Dad.” I don’t know why I said that.
“Parents as people is a hard one too.”
Was he defending the guy who gutted my mother and left her penniless?
Craig kept talking. “That’s why I’m out here with my sister’s family. My parents would have mothered me to pieces. But your dad sounds like a tough guy to live with.”
I wanted to be grateful he wasn’t complimenting my father, but couldn’t let go of the knot in my chest. “Yeah, that’s why I don’t.
He was a small-town banker and kept a tally about everything.
” The coke arrived too late to use as an excuse to change the subject.
Even after taking a sip, I couldn’t stop talking.
“My mom and I took off in high school and he had the gall to send her a cleaning bill after she moved out.”
“Asshole.” The flatware clinked as Craig unwrapped the napkin. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”
My heart clenched at the unexpected profanity and then released in a spasm at the apology, a soft laugh breaking out of my chest. “No, that’s all right.
It’s true,” I admitted, trying to settle my heart on the apology instead of the emotional outburst. The apology felt foreign, and I realized I didn’t know where to put it, like a picture without wall space because I’d already filled it.
Looking over at Craig studying the napkin in his hands before setting it on his lap, a touch of embarrassment curving his lip into a nervous smile, I pushed that crowded wall out a bit and muscled the apology into place. It looked good.
The theater was filling up and waiters with carts began delivering food.
Changing the subject, Craig asked if I’d seen the play before.
I hadn’t, though our school had put it on a few times, so it was new to both of us.
Craig got up to let the other diners down the row to their seats instead of scooting his chair in, like I had done.
I thought it was about manners until I saw him give his hips a gentle twist before sitting down again.
Maybe it was both, he had held the door open for me at the coffee shop.
As the cart came through, the waiters set out a plate with a steak in sauce, steamed vegetables, multigrain roll, and a glass of what looked like a whipped chocolate mousse.
“I hope you eat steak. I didn’t really have time to check before I bought the tickets,” Craig glanced at me and then down at our matching plates.
He looked like a strong wind would blow him over.
Momentarily I wanted to pick at the vegetables and say with a sarcastic sigh that I would make do but I couldn’t.
Instead, I picked up the steak knife and cut a corner off the still plump meat.
“I eat all good food,” I said before popping the bite into my mouth.
It was excellent. Floral and salty at the same time, and soft in the mouth.
“This is good,” I mumbled, licking my lips, and pointing at the steak with my knife.
Breaking into that toe tingling smile, Craig sighed, “Great. I was worried.”
Slicing off another sliver I shook my head, “Really, it’s all good.” I stumbled looking for another word but was left a little speechless at the flavor.
“Food and music are a bit tough for me,” Craig admitted. “I could tell you what I like, but the why is harder. I guess I’m more of a you-know-it-when-you-see-it kind of guy. But I agree this is very good.” His dark eyes met mine as he added, “All of it.”
“I guess that just means you have to try something to find out if you like it.”
A soft flush colored the skin beneath his whiskers, and he turned his attention back to his plate. “Part of moving to Spokane has been learning things like that.”
“You moved here after the accident?” The question came out naturally but as soon as I asked it, I wanted to take it back. Craig’s easy attitude and the softness in his cheeks hardened as he answered.
“Not immediately after. It was after the surgery. I’d been out of work and work injury money isn’t much and the bills were growing and Veronica decided I was more trouble than I was worth.
” As he spoke his voice grew softer, the edges rounding as he chipped away at his past. Staring at his plate he added, “Veronica was my fiancé. She left the week I got out of the hospital and was still drugged up. She even took her name off our lease. Moving in with my sister meant I had a safety net while I was getting back on my feet. Literally.”
The low whispery rumble of his voice sent tingles across my scalp, like fingers running through my hair.
I struggled to respond to him, managing only a “that must have been hard,” just as the house lights dimmed twice and then stayed dark as the stage lights came on and the musical started.
The lights made little suns in Craig’s eyes and he held his utensils lightly, each motion both delicate and deliberate.
His movements in such contrast to the solidness of his hands and the pale spidery scars gleaming in the dim light.
What scars did he carry from losing his body and his fiancé?
And what kind of courage had it taken to tell his sister that he couldn’t do something, to admit he couldn’t do it all himself?
Tasting the food, I tried to distract myself from thinking of Craig’s other woman, picking apart the flavors in the sauce.
The hint of pepper, a salty beef broth base, a touch of red wine, and something both floral and herby.
The scene changed and a figure in a white leotard and floppy ears danced onto the stage.
It was the cow dancing right out of my dream and onto the stage.
All at once the subtle flavor of lavender mixing with the salty steak settled on my tongue.
My ears heard the sound of Craig’s sharp breath.
And bright lights illuminating the lines of his face.
The dreamy sensations folded in on themselves, taking me with them.
If you have never seen Alred Hitchcock’s Vertigo you might not understand, but everything flowed through me all at once.
Taste, sight, and sound, pushed and pulled, and time itself pressed forward into the future and pulled me back to my dreams, to the rustle of my bed sheets, and to what felt like lips brushing against mine.
“Oh God,” I moaned.