Chapter Five Second Date
My phone is a hurricane of texts and notifications.
Cruiseline partial credits. Airfare refund status. Nagging, encouraging, berating, lecturing, offering texts and emails from my mother, father, brother, cousins, titas...
It takes me an hour to deal with them, and then the cycle starts again.
I feel loved—and smothered.
I put the phone down and try to recapture the slow, peaceful, oddly happy feeling I woke up with.
From my date. From being with Gordon.
With a stretch, I decide to call Meghan on the Callspace App, which should give us thirty minutes to talk.
“Hello?” Meghan’s voice is groggy and hoarse.
“I know it’s early, but I need to talk to you.”
“Who is this?”
I look at the phone with a frown. “Your best friend and cousin, idiot.”
“I had a bottomless martini happy hour followed by a seven-shot Midnight Madness buffet and bar. And I am also... bottomless. Ooh! Crap.”
“Hungover?” This could have been me. Us.
That suddenly doesn’t sound as great as I thought it would.
“If you don’t stop screaming, I will Tita Carla about the time you spilled her bottle of Chanel No. 5 on her fern and killed it.”
“I’m whispering as softly as I can,” I reassure, now mortally afraid.
“Good. Oh, God! He’s still here.”
“Who?”
“The guy. Who is also bottomless. Oh, fuck, we’re in my room. I can’t even leave.”
“Meghan! Who is this guy?” It’s only been three days. That’s fast for me, but maybe not fast for a cruise ship. Maybe it was romantic. Maybe it’s the fling I was dreaming of.
“I don’t know. I think he’s a law student. He has to have money, because the looks are not looking post-Martini goggles.” Meghan complains. There’s rattling, rustling, and then a torrential downpour.
“You need to rehydrate,” I point out.
“Who’s the nurse here, genius? I’m sure I used protection, too, before you ask. I don’t remember it, but I’m sure I would have. With Keith. Kevin. Karl. I think it starts with a K.”
“Sounds like an amazing trip. I’ll let you and Mr. K sort out breakfast and the hair of the dog,” I whisper.
“Wait, why’d you call? Are you flying out?”
I hesitate. “No. No, I’m not. I called because I wanted to talk to you. I had a date.”
“What? You were moaning that the only eligible men you met were divorced dads, and they were very much off the radar.”
“I met a hunky fireman. With size nineteen shoes.”
“Firemen? Never, ever date a cop or a fireman. Understand?”
“Why?”
“It’s a rule. Nurses shouldn’t date the hot guys who come into the ER.”
“I’m not a nurse, I’m a teacher, and he didn’t meet me at the ER, he saved Chopin from a tree.
We went bowling and to this cute little outdoor market.
He bought me candlesticks and fudge. He’s coming over tonight.
I’m going to make pandesal and chicken adobo.
I think. Or, I could go with Dad’s favorites, and make scrambled egg sandwiches,” I tease.
“Just don’t date someone because you’re in your feelings about not being on the trip. Don’t sleep with some stranger.”
“Uh. Girl. I know your brain is marinated—possibly pickled, at this point—but you just slept with some stranger.”
“I know. But I’m on vacation.”
“You have dumb double standards when you’re drunk. How are Danica and Shane?”
“I hope they’re better than me.”
“I hope so, too. Call me later if you want.”
“Will. Love you.”
“Love you.”
Suddenly, I’m okay about missing the vacation.
Mostly.
“C’mon, cat,” I grab Chopin from the edge of the dresser and head to the piano. “Music, then groceries.”
“What are you doing?”
“Signing off on the 4th of July safety inspection for the high school field. Did it this morning with Mr. Joe, and I made sure someone is scheduled to take the pumper truck over a few hours before to douse everything, just in case.”
“I mean, what’s that racket?” Sunderland comes over to the on-duty desk where I’m sitting in a too-small chair, going over duty rosters and 4th of July plans.
“That racket is Chopin.”
“I’ve never heard you listen to music. Ever.”
I shrug. “Not a big music guy.”
My mother hated human music. We didn’t have a radio, but we would hear it from passing cars.
Human music was like listening to cows and pigs squealing, she said.
Listening to your dinner talking. Then my father would glare at her, explaining how that’s how trolls were killed, by angry humans, how humans had guns now, and trucks to chase us in and run us down, and how other meat was safer to get, and couldn’t call for help.
How blood on our hands caused us to be trapped in the night, and that’s why trolls were poor and vicious.
“That music teacher turn you on... to this kinda music?” Sunderland leaves the pause dangling just a breath too long to see if I get riled. Old cuss. He knows how to rankle me, something very few others can claim.
“It’s soothing,” I snap.
It is. The music is light and tinkling, rushing, then changing. There aren’t words, and I don’t mind. I just picture Andrea playing the piano, smiling at me, light little fingers flying.
“You don’t seem all that soothed,” Sunderland says, arms crossed. “How was your date?”
“Nice.”
“You gonna go out again?”
“No.” We’re staying in.
That sounds wrong. But it’s a technical truth, so I hope Sunderland won’t—
“You going to see each other at all?” he asks, eyes disappointed.
“Mm.” I nod jerkily. The music switches, but I like it, too. It’s bouncy and joyful.
“That’s good. Glad to hear. Did you get her some fudge?”
“Yes.”
“You taking her flowers?”
I swallow hard. I wasn’t even supposed to get to a second date. “I got her candlesticks.” I’m tempted to ask if that’s good. After all, Sunderland’s been married for ages. He ought to know.
Then again, my mother and father were married for at least twenty years, too...
I keep my mouth shut, which is usually safer.
“Candlesticks!” Sunderland’s eyebrows slide high on his forehead. “Skipped right over the flowers and went to the precious metals, hm? Fast mover, boy.”
“What? No!” I gasp. “I didn’t know there were steps! The candlesticks are stone.”
“Ooh. That’s worse. Stone doesn’t tarnish.”
“Worse?” It’s only after my heart threatens to combust that I see the smirk and matching twinkle in Sunderland’s eyes. “Stop,” I say firmly.
“Oh, no. This is too much fun. I’m an old man. I need my harmless kicks. Can’t go chasing girls myself.”
“You wouldn’t. You caught yours.”
Sunderland’s smirk turns into a soft smile. “Sure did. Now, you gotta catch yours.”
The very thought makes my skin turn cold. “I will not catch anything.”
“Oh, now, Gordo, what if she wants to be caught?” he chuckles.
From cold to hot in a split-second, my nervous insides heat.
Andrea? My beautiful, graceful, lithe, and long-legged little Andrea, running to my outstretched arms?
There’s that light, joyful music playing in my head, matching her bounding steps.
But I stop short, even in my fantasies. I have carried dozens of people, hauled them, even thrown them to safety from burning cars—but I’ve never embraced someone with love. Not even my own family.
Especially not my own family.
“She is a strong, smart, talented woman,” I say, knowing I’ve already said this before, but no one seems to understand it but me. “She’s just a little lonely, looking for someone to show her around town.”
“Then why are you two staying in?” Sunderland asks, arms crossed over his chest, the image of smugness. “Because you are, aren’t you? Is she cooking for you?”
“Nosy,” I hiss, and hit send on my report.
“If she cooks, and she’s a strong, smart, talented woman... You’d better skip flowers and move to jewelry, bub.”
Silly human. He doesn’t understand that there are not enough jewels in the world to put a beauty like Andrea with a beast like me.
I brought flowers, anyway. I didn’t want to be rude and not bring a gift.
I didn’t want to bring food, in case that indicated that I didn’t trust her cooking, or maybe that I’m too rigid to try the food of her culture.
I don’t bring a bottle of wine, even though I’ve seen a few movies where guests bring that to the host of a meal, because what if that makes it seem as though I want Andrea to get tipsy and then...
“Hi!” Andrea greets me with a wide smile, apron on over a black sundress and flip-flop shoes that I think are probably supposed to be sexy, not functional.
They look almost painful to wear, and I have the mad desire to tell her to put on slippers and be comfy in her own home. I’m not here to be impressed.
But I am. “Hi. That smells so good!” I can’t keep the note of appreciation out of my voice, even as my nose betrays me, and I start sniffing like a hungry stray dog.
“It’s not fancy, but it is really good,” Andrea chuckles, welcoming me inside.
“Here.” I thrust the bouquet of summer flowers at her—pinks and purples, oranges and whites.
“Oh. Oh, these are so beautiful, Gordon!” she exclaims. Her eyes are bright, and her smile brighter, but then it all goes still.
“Are you allergic?” I demand, wondering if this could turn into an EpiPen situation.
“No. No, I just realized that no one ever brought me flowers except at recitals. I always had to earn them, and this is... this is so nice, to have the flowers without the stress first,” she laughs, hurrying away.
The cat circles my legs, purring loudly. I bend down to give him a single, quick pet, but that’s not enough. The feline rubs his little face all over my ankle, shedding on my dark blue pants. “I don’t have any catnip,” I whisper. “Next time, okay?”
Except there won’t be a next time.
And that makes me go still, too.
“Is Chopin bothering you?” Andrea asks, pulling a simple glass vase down from a neat, sparsely filled cabinet.
“No, he’s being very friendly.” Like his owner. “I was just thinking that this... this will be the first time anyone has ever made me a home-cooked meal.”
“Since you moved out? Or to Pine Ridge?”