Every Other Saturday (24 page)

She took a bite and held the raisin toast in one hand while fumbling in her bag with the other, looking for the ten dollars she was almost certain was still floating around there with her lip gloss and empty wallet and a pack of the only cheese crackers Brandon would eat: Lance. Grilled Cheese flavor. No breaks.

“I’ve got this,” Dave said over his shoulder. He handed the waitress a twenty at the cash register.

Julia continued digging in her bag. “No, I can get my half.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dave said, and then startled her by brushing toast crumbs from her cheek. He nodded at the bitten toast in her hand. “It’s just nice to be with a woman who actually eats.”

“I’m also a woman who pays for her food,” Julia said.

“You can get it next time.” He gestured to the waitress to keep the change and turned toward the glass door a few feet away. They emerged into the bright sunlight of a sunny November Saturday. The store would be busy today.
At least that would keep her awake and distracted
, Julia thought.

“I thought we just agreed there wouldn’t be a next time,” she said when they emerged onto the sidewalk.

“Did we?”

“We did. Being friends, I’m not Jewish, something about football…I don’t know that we’re going to be having breakfast together on a regular basis.” She arched an eyebrow at him. God, was she still flirting with him? Now?

“Oh.” Dave seemed momentarily thoughtful. “There could be a next trip to Waffle House. They
are
open twenty-four hours. Lots of possibilities.”

His grin was infectious. “Alright, then. The next one is on me,” Julia said.

They stood about a foot apart on the sidewalk, both shading their eyes from the bright sunlight. Neither of them said anything, but neither turned to get into their cars. She had to get to work; he had to do…whatever it was Dave did on the average Saturday. But they didn’t move. She thought maybe Dave shared her sense that something was ending here, something that had only fully gotten started the night before. Maybe neither of them was quite ready to let go of it. Or maybe the execution itself was the awkward part. It reminded Julia of the eighth grade dance, where everyone was too afraid to touch each other. Probably even eighth graders weren’t this awkward anymore.
We should just rip off the Band-Aid
.

Dave came suddenly close, as if on impulse, and kissed her hard. He tasted like eggs and toothpaste and coffee and sex. “Sorry.” He roped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, until he was resting his chin on top of her head. “That was rude. I just needed one more.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

He moved his head down so that his mouth was right next to her ear. The feel of his breath made her shudder despite the sunny fall morning. “I enjoyed this, Julia,” he said, his voice husky. “Really.”

“Me, too.” She hooked her index finger into the front pocket of his jeans, playfully tugging Dave toward her, just a few inches. From that kiss until several moments later, Julia became a long-forgotten version of herself. She was not the worried, divorced, angry, run-down mom of two kids on her way to work two shifts just to make ends meet. She wasn’t the last woman standing at Milton Iron and Feed, holding the whole thing together with duct tape and prayers to a God she no longer understood. She wasn’t lonely or washed up or wondering what had become of her life.

Instead, she was the Julia she had been at seventeen, leaning up against her boyfriend’s battered Nissan Sentra in the driveway. Saying a long, exquisitely torturous goodbye before the curfew bell struck and her dad would turn on the floodlights in the front yard. She could almost smell the honeysuckle and hear the crickets, could almost feel Mike Catarino’s hands on her waist, pulling her toward him, toward that awful and beautiful young lust that was so wonderful, in part, because it was never truly satisfied.

Truth be told, her seventeen-year-old self would have blushed at the thought of what Dave had done to her on the living room floor last night. The grownup in her knew the relationship wasn’t viable (or smart: with three kids, two ex-spouses, and eighteen women from J-Date to consider), and that she and Dave couldn’t go on playing with fire. They had to leave the Waffle House sidewalk soon, and once they did, things would go back to the way they were. Still, there was a long-neglected part of her that longed for just one more minute in Dave Bernstein’s arms.

Slowly, one breath at a time, Dave stepped back to put space between them, still lightly holding her hand. “You know I don’t mean just last night, right?”

“Sure,” she said. Last night was all she could think about.

“You’re so different. I mean that in the best way. I’m glad we’ve become…friends.”

“I’m glad, too, Dave.”

“See you next Saturday?”

“Sure. Of course.”

He dropped her hand, and Julia did the best she could to turn and get into her minivan gracefully before her legs turned to jelly. She did a little deep breathing, and then backed out and headed toward the store, willing herself not to look in the rearview mirror to see Dave get into his obnoxious red truck.

The next Friday was the thirteenth, and even though Julia was not terribly superstitious, she found herself jittery and anxious. As she pulled into a gas station on her way to work, she tuned in to SportsZone for the first time in her life. It wasn’t hard to find; the AM sports station had also taken over the frequency of her favorite FM music station more than a year ago, and she still had the preset.

“It’s not because he’s on today,” she said out loud, as though there were someone in the car to question her choice of radio station. “All the other stations have commercials right now.”

The man across the pump from her whistled as he filled his tank. Between this and the incessant dinging of the minivan to remind her that her keys were in the ignition, she couldn’t make out what was being said on the radio. But the tone indicated that the show was on, and there was a lively exchange. She resisted the absurd impulse to shush the whistler.

When she was finally back in the van and on her way, she turned up the volume.

“I don’t know,” a man with a deep voice. “I think it’s okay to try to impress someone on a first date. If you’re not being considerate and…I don’t know, generous with your time
then
, what are you going to be like in ten years?”

“You’ll be like my ex-wife,” said another man with a Midwestern accent. “That’s what you’ll be.”

The first man chuckled. She had stopped paying attention to the conversation as she was a little jolted to hear Dave’s familiar voice coming out of her speakers. “Sherm is right. It’s okay to be accommodating and…what did you say, Sherm? Generous with your time? Yeah, absolutely you have a point.”

“Of course I do,” the first man said. “That’s why I’ve been happily married for sixteen years and you two losers are eating frozen dinners every night.”

“Not every night,” the Midwestern man said defensively.

“Like I said, Sherm, you have a point,” Dave said. “Just like you did after the first date with Betty Rubble.” His voice sounded richer on the radio. She felt a sudden thrill hearing it, and a childish pride. As though the voice heard all over Atlanta belonged to her in some way. Which, of course, it didn’t.

“I’m just saying women shouldn’t pretend to be something they’re not. Ariel was a sweet person, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want anyone to give up her mermaid tail for me.”

“You heard it here,” the Midwestern man said, a grin in his voice. It must have been Phil, the other co-host. “Dave from the Cave says don’t give up your tail.”

Dave laughed. “At least not on the first date.”

Julia’s cheeks reddened, and she glanced around as though other drivers nearby might be watching her reaction. What did Dave think of her, considering she’d slept with him
before
the first date? No date on the horizon, even.

“Okay, yes, I’d like to date someone I can go to a game with from time to time. And it’d be nice if they didn’t spend the whole time complaining about how loud it is, how cold it is, or how they should serve hot chocolate at the concession stand.”

“Hot chocolate actually sounds good at a hockey game,” Phil said. “I’m with Ariel on this one.”

“Sure,” Dave said. “But chances are I don’t want to date that girl, because even though she might be the nicest person on the planet, we’re probably not going to enjoy hanging out together all the time.”

“High maintenance. That’s what that’s called,” Sherm said.

“Maybe. But if you don’t love sports, don’t pretend it’s your favorite thing. I talk about sports all day. When I’m with a girl, I’d rather talk about her passions. You know, painting furniture or vinyl records or whatever.”

“Painting furniture?” Phil said. “Since when are you into arts and craps, Bernie?”

Dave cleared his throat. “That was just an example. It could be anything.”

“But you didn’t say ‘anything.’ You said painting furniture. Pretty specific example, don’t you think, Sherm?”

Dave had a slight squeak in his voice as he responded. “Sure. Furniture, books, music, horticulture… Whatever. As long as it’s her passion, her interest, I’m going to get interested too.”

“Bernstein, you’re not taking your dates antiquing, are you?” Sherm said. “Because, if so, we may be getting to the root of your dating problems.”

“Yeah,” Phil said. “First they hit the antiques store, then it’s off to high tea and a knitting class. Women swoon for that stuff.”

“Okay, okay,” Dave said. “Furniture painting was a bad example, maybe. I thought of it because I have a friend who does that for her hobby, and that’s great. If we went out on a date—I mean, she and I wouldn’t… Anyway.”

“You haven’t told us about this
friend
.” Shem sounded intrigued, and Julia felt a little thrill at being the topic of gossip.

“She’s not a friend-friend,” Dave said. “More like an acquaintance. Another parent at my kid’s school. Not dating material.”

The other men made disbelieving noises, and Dave talked over them, steering the conversation back. “If I were to date her, which I
wouldn’t
, I’d expect her to talk about the things that interest her. Not that she’d be dragging me to her workshop on the first date or talking paint finishes all night, but I wouldn’t want her to memorize baseball scores either.”

“So,” Phil said, “no paint colors, no baseball, no high tea. What’s a girl supposed to do?” He said this last in an exaggerated feminine voice.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Sherm said. “Ken’s opening the phones. Ladies, just call in and tell us what you like to talk about on a first date.”

“Shouldn’t we hear from the guys too?” Phil said. “We have, like, two female listeners. And one of them isn’t awake yet.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherm countered. “Drunk Nancy, if you’re awake, we’d love to hear from you.”

Julia changed the station.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel. Her heart pounded with some combination of anger, indignation, and embarrassment.

Just an acquaintance… Not dating material.

Suddenly she was in ninth grade, in the cafeteria. Julia could smell soybean burgers, wet ketchup, and teenage shame. His name was Landon Carmichael, a promising sophomore quarterback, head of the JV team, and understudy to the senior quarterback, who was already fielding college offers. If she’d understood more about hierarchies of sports, or even high school, she would’ve known better. But Landon was cute, with brown hair that was always a ruffled mess and olive skin that smelled faintly of Georgia red clay. He sat in front of her in history, where she spent hours staring at his neck and the back of his shirt. Hard to concentrate on ancient wars and world politics.

Looking back, she could tell her fourteen-year-old self that asking him out would be a huge mistake. Boys like that didn’t like to be asked out, had plenty of other offers. They certainly didn’t date the plump, nerdy freshman with purple hair and big glasses who helped them with their history essays. But she was naïve. His sly smiles and the flirtatious way he teased her about her clothes, the relentless compliments about her writing skills: she thought these meant something. And for what it was worth, he was her first real crush. She didn’t drool over movie stars or teen idols. She loved punk bands and fictional heroes who never appeared in
Tiger Beat
. The fact that Landon was a conventionally handsome, clean-cut guy who wore a football jersey every Thursday made the whole notion seem romantic and interesting.

Against the advice of Caroline the senior and her few close friends at the time, Julia approached him. She had half-hoped the question itself would not need to be asked. She’d mention the dance in passing and he would say, “Hey, why don’t we go together?”

She had known, even at fourteen, this wasn’t realistic but the teasing glances and his earthy smell got the better of her. She didn’t know how it would play out, just that if she didn’t try it would not play out at all. It did not occur to her until later that if Landon Carmichael wanted to date her, he probably would’ve asked. As it was, she had found herself walking along the cafeteria wall, one hand skimming the painted cinder blocks, making her way from the freaks and geeks to the football jerseys and white miniskirts. She walked right up to him—this part was incredible to her adult self—and just
asked
.

In his defense, Landon’s laughter may not have been malicious at first. In fact, she had come to believe that he really did think she was joking, and was trying to respond in friendly but awkward affability. As though she’d asked him whether he wanted to go to the moon instead of sixth period and he was trying to get the punch line.

The other kids got the joke. Before Landon’s smile had faded into a look of confusion, everyone around her was laughing. Pointing, sniggering, and calling insults at her in the way that is the special skill of high schoolers.

How can something so terrible be so normal?
Julia was almost to the store now, hands aching from gripping the wheel. It was amazing how an experience you thought you had outgrown could resurface with such intensity. She had allowed herself to believe those invisible boundaries didn’t exist in the adult world. But here she was with another unattainable guy; instead of comparing notes on ancient civilizations, they shared a babysitter and the trenches of parenting young children. Nothing had changed.

She was glad it had happened. Otherwise she might have opened herself up to another stupid heartbreak, when her kids desperately needed her whole. Three deep breaths, and she got out of the van and unlocked the store. He’d done her a favor. She couldn’t date Dave Bernstein. She couldn’t date anyone. Her kids needed her, Brandon especially. This store needed her.

As Julia turned on lights and opened the cash register for the day, Dave’s voice still echoed clearly. “If I were to date her, which I
wouldn’t
…”

Just as clear was Caroline’s voice from more than two decades before. After the Landon Carmichael incident, she had offered Julia a tissue from her backpack, and what was left of her chocolate milkshake. As Julia sniffed, covering her face and praying for lunch to end, Caroline had said it as kindly as she could. “What did you think was going to happen, Jules? Really.”

Really.