Just Surrender... (12 page)

Except when she was on a date.

Everything was so much easier when there were no expectations. Pre-Tyler, Edie was a master of low expectations. There was a certain comfort and consistency in believing the worst in people. You did not hurt and you were never disappointed—both big wins in Edie’s book. Post-Tyler…

Post-Tyler? It had been four days. What should have been a non-life-changing four days. Pre-Tyler, Edie had scoffed at those women who were willing to rearrange their lives, their schedules and their hearts for a man. She especially scoffed at those women who would exhibit these behaviors after only a mere four days. Or redefine their life into phases, like Pre-Tyler, or Post-Tyler. Now she was one of them.

Quickly, she glanced around the room in case anyone was scoffing at her. Although they weren’t, frankly, she thought they should because she wasn’t comfortable with this vulnerability that sat upon her like a wet blanket.

It made her uncomfortable because now Edie wanted to believe. Wanted to believe that people didn’t have to disappoint her. Wanted to believe in the basic unselfishness of the human heart.

Wanted to believe in pink unicorns, too, she thought with a mental eye-roll.

Emotional shenanigans, that’s what this was. Emotional shenanigans that were making her stomach pitch and roll like Jane Eyre waiting for Mr. Rochester.

Instead of focusing on the rolling waves in her stomach, Edie told herself to focus on the couple at the table next to her. They were middle-aged and newly divorced…not from each other. The man wore a funeral-looking suit, and kept pulling nervously at his ear. The woman was wearing a hideously flowered-polyester dress in a very flattering shade of blue. Predictably, neither knew how to converse, and Edie listened to the painfully awkward conversation of two people who had no idea how to transcend the cheap meaningless relationships of a technologically savvy, yet emotionally marooned society.

When the woman left for the restroom, Edie saw her opening and tapped the gentleman on the back, smiling nicely. “Can I offer some advice?”

His eyes widened in fear, which said much about his state of anxiety since Edie was perhaps the least intimidating human being alive, and her words sounded like neither a sales pitch nor an intro to a religious conversion. Eventually, he realized that she was waiting politely for his answer, so he nodded once, his Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly.

“She’s as nervous as you are,” Edie told him in a confidential tone. “Here’s what you do. Tell her that you’re terrified that you’ll screw this up, and she seems very nice, and you don’t want to screw it up. Make up a code word—
‘gobsmacked’
is good—and tell her that if you start saying anything goofy, embarrassing, or strange, she needs to say ‘gobsmacked,’ so that you’ll know to stop. And ask about her job. Don’t talk about yours unless she asks. Remember, she’s priority one. Tomorrow, you can go back to me-meme, but for these next few hours, it’s all about her.”

“Why are you telling me this?” the gentleman asked suspiciously, because only in New York did people question whether the milk of human kindness had been spiked with poison.

“Why? Because you picked karaoke, which is strike one for a first date. You’re wearing a funeral suit, which is strike two, and I think she likes you, which means almost all strikes can be forgiven.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She’s here with you, isn’t she? That says something.” Then Edie gave him a gentle, reassuring smile. Such an innocent lamb. It was touching, in an “I hope no one serves you for dinner” sort of way.

The man blinked twice and adjusted his tie, as if he still wasn’t convinced, but when his date returned, he leaned closer and began talking. Sure enough, the woman laughed, and Edie blew the end of an imaginary revolver, gunslinger-style. She, the righter of wrongs and the corrector of possibly aberrant human behaviors. Frankly, the world didn’t know how totally screwed it up it was. Another singer took to the tiny stage and secretly Edie checked the time, not that she expected Tyler to be early, but yes, she expected that Tyler would be early. Then she laughed at her own goofiness.

At five to eight, she could feel her heartbeat accelerating with anticipation, and she watched the trio of frat boys serenading a very pretty, very embarrassed girl in the corner. It was sweet and funny, and almost enough to get her mind off the clock. Almost. At eight-fifteen, a distinguished elderly gentleman came to her table and asked if she needed company.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she told him firmly, and watched as he shuffled off to talk to the next single woman in the room. All around her, people were trying to make connections. Before she had secretly scoffed. Now she was part of the whole messy business.

At eight-thirty, she began to worry that Tyler was trapped in a cab, stuck somewhere on the thruway and heading north to Albany. Not being from New York, he wouldn’t know that he was moving in the wrong direction. Edie told herself to get a grip.

At eight-forty-five, she reset her phone, just in case she had missed a call, or a text message, or a traffic update indicating all bridges and tunnels were closed because the UN was in session, the president had decided to drop by Broadway, or Jack Bauer was helicoptering in to save the world.

None seemed likely.

All around her people were trying to make connections, but it was Edie, the righter of wrongs, the corrector of possibly aberrant human behaviors, who had failed.

Her smile drifted in the downward direction and she smiled at the music while quietly shredding her napkin to bits.

At nine o’clock, she was already in the fourth stage of grief—depression—having moved past denial, anger and bargaining. It spoke volumes about Tyler’s character that Edie had taken an entire hour to advance this far in the process. Usually she zoomed straight past anger to acceptance, because depression over someone else’s faults was a depressing waste of time. Life was too short to get hung up on the disappointments, but she still couldn’t leave.

When her watch said nine-thirty, she rose from her seat, as if she were going to high-tail it out this joint and find a real party. Pre-Tyler, that’s exactly what she would have done. But now it felt as if she had a care in the world, and frankly, it sucked.

Slowly, she sat down, and then tapped her fingers in time to the music, which, considering the vocal skills of the singers, was not as easy as Edie had hoped, but she managed. Anything to avoid dwelling on Tyler’s betrayal.

Except that he had seemed so thoughtful, so considerate, so polite. Tyler Hart was the man least likely to stand up a woman. She’d seen the pained anxiety when he’d talked to his ex. And what if he was back with his ex? Edie brooded, now openly dwelling on Tyler’s betrayal.

No.
He would have said something. Tyler was nothing if not excruciatingly, self-sacrificingly honest. Tyler would have twisted himself into knots in order to do the right thing. Which meant that somehow, in between the sex and the bowling and the flat tire and the sex and the bench-talking and the sex, she had begun to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Did great sex justify such a generous benefit of the doubt? No, she decided flatly. Benefit of the doubt only led to foolishly overlooking very real character flaws, which led to an endless barrage of excuses for someone who didn’t deserved them, which eventually led to an endless barrage of excuses for yourself. No, great sex wasn’t worth that. Nothing was worth that.

“Is this seat taken?”

The voice belonged to a twentysomething kid, who on an ordinary night, she would have invited to sit and chat, coax him into a long discussion on the girls that he loved, or listen to his dreams and smile politely, but Edie didn’t want to listen to someone else’s dreams.

“I’m waiting for my father,” she told him. “We’re lovers,” she added with a whisper, watching his look of horror with what some might term unholy glee. Usually she shocked people for attention, but not now. She didn’t have the energy to morph herself into some image of what the kid wanted her to be, and wound licking was best done alone. The kid left to find some other attractive twentysomething who wasn’t quite so particular. Good luck with that.

The hours ticked by, and she told herself that she was enjoying the music, enjoying the solitude, but after listening to seven different versions of “Living On a Prayer,” she was still checking her watch, she was still glancing anxiously toward the door. What she needed was one last nail in her coffin. Some kind of a sharp reminder. Edie picked up her phone and dialed.

“Dad?”

“Edie? Is that you?”

“Happy anniversary, Dad,” she told him, which could be interpreted in many ways. A thoughtful wishing of good fortune to someone she genuinely loved. A subliminal dagger designed to remind said paternal unit of his failings in his familial responsibilities. Or a polite conversation opener when no more sincere words could be found. The actual truth was that it was some sort of dysfunctional mash-up of all three.

“You sound sincere,” her father said easily. “Thank you.”

Not wanting him to overlook the first two meanings, Edie said, “You don’t have to thank me because your anniversary was Friday and you stood Mom up, and paid Mary Helen to send her a card.”

Her father laughed because theirs was a complicated relationship best left undisturbed by momentary flashes of mawkish sentimentality that might confuse the more conflicted reality. “Now that’s the Edie I know and love. Where would I be without you to keep me humble?”

Where would he be without her? In exactly the same place that he was. Edie had not altered his life in any manner, no matter how foolishly she tried. At last, peace flowed through her. Acceptance.

On the stage, a woman began to croon her own special rendition of “My Heart Will Go On,” and Edie pressed forward. “I called to see if you wanted to have lunch.”

“Lunch? I’d love to. What day are you free?”

“Any day, really.” The great thing about owning a diner that employed twice the staff that it should was that it gave Edie oodles and oodles of free time in which to rescue the world.

“Let me check the calendar,” her father said, and then paused. “Holy mackerel, where did Mary Helen put my calendar? Aha! Found it. So, Edie wants to have lunch. Can’t do Wednesday, there’s a meeting with the business development department, and those are never fun. Never short, either. And tomorrow I’ll be in surgery. Although if I get lucky and get out early, I could give you a call. Saturday is out. Dr. Keating is coming in to brief me on the new fellowship candidates. On Thursday there’s a golf game at Scarsdale. Don’t want to miss that one. Norm’s putting down hard cash on the game, and he gave me a five-stroke handicap. Like I need a handicap. Let’s see… Friday? Another surgery. This one will be a doozy. They’re filming it for the Discovery Channel. Can you believe that, Edie? Your old man’s going to be on TV.”

Edie listened to the wispy strains of the melody and smiled to herself because there was nothing like a parent to put things in proper perspective. “You know, don’t worry about lunch, Dad.”

“But what about tomorrow?”

“Call me if you finish in time,” she offered, gazing at the doorway, knowing that she’d been stood up, knowing her father wouldn’t be there for lunch, and wishing that neither reality hurt so badly.

“I will. You know I’m good for it. Say, do you know what your mother would want for her anniversary? Sure, it’s a little late, but better late than never.”

“She already bought herself a present, Dad,” she told him, and her father laughed.

“Whew. Dodged a bullet there. Guess she knows me too well. Oh, oops. There’s the pager. Gotta go. Love you, Edie. And remember, we’ll do lunch tomorrow.”

“’Bye, Dad,” she whispered, because he had already hung up.

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked skeevy man, apparently on the make for vulnerable females with shredded napkins.

“I’m great, thanks,” she told him, sliding the incriminating napkin bits into her purse.

“You look sad,” he said, claiming the spot next to her as if she needed the company.

“I’m great, thanks,” she repeated, a little more forcefully, hoping he would pick up on the “I want to be alone” tone in her voice.

“Seriously. I know you could use somebody to talk to,” he answered, missing the “I want to be alone” tone in her voice, possibly because Edie never used an “I want to be alone” tone and ergo had no idea what it was supposed to sound like.

“I don’t think so,” she insisted, because Edie never needed anyone to talk to. Edie was the counselor, the listener, the fixer. Edie was never the one with the problem. Ever.

“Seriously,” he repeated, so completely sure that she needed someone tonight.

She shot him a hard smile. “
Seriously.
I’m giving you a chance to back out gracefully. I’m a cop. Undercover. This is an undercover prostitution sting. Feel like getting busted?”

Instantly, he backed away, and Edie wished that just once the world would surprise her. But no. Melty-eyed men with an earnest voice were apparently no different than any other male of the species. They were only attuned to their own primordially dictated instincts.