Odd Mom Out (22 page)

“I think men like women slim.”

“Men do, or women say men do?”

The corners of my mouth twitch. He’s smart, very smart, and he’s not who I thought he was. He’s more. “Where did you go to school?” I ask.

“Harvard.”

Harvard.
Right. “And what did you study?”

“My area was primarily business, government, and international economy.”

I want to believe him, but it’s almost too good to be true. He’s built like a Turbo Power Ranger and has a Harvard brain?

He must be able to read my mind, because he lifts his beer in a mock salute. “Would you feel better if I told you that I earned a football and basketball scholarship and that’s how I got in?” The soft light from our little shaded wall sconce reflects off Luke’s beer and the hard glint in his eye.

“No. The first time I saw you, you were running and you looked like an athlete, and I liked that about you.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just sips his beer and looks at me.

I just look right back, too.

He’s so different from what I expected, so much more interesting, so much more complex.

There’s nothing wrong with the men in Bellevue, but after eighteen months here, so many seem the same. They drive pretty prestige cars and work out at fancy gyms and clubs and seem to like to let their possessions do the talking:
Look at my house. Check out my wheels. And oh yeah, what do you think of my wife?

These guys ski, water-ski, drive boats, pilot their own planes. They’re accomplished in every sense of the word, yet for some reason they’ve left me cold.

If I don’t feel comfortable in the 7 for All Mankind jeans and can’t shop during Nordstrom’s semiannual sale because the crowds nauseate me, how the hell would I fit into one of these men’s pampered and well-orchestrated lives?

“Football’s a great sport,” I say. I don’t know if it’s because my dad watched it while I was growing up or so many of my guy friends in high school played, but football’s one of my favorite sports to watch, whether in person or on TV.

“Who’s your favorite team?”

“The Bears, and they’re having a great year. They did last year, too.”

“Who’s the coach?” he quizzes me.

“You don’t think I know my Bears?”

“Da Bears,” he corrects.

I roll my eyes. “The Bears, 2006’s NFC division champion, is led by head coach Lovie Smith, who is now in his fourth season with them and is the Bears’ thirteenth coach. An aggressive defense is Lovie’s trademark. He came to the Bears in January 2004 from the Rams, where he was the defensive coach, and before that he was the linebacker coach in Tampa Bay.” I stop, smile prettily. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Where’d Lovie go to school?”

“Tulsa.”

“Is he married?”

“To MaryAnne, and they have three sons.”

“Favorite charities?”

“The American Diabetes Association.” I reach for my beer. “Anything else you’re interested in, son?”

Luke just laughs, that deep rumble of sound that booms from his chest. “You’re for real.”

I nod and find myself hoping, wishing, that Luke is for real, too.

My first date in ten years is over, and I don’t know if he’ll ever call again.

And I want him to call, almost as much as I pray that he doesn’t call.

I’m honestly that conflicted.

I’m not one of those people who know how to play the field, just dabble with dates and men. I have this horrifying habit of no, thank you; no, thank you; no, thank you—and then
wham!
I fall. Hard. Impossibly hard.

I haven’t dated after Scott because I was too ashamed of what I felt, what I went through. I’m brave—nearly reckless—in every other area, but when it comes to my heart . . .

I shift restlessly on the couch and kick off one clog and then the other.

Luke was right at the walk-a-thon when he called me chicken. I am chicken, and what frightens me is me.

Chicken? Hell, yeah. You might as well call me a poultry farm.

But when I stop panicking and think of dinner, all I can see—think of—is Luke. His huge frame, his grace, his intelligence, his intensity.

And then there’s that face.

Forgive me for being shallow, but he is really nice to look at, particularly across a dinner table.

Even better was when, during the meal, I stopped worrying so much, dropped my guard a little, and started having fun.

Luke knew how to have fun, and he made dinner fun by bantering with me, coming up with word games, brain games, things that seduced the mind and then the senses.

When he started talking about his family, his childhood on his farm in Iowa, it was all over for me. Despite the bike and tattoo, I have a huge soft spot for country music and life before everything became so harried.

As he talked about the fields of corn, I could hear the young stalks whistle in the wind. I could feel the heat of the sun and smell the rich, pungent soil.

I loved that he was raised on a farm, had learned to drive by driving tractors and then the farm trucks. I didn’t want him to stop talking. I wanted to hear the stories, all of them, but he shared only a few.

His parents are still married after forty-seven years. He’s never heard his dad say a harsh word to his mother. He believes marriage is forever, which is why this Mountain of a Man has decided he’d rather never marry than marry the wrong woman.

“You don’t want kids?” I asked during coffee.

“Not if there’s a risk their mom and dad will split and not raise them together.”

“You don’t think children can survive in single-parent families?”

“I want my kids with two parents. In the same house. With everyone treated equally—with respect. And love.”

As I shift on the couch, it crosses my mind that I’d never make his short list. Woman lives with a man. Loses man. Gets inseminated with some stranger’s swimmers.

Not that I want to be on his short list. Not that we’ll ever go out again.

But as Luke talked, I found myself watching his eyes, his mouth, his hands, thinking, Yes, yes, yes.

I sat there amazed. Awed. Here was the whole package, the package I’d somehow begun to doubt really existed. Smart, strong, successful, sexy, and yet relaxed. Comfortable.
Normal.
If six feet seven and gladiatorlike strength is normal.

The date ended without a kiss. I didn’t expect him to kiss me, not after everything I’d said, and he’d said, but that didn’t diminish my attraction, any of that raw physical awareness that rippled through me in waves.

Seeing him again would be dangerous. But not seeing him again seems even worse.

Chapter Twelve

I don’t sleep well that night, not with dreams of Luke, lust, and sex turning my internal thermostat up, up, up. The dreams felt way too real, too, as though Luke were actually in bed with me, heating me up.

Even after my dad and mom drop Eva off the next morning, I stumble through the day, grateful it’s Sunday and not Monday, particularly when I snap at Eva over something that wouldn’t normally get a rise out of me.

All day I feel out of step, though. Even when I’m at my desk for part of the afternoon to catch up on work, I can’t focus. My thoughts are chaotic, disorganized, drifting again and again back to last night, and Luke. I feel slightly obsessive at the moment, and it annoys me.

Impulsively I pick up the phone, dial Tiana’s number. I need to hear her voice, even if it’s just her voice mail.

But I don’t get Tiana’s voice mail, she answers. “Marta,” she says happily. “How are you, girl?”

“Crazy,” I answer bluntly. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Shey said you’ve been worried about Eva.”

“But this isn’t about Eva, it’s about me. I’m . . . I’ve . . .” I search for the right words, seeing Luke and yet not knowing how to describe him. “I’m confused.”

She laughs. “You, confused? Since when?”

“Ha, ha,” I fake laugh back before getting serious. “Tiana, I think I’m going crazy. I’m thinking crazy thoughts, and they’re not going away, they’re just getting worse.”

She stops laughing abruptly. “You’re not thinking about suicide, are you?”

Her voice has dropped so low and sounds so concerned that I groan. “No. I’m not depressed. It’s a man. I’m thinking about a man.”

For a moment Tiana says nothing, and then she giggles. “Ta, that’s normal. You’re a woman.”

“But I don’t want to think about a man, and I don’t want to be attracted to anyone, and I don’t understand why I’m so damn attracted to this one.” I take a small breath. “But I am. Distractingly so. And I want to stop it.
Now.
”

“He’s really got you hot and bothered, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I answer grumpily. “But why? Why him? And why now?”

“I think your mating impulse has taken over.”

“
What?
”

Tiana laughs. “I just did a segment on a fascinating book called
The Female Brain,
and the author, Dr. Louann Brizendine, would say that your brain biology has been hardwired to recognize this guy as a suitable partner.”

“A partner for what? The waltz? Bowling? Wine tasting?”

“How about reproduction?”

“I’m going to hang up on you.”

“I’m not making this up, Marta. There is extensive scientific evidence behind Dr. Brizendine’s book, and she says that the intense attraction you’re feeling—that sizzling chemistry—is literally chemicals flooding the brain. The euphoria and excitement can be traced to a rush of dopamine, and the dopamine is bolstered by a shot of testosterone, which heightens sexual desire.”

I’ve heard enough about the chemistry of our brains to recognize some of what she’s saying as true, but I’m not ready to give myself over to a dopamine, testosterone rush. “I don’t want to be attracted to Luke, at least not this attracted. It was never my intention to fall for him, or anyone, not while Eva is still living at home.”

“You might have consciously chosen to live the single life, but your unconscious mind recognizes a potential reproductive partner in this Luke and is doing everything it can to get you in bed with him.”

“To reproduce.”

“To reproduce,” she echoes. “Dr. Brizendine would say it’s because your brain sized up Luke as a potential partner, a healthy mate who could give you children—”

“I don’t want more children.”

“—and is now flooding you with cocktails of neurochemicals because he fits your ancestral wish list.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s in her book.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re biology driven, Ta, whether or not you want to admit it.”

“Good, because I won’t admit it, and even if it were true, why now? In ten years I must have met someone that my brain would have recognized as a good reproductive partner. Why didn’t I notice until now?”

“Because you’ve had a mommy brain.”

“You’re supposed to be helping, Tiana, not making things worse.”

“You wanted answers. I’m giving you answers, and you’ll get even more in chapter five of Dr. Brizendine’s book. Motherhood changes a woman’s brain. It’s nature’s way of ensuring the survival of young. First you’re flooded with chemicals during pregnancy, and then after birth you’re flooded with more dopamine and oxytocin to help bond with the baby. For years you were hopelessly in love with Eva—”

“I still am.”

“Yes, but she’s older now, nearly ten, and she’s more independent”—she talks louder, overriding me when I try to interrupt—“and yes, you’re still very attached to her, but you probably aren’t producing quite as much oxytocin as you once were, leaving you more open for sexual attraction and reproduction.”

I’m just about to protest that I’m not interested in having another baby, that the last thing I want or need is to add to my family, when another little voice inside me whispers,
Oh yeah?

The
Oh yeah?
stops me. Cold.

“What was the name of that book again?” I ask her after a slight pause.

“
The Female Brain.
”

“So I’m not crazy.”

Tiana starts laughing. “I never said that. But research is showing that hormones shape us and influence us whether we like it or not, and it’s been happening inside our brains from before we were born.”

After hanging up, I click on to the Internet and look up the book. The cover photo is white and depicts a bundled ball of phone cord with a little phone jack plug at the end.

Hardwired to fall in love?

Hardwired to procreate?

Hardwired to need a man?

No freaking way.

Monday afternoon, Eva comes home with a packet of papers that includes a notice about the first field trip of the year, the fourth-grade class’s November trip to the Pacific Science Center to see the new, highly touted anatomy exhibit and an invitation to a mothers-only event, a Creative Memories Night. I’ve heard of Creative Memories, because in New York I handled a very small ad design for a rival, Memory Delights, and I did tremendous market research before tackling the ad.