Play Dates (35 page)

“Why is the ending sad?” Zoë asks.

“If you spell it out, you’ll give away the plot,” I warn.

“It’s okay,” she assures him. “I’ve read sad stuff before. And I’ve seen sad movies.
Dumbo
’s really sad in parts. And scary, too, when the house catches fire and he’s trapped inside. And
Bambi
’s reeeeeeeally sad.”

“Um . . . Z? Isn’t reading
Charlotte’s Web
a homework assignment?” She tilts her head coyly. That’s a “yes.” She’s putting on her best I’m-sick-but-irresistibly-adorable face. “Then you’re doing us
both
a favor by reading these chapters,” I tell Dennis.

“She’s got more homework in second grade than I think I had in sixth.”

“I love bedtime stories,” Zoë says. “And sometimes I like Mommy to read me something different, but when it’s
homework
, it . . . it . . . it goes faster when someone else reads it out loud because I can’t read so fast. But it’s the same words,” she offers, as a rationalization.

“You’d better watch it or she might become a lawyer,” he cautions, grinning. I shudder.

“I want to be an astronaut.” She tucks into her sherbet as Dennis begins to read. I’m charmed, and for some reason I feel
proud
that he reads the material so well, acting out all the parts with the skill of an old Irish raconteur. Maybe it’s a cultural thing; storytelling runs through his veins. Of course, that ability has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he’s the man I think I would like to be my boyfriend, but it does indeed make me proud. And Zoë is very picky when it comes to reading aloud. She can be quite a scathing critic.

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I find myself noticing Dennis’s mouth as he reads, wanting to kiss him, remembering how soft his lips were the first time we kissed and wondering what he might taste like this time. The fact that he’s got a flair for reading and is so good with Zoë is also a turn-on

“Okay, that’s two chapters and no skipped pages,” he says, closing the book. “There’ll be a quiz in the morning.”

She takes this literally. “Will you be here to give it to me?”

Dennis and I exchange an awkward glance. “I don’t think so, sweetie,” I tell her, although I’m certainly thinking about it. He’s pretty irresistible right now.

“Oh.” She pauses momentarily before switching gears. “Do I have to go to sleep now?”

“That’s usually why it’s called a bedtime story, Z. Say thank you to Fireman Dennis for reading to you and for doing such a good job.”

“Thank you Fireman Dennis for reading to me and for doing such a good job,” she parrots. “And you can do it again sometime, if you want.”

“The pleasure will be mine. Goodnight, Zoë. Feel better, now, okay?”

“I don’t feel better now, but I will in the morning, maybe.”

“Why don’t you go check on the pizza situation?” I suggest.

Dennis leaves the room and I lean in to kiss my daughter good-night. “I’m glad you enjoyed your bedtime story. Didn’t Fireman Dennis do a good job?” I take the sherbet bowl and tray away.

She beams, then sighs, like a lovestruck maiden. “Yeaaaaah. I like Fireman Dennis a lot. He doesn’t talk to me like a little kid.”

“I’ll pass along your compliment.” I give her a kiss and turn off the light.

“She’s a good kid,” Dennis remarks, happily accepting my grateful embrace. He tastes like cinnamon red-hots. Dennis has already set the table in the breakfast nook and found all the ap-PLAY DATES

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propriate dishes and utensils. Rather than feel at all offended or violated by the fact that he’s obviously given himself a tour of my drawers and cabinets, I’m relieved that he doesn’t act like he wants—or expects—to be waited on, when I’ve got a sick child to deal with. “I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and did this,” he adds, gesturing at his handiwork. “Kitchens are kitchens. A firehouse isn’t
that
much different than a lady’s home.” In a gentlemanly gesture he pulls the chair out for me, and his hands graze my shoulders when he seats me. It feels delicious.

“No, it’s great. Thanks. You did a very thorough job. I’m surprised you didn’t find the pornography.” I wink, making sure he realizes I’m kidding.

He laughs. “Ooh, there’s pornography?” He slides his chair away from the table and heads straight to one of the higher cabinets.

“Come back and sit down.” He does, and then I pop up. The porno joke lightened the mood, but made me even more aware of the sexual tension in the air, and I’m not sure how to deal with it. “I’ve got a bottle of red wine here somewhere.” I locate the Beaujolais and pour a glass for each of us.

“To . . .” Dennis raises his glass to toast. “I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t believe it! I thought you Irishmen are legendary for your toasts. You know . . . ‘May the wind be at your back and the road rise up to meet you’ and all that.”

“You’re not supposed to combine those two, I don’t think.

Anyway, cheers. To Zoë’s speedy recovery.”

Our less-than-glamorous dinner is punctuated by the sharing of childhood reminiscences, much laughter, Dennis’s spirited defense of Terminator movies, and the occasional awkward silence. It seems pretty clear that we’re both interested in taking whatever has been going on between us over countless phone calls and e-mails to another, physical level.

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Leslie Carroll

He reaches for my hand across the table. “Hey, your nails are smudgy.”

“Aaah! Zoë and I were hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” he says, “but I don’t care, in case you’re concerned about it. You haven’t offended my . . . my . . .
manicurial
sensi-bilities.”

He’s got me smiling. “It fits better when you’re not wearing those big Kevlar gloves,” I say, enjoying the feel of our clasped hands. Mine in his.

“About Zoë’s question . . .” he begins.

“Which one?” I realize we’re both whispering.

“The one about me being around tomorrow to quiz her on the
Charlotte’s Web
chapters I read to her.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Claire, you’re blushing.”

“So are you.” There are a few moments of heavy silence. A real pregnant pause. “I don’t think it’s a good idea . . . tonight, I mean . . . but . . . but . . .” I’m scared to say this. More than just nervous. Really scared. I haven’t been with another guy, apart from Scott, since I was a senior in high school. And Scott was only the second man I ever made love with. And what if Dennis isn’t thinking the same thing . . . I mean, I think he is . . . but what if . . . ? “I really do want to, though. Eventually. And I don’t mean too far away eventually. Soon eventually.”

“I understand.” He doesn’t sound pissed off or rejected.

Whew
.

“It’s just that with Zoë . . . and this is only a first date, such as it is, and all . . .”

He’s watching me dither, a confused muddle of words that are meant to express my current state of womanhood and motherhood and longing and desire and fear.

“It’s okay, Claire. I understand,” he repeats. “I really do. I’m not bullshitting. I don’t do that. There’s no reason for us to force anything, or feel we’ve got a timetable here. If it’s okay with PLAY DATES

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you, I’m not going anywhere.” He chuckles. “I mean, except home tonight.”

We clean up the kitchen together, and then he says he thinks he’d better start heading back.

I’m a little disappointed. “So soon?”

“Yeah, I think so. Because if I don’t leave now . . .”

It’s my turn to understand. “It’s okay. Can I kiss you good night?” Dennis takes me in his arms. At first his mouth just brushes mine. Then he truly claims it, deepening the kiss with a passionate urgency. He hugs me to him, caressing my back, shoulders, and neck, and it’s quite a while before we come up for air. I love the way it feels to be held by him, the softness of his lips, the scent of his skin. “You taste like pizza,” I whisper.

“Then maybe next time, you’ll try the pepperoni,” he breathes into my mouth, then pulls away and starts laughing at what I might be taking for a dreadful double entendre.

I give him a playful smack on the upper arm. “That’s terrible!”

“I didn’t mean it that way, I swear I didn’t!” We’re both laughing hard now, and fall into each other’s arms. “You do believe me, don’t you?” he says, kissing me again.

“Oh, yeah, sure, of I course I do,” I giggle. “And I
do
want to try the pepperoni.”

Chapter 18

For the first time in my life, I’m scared to live here. I mean, after the break-in, I don’t feel like my apartment is safe. I threw out half the clothes they dumped on the floor; I was too skeeved to touch them again. Not the nicest reason to buy new underwear. Charles helped me put the place back together and we got a locksmith to put so much hardware on the door

I’m

, I feel like

the one who’s in jail every time I get home and flip all the locks. The guys who broke in are waiting for their trial. I’ve heard they’ve both got rap sheets a mile long. If convicted—which they’d better be—they’re probably looking at a long time in the can. And one of them violated his parole when he robbed me. Dickhead.

“You need an alarm system,” the locksmith told me. I figured he was just trying to sell me more stuff.

But Charles thought he had a point. “You don’t have to get something traditional,” he said. “My friends John and Maria don’t have a bell or some horrible noisy thing like those car alarms, which always make
me
want to take a crowbar to the cars. They have two dogs instead. And they bark like crazy when anyone is anywhere they’re not supposed to be.”

“But what if the thieves ignore the barking and go for it anyway?”

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Charles licked his lips. “They’re dinner.”

“Well, this much I know,” I told him, as we took a walk to a local pet store. “A burglar alarm can’t stomp roaches or reach my light fixtures to change a bulb. And a dog needs to be walked at least twice a day. Can you honestly see me doing that? And we all know I am
not
a morning person. Any dog I’d get would have to learn to walk himself!”

We passed the pet store and decided to head to a bar instead.

“And,” I added, “I get my most creative ideas when I’m shopping or screwing, so it’s a wise career move in the long run.”

Charles gave me a funny look. “Mia, you just made some sort of leap that went too fast for my fragile little masculine synapses.

What’s
a wise career move in the long run?”

Oh. Had I not made myself clear? “A husband.”

“Aaaaand . . . where are we going to find such an item?”

I looked around the bar. No prospects there. At least, not now.

“Will you help me go over my Excel sheets?” I just happened to have them in my purse. Since they contain such personal details, I got weirded out about having them around the house after the robbery. As long as my bag doesn’t get snatched. Charles knows about the spreadsheets and finds them wildly amusing. In fact, he thought he might try the same technique. Besides, it’s cheaper than therapy. Maybe I could start a trend. A self-help psychotherapy/dating/computer skills combo. You know, “Learn and master a popular software package while understanding why you’re such a fuck-up as a lover!”

Spring is, like, in a few days. Didn’t Celestia say my love life was supposed to look up around now?

Charles ordered two apple martinis. The waitress looked at us like we were tourists. “This is a real shot and beer place,” I whispered to him.

“Does that mean I have to drink them?” he said peevishly.

“And if she gives us attitude, I give her a shitty tip.”

“Sounds a bit harsh.”

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“It’s the same give and take in the cutthroat world of guiding.

Just ask your sister.”

Charles and I don’t see eye to eye on this kind of thing. Yeah, I know the place is empty, more or less, so in his view, there’s no reason for her to cop a ’tude just because we asked for green girl-drinks. But I always tend to think there’s more than the obvious going on. Maybe she got dumped by her man last night.

Maybe her dog died. Maybe she’s PMSing. Of course, Charles could be right; maybe she’s just a bitch!

I laid out the charts on the small table. I have the pages taped like sheet music so it’s one long chart that folds out, accordion-style. “My, God, you’ve dated more men than I have!” Charles exclaimed. He looked at my categories. “Oral?”

“Sex.”

“Duh. I already guessed that. I didn’t think it was their favorite toothbrush brand.” He threw up his hands. “That’s too vague, Mia. You’re giving me nothing here. Does that mean they like you to do it to them or they like to do it to you, or both?”

I gave him a look. “
I’m
the common denominator here. Figure it out.”

“Oh. Right. But it doesn’t say whether they were good at it, and if so, how good. I mean if it’s an important enough factor to have on the chart, I think there should be some kind of a rating system. Don’t just have Y or N. Make it a Y on a scale of one to ten, or one to a hundred.” He pointed to another category.

“What’s DB?”

“Dresses badly.”

“Again, not detailed enough. What’s ‘dresses badly’
mean
?

Mismatched socks? Blue with brown? T-shirts that say stupid things?”

“All of the above.”

Charles unfolded my Guy Chart section by section, skimmed it, and sighed like a Jewish grandmother. Our drinks came. From the way she looked over his shoulder, the waitress seemed in-

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trigued by my somewhat scientific autobiographical presentation. You’d think, from her hawklike look, that she’d dated some of the same guys.

“Okay,” he said, entwining his fingers around the
V
of his martini glass. “You’ve got a lot of Peter Pans here. And how you
act
is what you
attract
.” He looked pleased with his little aphorism.

“You sound like a gay, white Johnnie Cochran.”