Starting Over (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

S
everal hours later, I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in my bedroom, not quite sure if this is what I had in mind by keeping it simple.

I’m wearing a brand-new pair of boyfriend jeans with the cuffs rolled up to showcase an also new pair of black, ankle-strap heels. I have on a plain white, thin, V-neck T-shirt covered by a tailored black blazer that fits me perfectly and lands just at the beginning of my hips.

After a few discussions with my stylists, Julia and Josie, they decided it would be best if I wore my hair down and in its naturally wavy state. They insisted that I wear a pair of gold hoop earrings. And Julia, who brought with her some items from her own closet, let me borrow a leopard-print, fold-over clutch that has a giant gold zipper. This is because I need to accentuate the gold from the earrings and the buckles on my heels, or that’s what she said before giving me a once-over and saying her job was done before leaving me alone with Josie about an hour ago.

I’m not a big makeup person, so I put on the bare minimum: light powder, a little blush, mascara, and a rose-tinted lip gloss.

Josie stands behind me in the mirror, inspecting her work. “Mom, you look beautiful! Mr. Thomas is going to flip out!”

“You think so?”

She nods her head like a crazy person while a smile spreads across her face.

“Grandma will be here soon,” she says with glee while checking her phone for the millionth time. “So that means Mr. Thomas will be here soon to pick you up.”

When I called my mother earlier in the week to babysit Josie for me tonight, at first she said she couldn’t do it because my parents had plans of their own. Then she asked where I was going. And when she found out . . . she just about had a heart attack and immediately canceled her plans.

When my mom arrives, she takes one look at me all dressed up and bursts into tears.

“Mom, Jesus, it’s only a date for crying out loud.”

“I know, I know,” she says. “Your father and I are so excited for you. We have been praying for years for this moment.”

“Okay, Mom,” I say to her and give her a hug. “Get it together. You can do this.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to ruin your outfit, Vanessa! Let me go!”

She practically shoves me off of her. “Now let me see this masterpiece.”

Josie chimes in, “Aunt Julia and I picked it all out, Grandma.”

“And you both did a beautiful job, sweetheart.”

A knock on the door breaks up the pep talk / fashion critique. I glance at my wristwatch to see that Cameron, if anything, is extremely punctual. Call me crazy, but I love that in people, since there is nothing worse than saying you’re going to be somewhere only to be late, or worse, really, really early. But he’s right on time.

Point one for Cameron.

My mother and Josie follow me to the door like lemmings. I’m already nervous and feel like I’ve swallowed a hummingbird that’s nested in my belly and is flapping its wings around in there. But then both my mom and my daughter walking right behind me as I go to open the door only makes the nerves worse.

In a whisper-yell, I say to them both, “Back it up! Go to the kitchen or something.”

With dejected looks, they run off to the kitchen so I can finally open the door.

What I’m greeted with is head-to-toe perfection . . . and I hate to be
that
woman, but my heart may have literally skipped a beat or two at the sight of him. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and an untucked black button-down dress shirt. His jet-black hair looks as if he just ran his hands through it with some hair product, styled but not too styled. And those dead-of-night eyes of his that I really like are highlighted by his wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He’s finished it all off with a pair of classic black Converse sneakers.

“Vanessa, you look stunning,” he says finally, after a moment or two of us just staring at each other.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He does that licking of his lips thing he does, which only serves to remind me that I’m probably going to be kissing those very lips later tonight. I might as well have dropped a bomb right then and there. Because the rest of the night, all I will be doing is imagining when, where, and how it will be to finally feel his mouth against mine.

“Vanessa?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m sorry, please come in while I get my purse.”

Stop thinking about his lips, stop thinking about his lips, stop thinking about his lips
, I say to myself on repeat as I wave him inside my house.

This ends up being a huge mistake, because of my mother. Josie, she knows him. But my mother . . . doesn’t. So what begins as an introduction ends up being a litany of questions like these: “Where did you grow up? Are your parents still married? Do you have siblings? What is your driver’s license number?”

“Mom! What the hell?” I shout, then turn to Cameron. “I’m so sorry. You do
not
have to answer that last question.”

I glare at my mother, who is pretending to look like she meant no harm. Josie is right beside her, trying her hardest not to laugh and failing miserably.

To Cameron’s credit, he grins and answers all of her questions, one by one. “I grew up in Port St. Lucie, my parents are indeed still married, and I have a big sister named Natalie. As for my driver’s license number, I don’t know it off of the top of my head but it is in my wallet, which is in my car. So if you like, I can go get it for you.”

“No, you will not,” I say with an uncomfortable smile. “Okay,” I say to Josie. “You be good for your grandmother. And you,” I direct to my mother. “You be good for Josie.”

They both laugh as I grab ahold of Cameron’s hand and lead him toward the door. “I’ll be home by . . .” I turn to him with a question on my face since I really don’t know what time I’ll be home, because I don’t even know where we’re going.

“Oh, right,” he says. “I’ll have her home before midnight. Scout’s honor.”

“Were you a Boy Scout too?” my mom asks in delight.

“Mooom!”
I say through clenched teeth and open the door to leave. “I’ll see you both later. Actually, kid, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, since you’ll already be in bed. So good night, love you.”

“Love you too,” Josie says. “Have a great time.”

I close the door behind me and breathe a sigh of relief for escaping
that awkward situation sooner rather than later. Feeling a light squeeze,
I realize we’re still holding hands. He places a soft kiss on the back of
my hand just as he did the morning he woke up in my bed with me. He
doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. Because with that one ges
ture, I feel the tension and nervousness of what’s ahead recede a little.
His eyes though, they ask an unspoken question of me:
Do you trust me
?

I do
, I answer him silently.

And then we’re off.

“How did you find this place?” I whisper as the hostess walks us to our table. He doesn’t answer and only grins in response.

Cameron’s hand is on my lower back; the contact, as light and brief as it is, feels exhilarating. He leads me gently, following the hostess through a canopy strung with white lights that leads to an outdoor dining patio. We finally reach our table, and he holds my seat out for me before sitting down across from me. Before leaving us alone, the hostess lets us know that our server will be with us shortly.

“You promise you won’t laugh?”

Now my curiosity is piqued. “I promise.”

“I looked up best restaurants for a first date in South Miami, and this one was on the list. I figure if it made such a specific list, it had to be good.”

“Why would you think I would laugh at that?” I ask. “I think that’s very thoughtful and sweet of you.”

He shrugs and relaxes a little bit in his seat. “I’m glad you like it.”

“It” is Peacock Garden Café in Coconut Grove. I’ve heard of it, of course, but have never been here before. And it’s quite lovely. Orchids and plant life surround us, so it feels a bit removed from the hustle and bustle of this area, but not so far that you can’t feel the air buzzing with excitement just a stone’s throw away. The patio dining area is pretty full tonight, and it’s only about seven o’clock. Our table is nestled in the far corner of the patio, giving us some privacy, which is perfect. Most people can spot that first-date couple a mile away, and the last thing I would want is for people to stare at us with the “Oh, how cute are they? They’re on their first date!” looks on their faces.

After the waiter takes our drink order for the white wine sangria—the house specialty—I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table.

“So.”

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table too and says, “So tell me about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t know why I just said that, because that’s not true either. I want to know everything about you, so start at the beginning if you like.”

Just then, the waiter brings over our drinks and I take a small sip before answering. “That’s a lot of history. Why don’t I give you the abbreviated version instead?”

“By all means.”

“I was born and raised in Miami. I’ve lived here all my life except for when I went to college in Tallahassee on an art scholarship.”

“That’s impressive,” he interjects.

“Where did you go to college?”

“Michigan State University.”

“That’s pretty impressive too. How did you end up there from Port St. Lucie, then back down here in Miami?”

“I applied to a lot of northern schools so I could finally experience a true winter. They had a really good program for my major, so I went
with it. But those winters really took their toll on me and I missed the warm weather. So I completed my student internship back home near
Port St. Lucie before I graduated. But after that, I wanted a change of
pace
and
scenery, so I applied to teach in South Florida. And that’s how
I ended up teaching full-time at Josie’s school for the past six years.”

“Why did you pick teaching?”

His face lights up and the corners of his lips turn up in a small smile. “Do you remember how I told you about all those science facts I was obsessed with as a little boy?”

I nod while taking another sip of my drink.

“Well, it wasn’t until ninth grade that I found that I could marry the two, so to speak. My science teacher that year made learning fun, instead of the dull, boring lessons my previous science teachers had given. She showed me that teaching could make a difference in someone’s life. It inspired me, and ultimately it stayed with me and made me want to pass that on to other kids. I get a real kick out of seeing a kid struggling with a lesson and not being able to get it right away. But when they do . . . I can almost see the lightbulb switching on for them, and it’s the best feeling in the world when that happens. Because I’ve reached them somehow and they are potentially experiencing the same inspiration I felt when I was their age. And who knows? Maybe that one little difference in their lives is enough to get them thinking of being a teacher too . . . or something else.”

“That’s beautiful, Cameron,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“How did you become an artist?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m much of an artist, really. I’m more part-time.” I lean back to let the waiter put our appetizer of crab cakes in between us. “Actually, I’m more part-part-time artist at this point.”

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“What?” I ask.

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short or try to downplay what you
were obviously born to do. You are an artist. And you’re very talented,”
he says. “That piece I bought at the art fair last month . . . it’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I can’t bring myself to say much else after his compliment. It was genuine and heartfelt, and I can tell that he meant every single word. And if I’m being honest with myself, he’s right. I shouldn’t downplay how much time I spend doing what I love to do. Even if I don’t have much time to devote to it.

“And to answer your question, I always had a thing for drawing and sketching since as far back as I can remember. My mom, you know, the crazy lady you met earlier tonight?”

“She wasn’t that bad,” he says with a laugh. “She’s only looking out for you, as well she should.”

“Well, she put me in art classes starting at four years old, as soon as she saw that I would draw for hours on end—all day sometimes. It was just always something I could do. My mom tells me that when I was three years old, I was already coloring inside the lines like a pro and doing self-portraits. She would also take my brother and me to museums and gallery exhibits, and both of us absorbed the beauty all around us like sponges.”

“Oh, so your brother’s an artist too, then?”

“No, not quite. But he owns a gallery down in South Beach.”

We continue this easy back and forth of getting to know the basic history of each other throughout the course of the meal. And it feels completely comfortable and easy to talk with him. I don’t know if it’s the setting, or simply that it’s just nice to talk to him, specifically. But whatever it is, it makes the dinner go by so much faster than expected, and before I know it, it’s almost over.