Unlucky In Love (6 page)

He reached across the table and touched my
hand. “I’m glad I met you, Jana. I think you’re absolutely correct.
I was going to ask what else you recommend, but it looks like I
have a lot of work to do.”

“Wait … that’s not how you’re supposed to do
it. You’re still supposed to set aside
time
to
read.”

He laughed quietly. “I will. Do me a favor,
review some more mystery books.”

I bobbed my head up and down as I tried not
to laugh. “Okay.”

Seth peered down at his phone. “Well, I have
to head back. Still employed, for now.” He winked as he hopped up.
“Thanks, Jana.”

And he darted off toward the door.

I dropped my head on the table.
Great
advice! You missed your calling, Jana. You should have been a
psychologist. Instead of getting a date with a hot lawyer, you told
him to quit his day job and become a writer. Smart!

I felt a pat on my back and I looked up to
see Media Man. “You okay?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah.” I gathered up my few things and
rushed toward the closest exit.

“Jana,” Media Man called, but I rushed out
the front door as fast as my legs would carry me. I didn’t know
why, but I was pretty sure I’d hear an Action News alert about
Media Man. I could hear it now, “He was so sweet. Always so
helpful.” Yikes! My dad had warned me to always go with my gut. Too
often, I’d chosen to ignore that small voice, but not in this
situation. Alarm bells might as well have
rung
over his head.

I hopped in my car and pressed the lock
button. I still had hours before I had to pick up Eric.

When I’d been getting ready, I’d envisioned
running into Mr. Forgetful and him asking to take me to lunch — on
the beach. We’d be having such a good time, discussing books, but
then I’d have to dart off like
Cinderella
to pick up my son,
and he’d be longing
after
me.

Instead, Seth had dashed out of the library
as though he were the prince and he’d just remembered that he had
to go to war today.

Sigh!
Why didn’t men ever do what
women expected them to do? Or, the better question was … why did I
expect a man to do anything?

This was my life. If I wanted something, I
would damn well have to learn how to ask.

My eyes darted around the Starbucks, hoping
no one I knew would walk in. I’d purposely chosen a Starbucks that
I rarely went to so that if things went poorly, I’d lessen the
chance of a recurrence.

I set the bright purple shoulder bag I’d
received as a gift-with-purchase at the end of the tabletop. Other
than the beach, I rarely used the neon-colored monstrosity, but I
hadn’t wanted to do something as cliché as carrying a yellow rose
or setting my tattered paperback version of
Pride and
Prejudice
beside me.

Chancing a quick peek at my phone for the
time, I wondered again why I’d allowed my cousin to talk me into
this. Why was she so adamant that I dated someone?
At
least
Angela hadn’t suggested that I sign up for online
dating; she’d just insisted that I meet the brother of one of her
sorority sisters. It had been a few years since she’d seen him, but
she insisted that he was super sweet, cute, and every time she’d
seen him, he’d had a book in his hands. So worst case, if we had
nothing else in common, at
least
we could talk
about books. Assuming he didn’t read space operas or horror novels.
Those were the two genres that I couldn’t seem to get interested in
reading.

And that was what I was starting to realize
… The reason my marriage had failed, the reason that every guy I’d
dated before Dick hadn’t worked out. I hadn’t shared an interest
in
anything that they enjoyed.

Sadly, that was partly my fault, because
other than books, movies, and wine, what did I like? My son. But
that conversation would only interest Dick, probably the reason my
marriage had made it to the fifteen-year mark. We’d shared two
loves: talking about our son … and sex.

“Jana?”

I bolted upright in the chair, spilling
coffee on the cuff of my white long-sleeved shirt. What was wrong
with me? “Yes … I’m Jana. Sorry.” I motioned my hand for Kyle to
sit, then squirted some spring water from my bottle of
Zephyrhills
on to my shirt and dabbed at it with a
napkin.

“No, I’m sorry,” Kyle said as he handed me a
couple more napkins. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I wagged my head. “You didn’t. I scare
myself, I think. Sometimes I zone out. I get so deep in thought
that I don’t realize what’s going on around me.”
Nice
conversation starter, Jana. First, you prove
that you’re a klutz, then you tell him you’re a ditz
. If I
didn’t know any better, I’d think that I was purposely trying to
sabotage any chances of starting a relationship with another man.
Maybe I was.

Kyle laughed. “You too?”

My lips curved up slightly. I wasn’t sure if
Kyle agreeing with me was a good thing or not. “So, Angela tells me
you’re an exterminator?” When Angela had first mentioned
“exterminator,” I immediately had thought about my request that she
knock off my ex-husband. As much as Angela and I had laughed,
something told me that I didn’t want to bring that up in the first
five minutes either, especially since I’d already proven that I was
jittery and a space cadet.

“Yeah …” he said. “Not extremely glamorous,
but it pays the bills.”

Well, at
least
he
wasn’t high and mighty about it. All jobs were important, but it
always amazed me how some people were pompous about their jobs,
especially given the fact that most people fell into their jobs.
“How did you end up being an exterminator?”

“I started as an apprentice in high school,
doing the dirty jobs that sales reps didn’t want to do, then …
after a few years of that, I was able to get my license.” He paused
to take a sip of coffee, then started right in, “One of my first
jobs was at a triplex. One of the tenants moved out and then all of
a sudden, the other two became overrun with pests …”

My mind wandered off as Kyle rambled on and
on about palmetto bugs as large as the palm of his hand, fruit
rats, and a plethora of insects and rodents I didn’t care to hear
about over coffee … or anywhere else for that matter. Now I
understood why an intelligent, well-read, and decent-looking man
was still single at thirty-two. I hadn’t been a fan of all of
Dick’s stories about irritating car shoppers, but I’d be willing to
listen about picky shoppers for another fifteen years than stories
about bugs.
Eww
…

I’d like to think that Kyle could discuss
something other than his job, but since he’d gone into the sordid
details within the first five minutes of meeting me, I had to
believe that he couldn’t.

And the one thing I knew more than anything
when it came to men: you couldn’t change them. Being raised by my
father had taught me that. Just watching him go from relationship
to relationship, each one ending almost exactly the same way, I
understood that fact better than any other facet of human behavior.
My father was a good man, but he liked to drink, fish, and play,
and no matter what a new woman in his life thought or wanted, he’d
never change.

As sweet as Kyle seemed, people didn’t
change. At thirty-four, I was too old to take a car home and see if
it grew on me. If I didn’t like a car during the five-minute test
drive, chances were I’d never appreciate it.

At the first sign of a pause in Kyle’s next
account about mice, I glanced at my phone. “Well, it was very nice
meeting you, Kyle, but I have to pick up my son.” Which wasn’t a
complete
lie.
I did have to pick up Eric, but
not until after practice. But Kyle didn’t know that. I’d purposely
scheduled our coffee date for one-thirty, though, as most people
knew that high school got out around two.

“Oh, sure.” He stood as I got up, again
showing that he was a sweet guy, but I wasn’t willing to train a
new man. I’d leave that task up to some other woman. Maybe a fellow
exterminator.

“Thanks for meeting me —”

“I know you’re in a hurry,” he interrupted,
“so I’ll just throw this out there. Would you like to have dinner
sometime?”

I smiled. “You’re a nice guy, Kyle, but I
think it’s just too early for me to start seeing someone. I didn’t
realize how hard it’d be.” Another
lie,
but I
told this lie so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings. After all, some
women liked mice, so they might like his stories. What did I
know?

“Sure, sure … I understand.” He held the
door open for me. “You have my number. Call me if …” he trailed
off, seeming to understand that there wouldn’t be an
if
.

I opened the door to my truck and offered
him a smile. “I will, Kyle,” I said, though, because who knew where
I’d be in a year? Maybe I’d go deaf or suddenly have a houseful of
pests
. Or maybe I would become desperate.
Still, after meeting
Mr. Forgetful
, I was pretty sure that
when I was ready to find another man, I’d be able to. When the time
was right.

I was starting to think that the
right
time
just wasn’t
right now
.

While I typed up my review for the next day,
J’Austen laid her head as close as was
catly
possible to the keyboard.

If I thought she did it because of lack of
attention, I’d feel bad, but I knew that wasn’t the case. Actually,
I didn’t know why she did it. Because once I finished whatever I
was typing, she would trot off and lounge around somewhere else in
the house.
Lately
I’d been finding her basking
beneath a slice of
sun
that had taken
residence for a few hours during the day across the bottom of
Eric’s bed. But next week, she might take up residence on one of
the barstools that surrounded my kitchen counter.

As it was, it was getting harder and harder
to write reviews on contemporary romances, so as endearing as
J’Austen was, I needed to think. It wasn’t that the last book that
I read wasn’t good; it was. The writer had a firm grasp of the
English language, which was always a plus. I understood a few
errors here and there — we’re all human — but when I had to stop
and reread sentences throughout the entire book, it detracted from
the pleasure of reading. The author had also researched her story,
which I appreciated. I couldn’t stand reading a
romantic-suspense
book where the writer misquoted laws
that were easily
researchable
or wrote a story
where every cop and politician in a town was corrupt, except the
one champion who would save the woman who had secret information
that would take down an entire city.
Bleh!

The writer of the book I’d just finished
hadn’t done any of those things. She’d done the worst thing of all.
She’d broken every rule when it came to boy-meets-girl and living
happily-ever-after. Sure, I believed in love-at-first-sight, a
too-good-to-be-true man, and everything working out perfectly for
the rest of forever … just not all in the same book.

Maybe I was becoming jaded with reality,
since the last three dates I’d gone on after
Mr. Bugman
had
been total flops.

I blew out a breath. “How am I going to
write this review, baby kitty?”

J’Austen looked up at me and fluttered her
eyelids.

I gawked at her in disbelief. “You’re
telling me to lie?”

She crinkled her nose, which I took as,
No, don’t lie … just write the truth … gracefully
. Maybe
J’Austen was right. Maybe some women still wanted a fairy tale, a
real fairy tale. Because in the old fairy tales, things weren’t
always sunshine and roses. Those princesses had to work hard for
their happily-ever-afters.

If only men would read some of these books,
they’d know what women wanted and what
not
to do.

Before I knew it, my fingers were moving
across the keyboard, but I wasn’t writing the review. I was writing
my thoughts.

Instead of laughing at your date’s chosen
profession, maybe ask how she ended up doing something you never
heard of as a career.

Instead of talking about bugs, talk about
the people who were thankful, the reason you love your job.

Instead of beeping your horn to let your
date know you’ve arrived, get out of the car and walk to the
door.

Instead of assuming that your date likes
weird ethnic food, maybe ask before you choose the restaurant.

Instead of getting turned off by the fact
that a woman is raising a fifteen-year-old boy solo, learn about
her before you beg her to go out on a date.

Instead of getting furious that your date
doesn’t want to hop into bed with your greatness on the first date,
maybe try proving you’re great instead of telling her how great you
are for hours on end.

I looked down at my list and all I could
think about was my father. How he’d been right up front with women,
and truly, some women probably would have enjoyed all the things he
loved. But he wasted so much time with the
fakers
, that he
never met a woman who’d love him for who he was. My father was a
gentleman, a great listener, and he was intelligent. But he also
liked to hang out at biker bars and fish. And I understood that.
Truthfully, I respected it. He knew what he wanted.

What did I want?
Why did I care about
what men were like on dates when I wasn’t meeting men who were
doing things I liked anyway? Shouldn’t that be the first step? Who
cared if a man held open the
door
if he bashed
what I did for a living? Who cared if he liked what I did for a
living if he spoke about bugs the rest of the time? Who cared if he
had a great job and was handsome if all he wanted was to get into
my pants?