Waiting For Ethan (6 page)

I
leave the office at seven o'clock on Friday night. It's pathetic that I'd rather work late than go home to my empty apartment. Only one other car remains in the parking lot, Cooper's. I look up at his office. His window is lit up while the rest are all dark. As I start my car, Takeout Taxi pulls up next to the curb. I pass the entrance to the building and see the driver carrying a brown bag to the front door. Cooper is there to meet him. I don't know what gets into me, but I beep. Startled, Cooper looks in my direction. I wave. He smiles and waves back. I drive off feeling a pang of sadness for him eating alone at his desk on a Friday night, but I guess it's no worse than me eating alone in front of the television.

I suddenly realize how hungry I am, so I call Salvatore's, the pizza place around the corner from my apartment. When I arrive to pick up my food, Sal Senior, the restaurant owner, leans against the counter. Like always, he's wearing a black shirt and bright red tie. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back with grease in a style that he's probably been wearing since the 1950s. If anyone needs help from one of those makeover television programs, it's this guy. “Gina.” He smiles at me and then turns his head over his shoulder and shouts in Italian to his son, Salvatore Jr., who goes by Tory, “Your girlfriend is here.”

Tory, dressed in his usual tight jeans and black T-shirt accessorized by a thick gold ropelike chain and matching bracelet, prances to the register. “Your pizza will be a few minutes.” His gray eyes scan me up and down, and he licks his lips as he speaks. I zip my ski jacket higher and hand him a twenty. He punches my order into the register and then looks up and smirks. “For someone who eats so much pizza, you sure look great. Do you work out a lot?”

Honest to God, I should have made grilled cheese at home. I retreat to a chair near the counter without answering. From where I'm sitting, I can hear Salvatore and Tory talking in Italian. I don't know why it's never occurred to them that I speak the language. Everyone always tells me I look Italian.

“Why don't you ask her out?” Salvatore asks.

“Someone as beautiful as her, she must have a boyfriend,” Tory answers.

I'm wishing I weren't there and trying not to look at them. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Salvatore swat Tory in the head. He's still speaking Italian. “What's the matter with you? Don't you think? She's here alone most weekend nights ordering a small pizza. There's no boyfriend.”

I kick the floor with my boots and promise myself that I will never come to Salvatore's alone on the weekend again. Several minutes later, Tory calls my name. “So, umm,” he says, leaning over the counter toward me, “I get off work at nine o'clock. Maybe I could take you for a proper dinner.”

“I have a boyfriend,” I blurt out. Tory pulls the pizza out of my reach. “His name is Ethan.” He stares into my eyes. I can tell he's trying to figure out if I'm lying. The silence makes me uncomfortable so I keep talking. “I'll bring him here sometime.”

This seems to satisfy Tory. He hands me the box. “I'd like to meet him. Make sure he's good enough for you.”

 

I've just finished eating my pizza and am watching television when my cell phone rings. I was so sure no one would call me tonight that for once, the device is not nearby, and I have to go to the kitchen to retrieve it.

Ethan's name, which I happily programmed into the phone after he called on Wednesday, flashes across the screen. I swallow hard and pick up.

“Hey,” he says. “There's something I have to tell you before our date.”

My heart rate doubles, and I feel my chest getting hot. I pace back and forth in the kitchen, certain that he's going to tell me he has some kind of sexually transmitted disease.

“I'm married,” he says.

I feel all the air whooshing out of my body, leaving me deflated. I would have preferred herpes. “I can't go out with you,” I blurt out. Even as I'm saying it, though, I'm wondering if I can. I have to get off the phone before I change my mind. “Good-b—”

“Wait,” he interrupts. “It's not as bad as it sounds.”

I've seen enough bad movies to know how this works. “Let me guess,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. “Your wife's awful, but you're staying with her until the children are older.”

“No.” He makes a sound that's either a laugh or sob. “She asked for a divorce. We're separated,” he whispers. “I moved out about a month ago.”

I'm standing in the middle of the kitchen, and I sink to the floor. “I'm sorry. Really.” I stop speaking. The line is silent for a few seconds. “You should call me again when the divorce is finalized.”

“No, Gina, please.” He makes the same weird noise again. This time I'm certain it's a sob. “The only time I've laughed or smiled in weeks was the time we were together.”

I move from the kitchen floor to the couch. I lean over so my head is between my knees. I know it's not smart to go out with him, but this is Ethan, the guy I've been waiting for since age thirteen. The man I'm supposed to marry. I let out a deep breath.

“Jack told me not to tell you, but I want to do the right thing. Can't build a meaningful relationship without honesty,” Ethan mumbles.

A meaningful relationship, one that leads to marriage.
“Who's Jack?” I ask.

Ethan tells me Jack is a friend he grew up with who he's currently living with. He had to move from New Hampshire to Massachusetts because he had no one else to stay with.

I ask him how long he was married. He answers seventeen years. “I came home from work one night, and Leah, that's my wife, was waiting by the door with her suitcase. She said she didn't want to be married anymore. I never saw it coming.”

I learn he met Leah the first day of high school and proposed on graduation day. Neither of them went to college. They don't have any children, but they do have a dog, a golden retriever named Brady that Leah kept. “I miss the dog more than I miss my wife,” Ethan says.

We talk for nearly three hours. “I should let you go now,” Ethan finally says. “Can I still see you tomorrow?”

I clutch the phone tightly. He's not married, I tell myself. He's separated. It's not like I'm breaking up a marriage; it's already broken. If he decides he wants to fix it, I'll encourage him to do so. I imagine myself teary-eyed as I tell him I'm happy he's working things out with Leah. I swallow hard, thinking about the devastation I would feel. Is it worth the risk? Of course it is. His name is Ethan.

“Looking forward to it,” I say, hoping it sounds believable after my long pause.

A
t five thirty on Saturday, I hear the crackling of snow and ice on the driveway. I look out the window and see Ethan's Jeep. He's a half hour early. I race to the bathroom and check myself out in the full-length mirror. I have to say, the outfit Luci picked out looks good on me. Who cares that the waistline of the jeans is going to cut off my circulation. I look great.

I come out of the bathroom expecting to hear the doorbell. Should I open the door before he rings the bell? No, that would make me look too eager. A minute or two passes, and Ethan still isn't at the door, so I peek out the window. He's sitting in his Jeep with his head resting on the steering wheel. Before I can figure out what he's doing, he lifts his head and the Jeep backs out of the driveway.

Remain calm
, I tell myself.
He must be trying to kill time because he doesn't want to be so early. He probably assumes I'm not ready. That has to be it.
I sit on the couch and thumb through a magazine,
Brides
magazine to be exact. I've already read the entire thing. I bought it the day Ethan and I ate breakfast together. I was embarrassed bringing it to the register and carried it across the store with the cover pressed tightly to my chest, afraid all the people in the store would know the purchase was ridiculously premature. “Look at her left hand. There's no engagement ring,” I imagined a happily married brunette whispering. “Engagement ring?” The husband laughed. “She hasn't even had a date with the guy.” Despite my humiliation when buying the magazine, I'm glad I did. It gave me a great idea for the flowers in my wedding bouquet: cosmos.

Thirty-five minutes later, Ethan's still not back. Did he change his mind? Why would he come all this way and then leave? Maybe he got an emergency call. Maybe Leah called and said she doesn't want a divorce after all. He's driving up to New Hampshire right now to reunite with her.

I stuff the magazine in the trash, go to my bedroom, and lie on my bed. The ceiling fan above me spins. I watch the blades go 'round and 'round. I must have jinxed myself by purchasing that magazine. How could I have been so stupid? The doorbell rings, startling me from my thoughts. I jump off my bed and race to the front door. When I open it, Ethan extends a bouquet of flowers. “Sorry, I'm late. I would have been early but I forgot flowers.”

He left to get flowers. Honest to God, I want to cry. Happy tears. They're beautiful flowers, too, a fragrant bouquet of pink roses, tulips, miniature carnations, and hot pink spray roses. Hmmm, what are those two back there, cosmos? Couldn't be, but they are. Another sure sign from Ajee, I know it.

“Thank you!” I hug him. His entire body stiffens and he pulls away quickly.

“We should really get going.” He's looking at the floor. I glance down to see what has captured his interest. Nothing there but the tan linoleum tiles.

I put on my coat, and we make the long walk down the stairs and around the house to his Jeep in silence. We've been together for less than five minutes, and we've already run out of things to say to each other. Brilliant. Quick, think of something, anything. “Thanks again for the flowers.” God help me. That's the best I can come up with.

“You're welcome.” He opens the passenger door, and I step in. The discarded soda cans and candy wrappers that littered the interior the last time I was in the Jeep are gone. The dashboard and leather seats shine with a new coat of Armor All, and the scent of vanilla lingers in the air.

Ethan takes his time walking to his side of the car, but finally the driver's door opens and he climbs in behind the wheel. He puts the key in the ignition but doesn't turn it. He leans back in his seat and covers his face with his hands.

Oh no, he's going to tell me he doesn't want to go on this date after all. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He looks at me for the first time since my ill-advised hug. “Sorry. I'm just nervous. Really nervous. I almost cancelled. I haven't been on a date with anyone but Leah since eighth grade.”

I picture Ethan as a little boy riding his bike next to a freckled-face girl with pigtails. She's sort of fat. They pedal up to Friendly's, where they split the Reese's Pieces sundae. I think back to my first date just before the start of eighth grade, a few weeks after Ajee made her predictions. Joey Messina and I doubled with Josh Levine and Neesha to the movies. Joey's brother was the usher, and he let us sit in the balcony even though it was closed. Josh and Neesha sat in the last row, Joey and I in the first. I kept turning around to look at Neesha. The first few times, Josh had his arm around her; later they were kissing. I elbowed Joey. “Neesha's grandmother predicted Josh would kiss Neesha and look.” He turned to face them and then looked back at me. “Do you want to make out, too?” He leaned toward me. I jolted backward in my seat. A guy should never ask a woman if she wants a kiss. He should just do it.

The truth was, though, I didn't want Joey kissing me. I wanted to meet and kiss Ethan. Josh Levine was kissing Neesha and that was a sure sign Ethan was on his way. And now, all these years later, here we are finally on our first date.

“I'm really nervous, too, if that makes you feel any better.”

He smiles. “You're lying. Why would you be nervous? You've probably been on dates with tons of guys.”

But this is my first date with my future husband, Ethan. I wonder if he would be more or less nervous if I actually said it out loud.

 

A smattering of cars are spread throughout the parking lot, and Ethan pulls into a space by the front door. He hops out of the driver's seat and races around the vehicle to the passenger side so he can open my door. He extends his hand for me to grab on to while I climb down. Although I'm perfectly capable of getting out of the car without his help, I find his gesture sweet. I like it even more that he continues to hold my hand as we walk into the bowling alley.

Inside, colored lights blink and eighties music blares from the speakers. The guy at the front desk has long, greasy dark hair tied back in a ponytail. His eyes linger on my chest, and I pull my sweater up higher. He leans toward me to hand me the shoes. All I can smell is smoke. “Lane seven,” he says in a voice ravaged by cigarettes.

Fifteen to twenty teenagers are using lanes eight through twelve, and a gray-haired man and woman are bowling in the first aisle against the far left wall. Ethan and I sit on the bench next to each other to change our shoes. When he removes his left work boot, I notice his sock has a hole by the big toe, and that little imperfection makes me want to hug him. “So, should we wager?” Ethan asks as he laces up his bowling shoes.

“Loser buys dinner,” I say.

“Nah, has to be more interesting than that.”

I'm still bent over my shoes. I straighten up to look at him. His sweater is the same exact shade of blue as his eyes. It makes them sparkle. “What did you have in mind?”

He gives me that same confident grin from the diner. “A massage.” The way he says the word leaves no doubt he expects a happy ending, and I feel myself blushing.

“You're on,” I say.

He taps my knee before standing. As he walks to get a ball, I notice his jeans fit in a way that's going to make it really fun to watch him from behind all night. He picks up and puts down several balls before settling on one he likes. Then he steps into the lane, extends his hand with the ball in front of him, takes three quick steps forward, bends, and hurls it down the aisle. A crashing sound echoes through the room as the ball strikes the pins. All but one fall. He waits for that ball to come back and then rolls it down the lane again. It hits the lone standing pin. Ethan pumps his fist. “Can't wait for that massage.” He winks as he returns to the bench.

I stand. “Maybe I'm a ringer.” He laughs while I look at the balls in the tray and choose a bright orange one.

Behind me Ethan coughs. “You sure you want that one? I think it's a little heavy.”

“I like big balls.” Even before the words are out, I'm wishing I could reel them back in, because honestly, I didn't mean it that way. I try to act like my words were intentional by winking at Ethan. Only, I've never been able to wink, so both my eyes shut like I'm having some kind of blinking spasm. Oh God. I turn my back to Ethan, approach the foul line, and hurl my too-big ball down the alley. It starts off straight for the pins, but then veers to the right and ends up in the gutter. I turn to look at Ethan. All the color has drained from his face, and he's running his hand through his hair. “Just setting you up before I raise the stakes,” I say.

He doesn't smile or say anything. Instead, he studies me like he might be tested on my appearance later. “You're left-handed.” His tone is accusatory and then quieter, “Leah's left- handed.”

The air between us suddenly feels a lot heavier. “Yeah, but I bet she can hit at least one of the pins.”

He shakes his head and looks down. “Nah. She doesn't like bowling. She never comes with me.” Something about what he says bothers me, and it's more than the fact that this is the second time he's brought up Leah in less than an hour.

He stands and steps into the lane with me. He picks up a bright blue ball. “This ball is a better fit for you. It's lighter.” He hands me the ball. I cradle it in my right hand and insert the fingers on my left hand into the holes. He puts his hand over mine. I can feel his heat radiating from it as he adjusts my grip.

When he pulls his hand from mine, he tilts his head in the direction of the pins, indicating I should try again. So I step up to the foul line, heave the ball down the alley, and like before it veers off into the gutter.

“Let me show you.” He holds the ball in front of him near his waist. “You want to start with your ball down here, in front of you, and then when you're ready to approach the line, raise it. Keep it up in front of you and let gravity help you pull it down. To throw it harder, hold it up by your face. To throw it slower, hold it near your chest.” He then has me mimic his motion. “Think of it as one continuous movement.” I imitate his moves. He shakes his head. “It needs to be more fluid.” A few minutes later, he is confident I have mastered the movement and walks to the back of the lane.

I approach the foul line with the ball up near my chest, keeping my eye on the center arrow and roll the ball toward the pins. It stays straight the entire way and collides with the center pin, knocking it and all the others on their sides. I jump in excitement, and by the time I land, Ethan is right there with his arms around me. “You did it,” he shouts. Then before I have time to think about what's happening, he kisses me.

I have been fantasizing about my first kiss with Ethan since Ajee told me about him. Sometimes the kiss took place on a beach with a soft red glow in the distance, just before the sun dropped from the sky and disappeared into the ocean. Sometimes it happened on a dance floor as we clung to each other in dim lights while Nat King Cole crooned, “When I fall in love, it will be forever.” No matter where the kiss happened, my knees always buckled and I swear I saw stars. Tonight, I see no stars and my knees don't buckle. I do hear what sounds like thunder in the distance as the bowling balls in the lanes next to us roar down the alley and crash into the pins.

My last first kiss is in a bowling alley. How about that! The thought causes me to laugh, and I abruptly pull away from Ethan.

He removes his hands from my waist and steps backward. “What's so funny?”

“Sorry. Nothing. Really.”

“You were laughing about something.”

“I've been imagining what our first kiss would be like for so long. I just never pictured it in a bowling alley, that's all.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “You couldn't have been imagining it for too long. We've only known each other for a week.”

I look down at my feet and try to figure out how I can talk my way out of this. Surely, I can't tell him about Ajee's prediction. “Well, I've been thinking about it since the diner.” That's true. “I was kind of hoping you'd kiss me that day.”

He smiles, and God love him, bad teeth and all, it's a big, openmouthed smile. When we know each other better, I'll recommend a dentist. He steps toward me again. “Is that so?”

I nod. He gently touches my cheek. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to kiss you.” And just like that his lips are on mine again. This time the kiss is not tentative. It's long and lingering with the promise of much more to come.

“Hey,” one of the teenagers from lane nine yells. “Get a room.”

 

Despite the kiss at the bowling alley and Ethan's flirtatious talk of massages, he walks me to my door and gives me a quick kiss on the lips.

I pull the keys from my purse and turn to unlock the door. “Do you want to come in?”

He doesn't respond so I turn to face him again. “I think I'll collect that massage another time.” He looks down and kicks at the hardened snow on my landing with the toe of his boot. “That is, if you want to see me again?” He raises his head. His expression lacks all of his earlier confidence.

“Can't wait,” I answer.