What a Girl Wants (21 page)
So Seth is officially history.
I breathe an audible sigh of relief, knowing I can leave for Taiwan and Mrs. Manger won’t sell my stuff to the highest bidder while I’m gone. The company car will pick me up in the morning. I’ll just need to call in the request.
Once downstairs, I see Mrs. Manger peek out her curtain, but she doesn’t say anything to me. Three years I’ve lived in this apartment house, and it’s all ending at a moment’s notice. But do I have time to grieve? Heavens no, Seth is about four steps ahead of me and like a horse to the barn, he’s galloping to get back home to his movie. Engineers leave no room for sentiment.
“Do you mind if I have a moment?”
He stops dead in his tracks. “A moment for what?”
“I want to say good-bye to the place. It’s been good to me.”
He shrugs and takes off with my bag. I’m worried just how long I have so I wave to Mrs. Manger who slices her curtain shut with a vengeance.
Seth is standing next to his beat-up Beamer with the door open. The passenger door.
“It’s okay if you’re dating the doctor,” he says. “You should be dating the doctor. Arin doesn’t want him.”
“You think that’s a good enough reason to date him?”
“I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone, Ashley. I wanted you to know it wasn’t hurting Arin if you saw her ex.”
Oh, Lord, everything in me wants to ask him if it hurt him, but
my mouth won’t budge. Too much depends upon his answer, and I
can’t handle it. Will You please move him if something’s supposed to
happen here?
He goes on. “She doesn’t want me either, by the way. You were right. She’s twenty-four and wants to see the world, not an old-timer engineer.”
“I never said that.” I reach up for his cheek and run my hand down it. “I would never say that.”
“Like I said, you wouldn’t hurt a fly, Ash. You deserve the good doctor.” He helps me into the seat and shuts the door.
We drive to Kay’s in silence.
S
eth is sitting right beside me in this car. We’re alone. I could say a million things. I could tell him how I feel. I could tell him the good doctor and I got caught up in a momentary rush of us both being dumped by the people we cared for. Would Seth care? Or would he ask me who it was that dumped me—with those big, blue eyes of his blinking like he doesn’t have a clue? The questions keep me silent and we roll along to Kay’s quiet street like two strangers in an elevator afraid to look at each other.
Kay’s house is a three-bedroom bungalow just like I grew up in, but in a better neighborhood. It boasts a manicured lawn framed by flowers in January. Seth doesn’t help me out, which is fine and expected by now, but disappointing just the same. I thought we had shared a “moment.” But then, I’m thirty-one and single, so what do I know?
Kay is obviously expecting me. The porch light is on, as well as walkway lights along the path toward the door. I feel a bit like a plane being guided down the runway with Seth as my ground crew. And maybe a little highlighted like the loser on
American Idol
left standing there all by myself while my counterparts make the trek happily to their chosen seats.
Seth is moving on with his life, actually giving me his bless- ing for this other relationship. In other words, he’s practically walking me down the aisle and giving me away to Kevin. OOOH, PERFECT!! I can almost picture him lifting my veil and kissing me chastely on the cheek. What is it about women that we cling to familiarity? What we know, even if it stinks royally?
Kay opens the door before I reach the front step. Seth drops my suitcase like a hot potato on the porch and waves me off like a departing plane. “See ya, Ash. I’ll take care of your stuff, don’t worry. Larry is great. Your car key is here, right?”
Trusting a guy named Larry has me a little tense, but this is Seth so I pass it off as my own paranoia.
“Bye, Seth. Thanks for dropping her by,” Kay says.
Dropping her by? Am I a child on parental custody weekend?
The Twilight Zone continues inside Kay’s house. For one thing, it smells better than my mother’s house on a Sunday night, and I’m starving. Yet raiding her fridge is probably not an option. Kay’s house is perfect. Not perfect as in she puts on a good show, but perfect in the letter sense of the word. Without even looking, I know that I can open a cabinet and everything will be lined up in ordered and alphabetical form.
I also seriously doubt Kay possesses a junk drawer. Don’t you wonder what goes on in the mind of someone who doesn’t possess at least one good junk drawer? It kind of makes me fearful of sleeping in her house, like tonight might be the night she snaps or something.
“There’s leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Do you want some?” Kay asks.
“Wow, meatloaf and mashed potatoes? Who did you have over?”
She shrugs. “No one. I cook for myself because I enjoy it and I delight in a good home-cooked meal.”
“Are you from my planet?” I ask with a laugh.
She doesn’t get it. “Seriously, Ashley. Women shouldn’t wait until they get married to cook. I just think that’s a shame—as though we’re waiting for life to start with a man. It’s so peaceful for me to cook, to throw in ingredients and get my hands dirty. You should try it.” She obviously reads my doubtful expression. “Seriously.”
“Oh, I’m not doubting you on the cooking aspect. For me, it’s more the thought that when a man comes along I’ll suddenly care about the kitchen.”
“I’m forty-three. There’s no man coming. And that’s okay with me.”
“It is?”
She may be okay with it, but it’s my worst fear.
What if this is it? What if I’m forever single and delight in smooshing hamburger together with bread crumbs and topping it with ketchup? Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.
Yet Kay possesses this Ghandi-like inner peace about life. I look around her house for clues. What on earth makes a person like her tick? There are stacks of plastic bins in an opened coat closet door. Every month is represented with a box. January is being packed away and February is out, with its plastic top lying on the pristine hardwood floor.
“Sorry about that mess, I was just getting the house decorated for the month when you called.” She opens the February box and brings out tiny ceramic cupids and hearts and other Valentine memorabilia.
“Do you set something up for each and every holiday?” I ask, incredulous.
“Sure, it’s festive. And every year, I add something to each collection.” She smiles.
It’s not my worst fear to be single. It is my worst fear that I might start collecting garage-sale fodder for fun. Or be so completely oblivious of any use for men. At the same time, I’m totally in awe of Kay. She’s completely at ease with who she is. She’s not a chameleon for men—and I have to appreciate that, even if I can’t necessarily duplicate it.
“I like this little angel,” I say, holding up a trinket. Kay quickly reaches for it, as though I will drop it and shatter the thing into a billion pieces. Judging by its light quality and badly painted lips, it was probably $3.49 at Target, but to her, it’s special.
I charged my cell in Seth’s car, and it’s ringing so it must have worked. Though I probably have limited minutes. I pass the angel carefully back to Kay as I don’t want to be indebted to her for the trip to pick up another ceramic angel with a red mustache.
“Excuse me. It might be my boss.” I answer the phone, but it’s not a number I recognize on caller ID. “Hello. Ashley Stockingdale.”
“Ashley, it’s Kevin Novak.”
The good doctor. Yum
.
Just what I needed after a dose of Seth
. Instinctively, I start twirling my short hair around my finger and my stomach is tingling. Maybe it’s my desire for meatloaf, but my mouth is dry and I can hear my heart pounding. It’s a cheap thrill, like asking a guy to a Sadie Hawkins dance and having him say YES like he was going to ask you.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been on a twenty-four-hour shift.” His voice sounds weary. “I’m just about to crash, but I wanted to let you know what a good time I had in San Francisco and to find out when we could do it again.”
I’m staring at the phone like it’s the biggest vegetable I’ve ever seen. A monster zucchini. I went out with this man two days ago. It’s not Wednesday, it’s not even do-or-die Thursday. It’s only Sunday night. Doesn’t he know standard guy phone-call etiquette and the desire to make us frantic? I haven’t even had time to get nervous.
“I’m leaving for Taiwan tomorrow.” This is a test. Will he care? Will it give him room to wiggle out of offered date? Will he suddenly understand that his parents were right, that I’m an idiotic workaholic from the wrong kind of genetic background?
“Again?”
“Yes,” I sort of moan. “This is a big case, and it’s not over. General counsel kind of stuff, so it’s worth my while.”
Stupid thing
to say. Kind of like asking yourself to the head of the table and being
asked to sit at the end.
“Wow,” he says, sounding suitably impressed which only makes me feel that much smaller.
“Yes, it’s a big coup for me.” I
so
don’t like myself right now.
“So will you call me when you get back?” he asks.
Still he persists.
He’s a masochist, that’s it.
“I don’t know where to reach you,” I admit. Maybe that is best. There’s no temptation in calling the guy if you don’t know his number, but if he knows you have the number he’ll be careful about juggling too many women. Am I right? Now you’d think in Christian circles one wouldn’t have to worry about such things, but men are men.
Oh, Brea’s right. I am tainted and sick.
Brea. It seems like forever since I talked to her. This day has lasted far too long. Eternity comes to mind, yet now I’m talking to a doctor who is too good to be true, living with Martha Stewart-on-steroids and trusting my life’s material possessions to Seth Green-wood.
“Are you staying in the same hotel?” Kevin asks.
“Yes, probably even the same room. There’s something about that cinder-block view that calls my name.”
He laughs. It’s a melodious, deep laugh.
He gets me at the core.
But too good to be true.
I have to keep telling myself that.
“Here’s my number. Call me when you get back, okay? I will take you to a proper dinner
without
my parents.”
“A proper dinner?” I bet it doesn’t have a coupon involved.
“Where we sit down, and I’m not on call, and I can focus on getting to know you. I know it’s uncomfortable with Arin in my background, but I wanted you to know that before Arin, I broke up with a long-time girlfriend who moved to Minnesota, so I’m a little rusty on the dating scene.”
I AM NOT THE TRANSITION GIRL!
What are the chances? That little twig of a English Lit major was the transition girl
. I
am a Distinct Possibility. Even if his parents loathe me. Maybe especially if his parents loathe me. There’s hope for Doctor Kevin yet!
“I’m a little rusty too,” I say, without the explanation that I haven’t had a real date in six months.
“Good,” Kevin says. “We’ll relearn dating together. Call me when you get back.”
I’m picturing his Hugh Jackman chin resting on that gallant hand of his, yet wondering if he’s going to take me to some fancy restaurant in That Car. I’m so shallow. And I don’t want to be, but it’s deep inside, that little Scarlett O’Hara streak of mine. If I just didn’t have any expectations, my life would be fine.
“Bye,” I offer up weakly. My cell phone rings again, and I apologize to Kay with my eyes before answering. “Hello. Ashley Stockingdale.”
“Ashley, it’s Mom.”
“Mom, what’s the matter? Did everything go okay with the shower, you think?”
“Yes, of course, dear. I was just calling because you forgot to take your bridesmaid gown.”
Fear and trembling. “Mom, Mei Ling and I haven’t shopped for the dress yet.”
“Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale, someone has to take care of things while you’re halfway across the world. The wedding is just around the corner, so I found a suitable dress for you.”
“Mei Ling was wearing DKNY today, Mom. Is it a DKNY dress?” I ask hopefully.
“What on earth is that? Heavens no, it isn’t some trendy, fashionable thing. It’s something I found at Last Lots that will be just perfect for you.”
Dare I ask? “What’s Last Lots?”
“It’s this great store that takes clothes that didn’t sell in the fancy stores and marks them way down.”
“Uh, do you think Dave will want a markdown in his wedding?”
“Dave’s a very practical boy, Ashley. He’s not like you, where he thinks fancy things should cost a lot. Sometimes I wonder that I didn’t name you Scarlett. Dave knows a good bargain. Look at all the stuff he brings home from the lost and found off his bus at the end of the year.”
“Maybe you should have named him Ashley, Mom.”
“I never liked that name on a man.”
“What color is the dress, Mom?”
“Purple, of course. It’s Dave’s favorite.”
As if I didn’t know. My eyes slide shut. I will look like a slippery satin eggplant on Valentine’s Day. Is there any question it’s satin? Of course not. I so do not plan my own destiny. Kay is looking at me, between careful unpacking of the plastic and ceramic hearts. I know what she’s thinking. I’m an ungrateful daughter, rude to my own mother, the epitome of selfishness.
I’m hanging up and eating an entire meatloaf, because big and purple is beautiful. Barney the dinosaur found success. Maybe I will, too.
H
ave you ever seen Ashley look more beautiful?”
“She’s stunning,” Aunt Babe replies. “Who would have ever
thought purple was her color?”
“She could wear anything, though, such a beautiful girl.”
“So true. So true.”
“Look at her date. Do you recognize him?” Aunt Trudy asks. “It’s
Ryan Seacrest from
American Idol
.
”
“I saw him on last week’s show. What a doll. Isn’t it cute how their
hairstyles match?”
“A flat iron and hairspray. That’s what he always says on the show.”
