Why I Love Singlehood: (14 page)

I didn’t know you felt this way.

Could it have been Shaun? He had read the very first post of WILS, so who’s to say he didn’t read this one too? I furiously edited the post, changing names and other potentially comeback-to-bite-me-in-the-ass details, until I gave up, surrendering to the fact that the damage was already done. Sinking with defeat, I added one final line to the post:

The verdict: speed dating confirms my prereq—friends first.

Followed by a new dating rule:

Rule #6: Never, ever blog about your night out when you’ve had one too many Rosebuds to drink.

12

Stepping Up

THE NEXT DAY,
when Car Talk Kenny stepped up to the counter, he neither greeted me nor ordered. Instead he leaned against the counter and watched me work.

“So, are we friends?” he asked.

“What?” I asked, taken aback by the question. “Yeah, sure. Of course we are.”

“Good. Then you’ll go out with me.”

“
What
? No way.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“You’re a customer.”

“Then I guess we’re not really friends.” He stuffed his hands in his pocket and gazed at the menu board. One thing about Kenny: he rarely ordered the same thing more than two days in a row.

I pulled away from the counter. “No, we are. I just…I don’t know you well enough.”

“No,” he said, speaking more quietly. “You’re friendly with me, but we’re not friends.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll have the hazelnut decaf, by the way,” he said, following me as I moved down the counter to select a cup and pour. “You’re a watcher. And there’s nothing wrong with being a watcher—I’m a watcher. I could watch people all day long. But I don’t use it as a substitute for knowing people like you do.”

Wow. Ouch.

Coffee sloshed onto the counter as I set his mug down and made direct eye contact. “For the first time ever, Kenny, you’re dead wrong.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, handing me the exact change, “except I’m not. Read your blog.”

He tucked a five-dollar bill in the tip jar and walked to his usual corner in the reading room.

By the time I had armed myself with enough comebacks to make my case, he was gone.

The next morning, Kenny entered The Grounds carrying a white paper bag. When he stepped up to the counter, he neither greeted me nor ordered. Again.

“We have twenty minutes,” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

He held up the bag. “Lunch.”

“It’s eleven thirty, Kenny.”

“Right. So we have twenty minutes until your lunch rush starts.”

“I can’t leave now.”

He glanced quickly around the café to assess the action. “It’s not like we’re flying off to Fiji or anything.”

“Where are we going?”

“Outside,” he answered, arm outstretched and pointing to the door with the same hand that held the bag. “Come on.”

I caved. “Fine,” I said.

Checking on Susanna and the newest part-timer, I came out from behind the counter and followed him out.

“You brought food from another place into my shop?”

Shrugging, he led me around to the back of the building. “Sorry if I was a little too blunt for you yesterday. I have a tendency to say exactly what’s on my mind and not think about whether it might hurt someone’s feelings.”

“It’s OK.”

“Good.” He sat, patting the curb next to him. “So what are your thoughts on guacamole?”

“What?”

“Your choices are turkey with cheddar jack cheese and guacamole, or ham with apple slices and aioli on a Kaiser roll.”

“Um, guacamole, I guess.”

“Good choice.” He handed me a large sandwich wrapped in deli paper.

“Thanks.”

He plunged his hand into the bag again. “Barbeque or sea salt?” he asked, pulling out two bags of potato chips.

“Sea salt. Where did you get all this?”

“Sandwich shop on Market Street. I found it a while back.”

“Are you planning to make that your new hangout? Swept off your feet by aioli and guacamole?”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for avocadoes.”

“Big deal. You can’t put avocado into a cookie.”

I took a bite of the sandwich. “Wow,” I said after swallowing, “maybe I wouldn’t blame you if you defected.”

He smiled as I took another bite. “OK,” he said. “My kindergarten teacher’s name was Janeway McHolland, I wanted to be an entomologist when I grew up, and I hate peas.”

“Are you speaking to me in code or something?” I asked.

“We’re becoming friends,” he answered, and continued. “Anyway, my favorite color is green, and I could eat blueberries like popcorn all day long.”

I held up a hand to stop the onslaught of information. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“It’s eleven thirty, I’m not hungry yet,” he answered, as if it were obvious.

“Well, you can’t just sit here and watch me eat.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s weird.”

He nodded and took a sip of Coke. “Got it. Doesn’t like to be watched while eating. Good to know.”

The fresh air was a welcome change from the ubiquitous scent of coffee. Despite being hunched on the curb, my knees pushed up to my chest, I was enjoying my impromptu lunch. Kenny took a bite from his sandwich and set it back down, disinterested.

“When I was little I asked my mom to move my birthday,” he said.

“OK, that one you have to explain.”

“My birthday is January fourteenth. Everyone is all partied and gifted and wintered out. And really, how fun can you make a winter birthday party?”

I swallowed. “Snowball fights? Snow forts?”

“Not where I’m from. Just cold and gray.”

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Delaware.”

“Delaware?”

“It’s near New Jersey.”

I huffed. “Well I knew
that
. You just don’t look like you’re from Delaware.”

He snorted. “Delaware has a look?”

“Whatever,” I said. “So no outdoor birthday fun. So what about indoor stuff? Laser tag? Chuck E. Cheese? There had to be something.”

“Laser tag would’ve been fun, I’ll give you that. But somehow my birthdays just always felt like a big flop. By my eleventh I’d had enough, so just on a whim, I asked my mom if I could move my birthday to
June
fourteenth, and she agreed.”

“And?”

“And at eleven and a half I realized that my birthday wasn’t the problem. I just didn’t like parties. Period.”

I laughed, which made him laugh, until he glanced at his watch and frowned.

“Oh, don’t tell me. Already?” I said.

“You should probably get going. It’s quarter of,” he added apologetically. I wondered if it was in response to my disappointment or his own.

I wrapped up the remaining half of my sandwich. Kenny put his sandwich—he never took a second bite—back into the bag. We stood and I tried to read his expression—a sign of romantic interest, an ulterior motive—but all I saw was Kenny. Honest, friendly, having-a-good-time Kenny. I waited for the moment to become awkward, but it never did.

“Thanks for lunch,” I said.

“It was my pleasure.” He smiled, saying, “After all, what are friends for?”

13

Duck!

FOR THE NEXT
two weeks, Kenny and I continued our get-to-know-you, tell-all routine. The first time following our impromptu lunch, he’d placed his order and added a little tidbit: “I’ll have the Cookie of the Week and a Peruvian blend coffee, and I hate wet socks.” And when I returned with his order he said, “Your turn.” He had caught me so off guard that I stood there blankly before saying, “Uh, I hate millipedes?”

Good God, how lame. Of course I hate millipedes. Who doesn’t?

“Well, there goes next year’s birthday present.”

He retrieved his order and sat down while I contemplated banging my head on the counter. Once I caught on, however, the game became a fun exchange of bits of trivia and did-you-knows. He left notes for me everywhere, too. He’d leave napkins on his table that read,
My favorite font is Garamond.
Or,
I like the smell of ink.
Or,
I hate polka dots, but love herringbone.
One night I found a coffee cup sleeve tucked under my windshield wiper that said,
I’d like to go green, but I’m kind of lazy.
Another time he scribbled on a credit card receipt,
I want to invent a word that rhymes with orange.

And always, a demand: “Your turn.”

By the end of the two weeks, I learned that Tuesdays are his favorite day, he hates wool sweaters because they itch, chocolate chip cookies and braided rugs make him nostalgic, he’s a self-proclaimed “all or nothing kind of guy,” and he’s afraid of heights. In return, he learned that I’m overly competitive when watching
Jeopardy
, fireworks of any kind scare the crap out of me, and I once dressed up as one of the Robert Palmer girls for Halloween. It wasn’t long before I found myself taking note of personal pet peeves or new quirks to share the next time I saw him. I’d even plan out what I’d say on my way to work. And then it occurred to me that I was
looking forward
to seeing him every day, if only to tell him that the sight of milk in cereal makes me gag.

My alarm went off at five-thirty like a banshee with a vengeance. I hit the snooze button and my brain chugged to life, cogs grinding and wheels spinning. My eyes burned as I pried them open, trying to figure out what, exactly, was causing the feeling of dread pinning me to the bed. Were we expecting a large shipment? No. Was it hurricane season? (When was it not?) Was it possible that Norman threw a secret after-hours party and trashed the place? Nah. He would’ve invited me. Then cleaned up.

What day was it?

Oh. Crap.

As of 4:16 this morning, I was thirty-four.

The number slammed into my chest, pinning me to the bed. Thirty-four years might as well have been thirty-four tons.

Thirty-four years! And what did I have to show for it? I was neither who nor where I had thought I would be (back when I was, say, ten…or even twenty); not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but suddenly I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing, either. And not that thirty-four was a super-horrible age—it wasn’t a milestone, like forty, and I could still tell people I was in my
early
thirties. And yet, something about this particular birthday bothered me and filled me with a dread that made me want to duck and take cover.

I considered my options. The Grounds opened at seven o’clock. That gave me at least a couple of hours to pack the essentials and flee the country before anyone would notice the shop hadn’t opened and track me down. Could I fit all my shoes into my car and still see over the steering wheel?

Scratch that plan.

Or I could hole up here, maybe in a closet—no, better yet, under the porch!—until after dark. Then, I could tunnel away, safely avoiding both humanity and sunlight. Although I wasn’t sure how effective a garden trowel would be after a few miles of tunneling…to say nothing of the Chunnel I’d need to construct.

Invent a time machine? I could go back and stop myself from going to that cursed speed dating charade, for starters. But why waste a good time-travel on something so stupid when there were so many other moments worth doing over? A night of
Monopoly
with my parents and Olivia instead of four hours playing Nintendo, for starters.

My alarm shrieked again, and I hit the snooze a bit more forcefully, fumbling with the buttons until it clicked off for good.

Damn. Anyone who couldn’t handle an alarm clock probably wouldn’t fare so well at constructing a time machine from scratch.

Call in sick?

Instead, I forced myself out of bed and attacked my morning routine like a woman on a mission and was at The Grounds by 6:27 dressed in a
Life is Good
top, capri pants, and espadrilles. By 8:51, I’d spilled a smoothie down the front of my shirt, smeared coffee grounds on the capris, and changed into my usual mandarin orange Chuck Taylors.