“You’re being yourself, and that’s all you need to be.” When he sees that vague answer doesn’t satisfy me, he thinks on it more. “You’re a good listener, you’re funny, you’re smart and honest … any guy would be lucky to be sitting where I am.” His eyeline moves over my face like a sketching pencil. “You’re completely beautiful.”
I don’t let myself feel the full impact of those words, because he said them so easily. He’s always got a compliment preloaded, that’s all that was. “That’s really kind of you.” For a boy who’s rather self-obsessed, he’s been doing the majority of the listening, not me. When we make eye contact again, I get a zip in my stomach.
He asks, “Anyone on your radar?”
“Literally no one.” It’s a bald-faced lie, but I see him wilt like I’ve delivered very bad news. What an annoying question. Of course Teddy is on my radar, in the same way that you might track the progress of a hurricane heading toward your part of the coast. Just take a moment to appreciate the special electricity that runs through him, turning everything about him bright.
I may as well get a crush on a hurricane. I’d be covered by insurance.
“No one at all on your radar.” He’s giving me one more chance to get the answer right. What does he want from me? To admit that I love the citrus yellow chips in his hazel eyes— and how they only show when the light hits them just right?
“My radar is broken.”
He’s not happy with that. He expects everyone to be in love with him. “We’ll tune it up. What’s your end goal? Mel has shown me her dream bridesmaid’s dress.”
“Lilac, I know.” What I really want can’t be said out loud. I want to sit on my couch with Heaven Sent on in the background, making out with a guy who employs just the right amount of give and take. “I can’t tell you what my end goal is. You once told me you’re easily traumatized.” It feels good to say something so bold. It inks out his pupils.
“Traumatize me.” He reaches out a hand and lays it flat on the tablecloth. It’s a request. Touch it. Give. “I want you to.”
Is this one of those moments I’ll look back on later and wonder what would have happened if I’d had the courage to just slide my own hand into his, in the middle of a fancy restaurant on a weekday? If I had, would those fingers curl and tighten on mine?
Give, give, give.
“I wanna find a nice normal guy and kiss him on my couch,” I say to see how he reacts. Not well. A frown forms, the hand is pulled back, and I never get to know if I had that kind of skin courage. I smile to cover my nerves. “What? That was pretty tame.”
He frowns. “There really aren’t that many guys dating online that’d be happy to stop at that.”
“Who said I wanted to stop?”
I look up as two plates are set down in front of us. Steak and potatoes sure beats a can of soup. Being forced out of my shell can end up being something more nourishing than I’m used to. And Teddy just stares at me. If he suspects I have a teeny-tiny ill-advised crush, I think he’ll start to look at me with gentle pity. “I’m doing it.”
“Doing what?”
Overly bright and confident, I take my phone out. “Let’s do the thing I can’t take back, once I agree.” I begin to text her and read aloud. “The Sasaki Method? I’m in.”
Teddy says, “Are you really sure? Mel is not a quitter. You’re going to find someone.”
“I want some semblance of a work-life balance, and if I don’t take this chance, nothing changes for me.” I stare into his eyes and decide that he’s my straightforward neighbor friend, and that is okay. I hit send.
On my phone there’s some reply-dots, and the screen explodes into emojis. They’re coming thick and fast, diamonds and hearts, rings and champagne bottles. Ridiculous GIFs of dancing babies and swinging gibbons. Joy is cascading down my screen. All at once, I’m so touched I could cry. She cares enough to be excited about helping me?
Lunchtime wine is a beautiful thing.
I’m sitting here in a fancy restaurant, with a kind, handsome man, and he’ll help me too? I reach over and have enough courage to sink my fingers between his and squeeze, releasing before he can react. “I mean, what have I got to lose?”
“I didn’t order you steak,” Renata screeches across the room. Now we’re at risk of losing our lives.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’ve set up the rec center for this afternoon’s Stitch and Bitch. It’s becoming clear that Teddy is going to reach his second-week employment milestone tomorrow and I’m making him a tiny military medal to pin to his T-shirt. I can picture it; I’ll pin it to his chest. He’ll salute and laugh and ask me what’s for dinner.
I think this is the closest I’ll get to having a roommate. Or a best friend. I can see why the Parlonis enjoy having an affable young man around the house. He’s created “The Good Neighbors Jar” a few days ago, with his first cash contribution toward my groceries. I think he knows I hate going off-site, because he goes to the store for me. He enjoys having a list.
He always buys me something sweet, as my treat for being so good.
While I wait for my Stitch and Bitchers, I’m taking a moment to test the rec center’s doorknob, just to sharpen my muscle memory. Locked has such a nice full-stop feeling to it. Unlocked is a sloppy looseness and I can’t stand it. I’ve been practicing this drill for a while.
“How was your conference call?” Melanie asks as she strolls up the path. She’s the old me, carefree and not required to attend stressful meetings, and I envy her deeply. Is this how Sylvia feels all the time?
I force my hand off the doorknob. “I think I sounded semicoherent. Anyway, what are you doing here? You’re meant to be looking after the office.”
“You ran off before I could ask what heinous tasks they’re giving us now. I could see your glittering sweat mustache from my desk.” Melanie now gives a cheery smile to one of the residents passing nearby on a mobility scooter. “Hi, Mrs. D’Angelo. Relax, I’ve got the phone diverted.” She waggles her cell phone at me.
I’d praise her increasing friendliness to the residents, but I’m distracted. “And it’s unlocked down there, isn’t it. Mel, go back.”
She’s too busy taking a photo of her manicure against the flowered hedge to listen. “What did Rose want this time?”
“Insurance details. There’s also some advanced reporting they’ve asked for that Sylvia always does. I might need your help getting the packet together.” Sweat mustache is putting it mildly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. They got access to the banking accounts. The way they were talking, you’d think this place was a sinking ship. I think I should try calling Sylvia.”
Not one of my emails has been answered. She was the one who insisted on regular updates, but I’m feeling like a harasser. Has she fallen overboard? She’s not a woman I can imagine lying drunk on a deck chair, sunburned and asleep.
Melanie uploads the photograph of her #hand to her Instagram account. “No way. Prove that you handled everything. I have been temping for fifteen thousand years, and here’s what I know. Everything that gives you a sick stomach is a great example in a job interview one day.”