I just hope my curiosity will eventually die out, and I’ll stop wondering if my night with him was a one-hit wonder.
Our weekly lunches involve a bit of catching each other up while we fill our cups. Jade uses Avery as a distraction often, shoving her in my mom’s willing hands when the topic veers in an unfavorable direction. And, while I don’t have a distractionstrategy attached to my hip like my sister does, I have Jade. A comrade as we march through my mom’s meandering parenting style. As taxing as an afternoon of listening to her nudging herself into my personal life as if I’m still living under her roof is, I still enjoy spending time with my family. Though, my dad seems to need a break from her. Probably why he opts for a day at home, always claiming something needs to be fixed or installed or mowed.
Most would think I can’t stand my mom. Or at the very least, they’d understand it if I decided to one day cut off all ties with her. Especially after bamboozling me into dinner with a man with 1950s housewife expectations. The thing is, underneath all of the overbearing tendencies and reproving comments, her intentions are good. She just needs to work on her delivery. She’s always cared about me and Jade. Our childhood was one you see as a montage at the end of a movie, highlighting a sweet life with glossy eight-by-ten images. Snapshots of us at birthday parties, amusement parks, swimming pools with oversized goggles and floaties. I remember always being happy.
But then the thought of me dying alone entered the deep recesses of my mom’s brain, as did the realization that divorce had become a very real possibility for her daughters. She saw my future, and I think it started to consume her. She made it her mission to help me find a man. And I don’t think it helped when I mistakenly agreed the one time she made an offhand statement about me and babies and ticking clocks while huddled around a very exhausted Jade post-birth in her delivery room. I held on to the dream of having a family of my own, and in her mind, she’s helping facilitate this dream. All of that turned into this stubborn, staunch cycle. She’d set me up with someone. A male, age ranging from mid-thirties to late forties. Preferably with a well-paying job, being a homeowner a plus. Each setup wouldn’t amount to anything beyond a polite partingand an empty promise to “do this again.” Luckily, the worst of the bunch was Harold the Accountant. And after I’d voiced my strong desire to find my own dates, she’d reluctantly agree. Until the matchmaker bug bit her again, putting me right back on the hamster wheel.
It didn’t take me too long to get back out there after my divorce. I never told my mom about those twenty-something fuckboys or meaningless hookups. She thought I was spending most nights on my couch eating ice cream straight from the carton, but it was a way for my heart to heal. My own rehabilitation, though not the healthiest choice, was easier to stomach. No pressure, just sex, and I enjoyed the thrill of the unknown. Nothing beyond a first name and whether or not they had protection. Sometimes, I didn’t even know if the name they told me was really theirs. It was completely unlike me. Out of character, yet it felt right at the time. The validation that came with each tryst, especially after living so long under Frankie’s disdainful thumb. I just wish I didn’t feel so empty now.
An emptiness drags behind me as I leave lunch and go home. We say our goodbyes. Jade lets me hold on to Avery longer than a typical embrace. I’m greeted by Buster as soon as I walk through my door as he charges toward me with his leash in his mouth.
“Hey, Busty,” I call, crouching down to him. “You need to go for a walk?”
He drops his leash at my feet and lets out a small yelp. With my shoes still on, I hook his leash to his collar and go right back outside. I let him take his time, marking random spots and sniffing away at bushes and poles that catch his attention. With my attention swaying, I peer down at my phone. My thumb swipes away at the screen, not too sure what I’m necessarily looking for. Maybe something to distract myself? Or, more likely, a way to reach Andrew? To ask him if he’s okay? Ifhe thinks Teeny caught on that something was afoot when she stopped by and he was hiding in my room? Maybe it’s good I don’t have his number. I’d probably just fill his inbox with a slew of embarrassing text messages. Or, at the very least, typed out paragraphs that never leave my phone with the ominous and definitive whoosh of an outgoing text. Our night was a one-time thing. It can’t happen again, just like I stressed before he walked out of my condo with a downcast look of defeat. It wasn’t a date. We didn’t even share a meal. Just a drink. Plus a couple more we definitely should’ve said no to.
A date should be something more quiet and mellow. Like a dinner over candlelight with a bottle of wine and a shared slice of chocolate cake. Where he’d do the gentlemanly thing of pulling my chair out for me and picking up the tab. Except, he did pick up the tab. After a clumsy scuffle of sloppily held credit cards in our hands, he won. And I barely put up a fight. In fact, I believe I laughed it off with a drunken giggle he may have misconstrued as me being charmed by the very date-like act. Especially when my real date that night couldn’t even reciprocate in the same manner.
No, it wasn’t a date. I know that. And he has to know that. Right?
Intent on clearing any ambiguity that may still lie between us, I continue scrolling through my phone. I find the Cash App logo and search my contacts list. I find Teeny’s from when we had dinner a few weeks ago and quickly find Andrew’s. It’s there under the amount of thirty-six dollars sent from him to Teeny with a very obscure fish emoji. With shaky, hesitant hands, I send him my very roughly calculated amount for half of the drinks from Friday night. Though since I lost count of how many we had, I could be off by a few twenty dollars.
If I pay for my half, then it definitely wasn’t a date. It was just two acquaintances who happened to run into each other,and one did the polite thing of offering a kind ear and company. Absolutely not a date. And if it wasn’t a date, then our night can be written off as a one-time thing. A one-night stand. Nothing more. I can forget it ever happened and move on.
If only it were that easy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Andrew
I’ve been staringat the somewhat ambiguous notification on my phone since this morning. I saw it first thing when I woke up. I thought I dreamed it at first, the groggy haze of sleep still muddling up my brain, but Grace’s name appeared like a large road sign once I blinked away the remnants of my dream. A dream that contained traces of her, but barely enough so that I couldn’t remember the details. Just the outlines. The alert with her small picture icon attached to it waved back at me as if the idea of her had been living in there this whole time. But I didn’t dream it. It was really there. The Cash App transfer for a hundred dollars from Grace with the single word “drinks.”
It almost feels like a slap in the face. An insult that wasn’t meant to be an insult but rather a simple transaction. Probably a form of closure she sought out. One I’m not sure if I’m ready to give. I know the gentlemanly thing to do is accept it and move on. Let her take the high road. I don’t need to rub it in her face that I had already agreed to pay for drinks on Friday night. And I definitely don’t need to remind her that she still has my T-shirt.
Before this little window of opportunity, I’ve been brewing over ways to reach out to her. Maybe through a handwritten letter sent by a messenger pigeon with all the reasons I’d like forus to hang out again, adding something especially daring to the mix like miniature golf or bowling. Or send her a fruit basket as a thank you for a wonderful night or ask her how she keeps her sheets so damn white and soft considering mine are always dull and coarse, no matter how many cycles they’ve been through the wash. Even just a simple passing question spoken in a low whisper, demanding to know if she blamed tequila for our night, or if she’s had this hidden attraction for me all these years she never let slip because I happen to be her best friend’s brother. Until three nights ago. There are so many things I want to say to her, but I can’t. Except maybe I can? Maybe I can respond with something equally vexing and goading. Something to poke at the realization that maybe what happened the other nightcanhappen again.
It feels like the smallest of openings. One I can manage to wedge through with a little extra elbow grease to pry open the barrier between us. No matter that it’ll probably go against some unspoken rule she established as she reminded me that our night was a one-time thing then slowly closed the door behind me.
I attempt to come up with a response. Something cheeky and as equally insulting as the money she sent back. The money that’ll be going right back into her account. Just as I reopen the notification, I’m interrupted by the shrill ring of my phone inside my small office cubicle.
“This is Andrew.”
A rough cough on the other end gives me a split second to prepare for what’s coming.
“I dropped off my car for an oil change.” My boss’s irate and impatient voice rings through the line. If I ever heard the term “being talked at” be explained, it would be this. The stony, impassive way he talks to all of his employees. “It’ll be ready in an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to Olive.” The line dies before I’m able to offer even a hum or a grunt. The receiver balances in my hand, deciding between chucking it in the direction of his office or placing it back into the cradle. I see a new alert pop open on my monitor, hiding the company logo spelling out Sentry Investments—adroitly designed using a font like Helvetica or Avenir—behind my open tabs and emails. I click through the cumbersome tabs, minimizing some of them before reading his message. A curtailed version of our conversation with the adage of an address and the name Darren. The mechanic, I’m assuming. Or at least, I hope. Unless this turns out to be a drug deal—or some other illegal activity—and I’m just his pawn.
There aren’t ever any formalities with my boss. Sometimes it’s a Post-it Note left on my desk with some chicken scratches that I need his assistant’s help translating. Sometimes it’s an email, his demand in the subject line with a completely empty body. But every time he provides me a puddle of information, I feel like I’m dealing with The Riddler. Not only because a lot of his requests have nothing to do with my job, but also because they’re so out of left field. There are so many blanks, and I have nothing to fill them with. This is the grunt work I’ve been subjected to. The insignificant details that weren’t outlined in my job description when I got hired. The reason my night with Grace transitioned from scotch to tequila, hoping I could drown my woes right alongside hers.
I quickly return to my phone, looking over Grace’s transfer. I sift through all the responses I thought of to send back to Grace and settle for something simple. Something with enough implication and undertone that it can be misconstrued by her for my benefit. Maybe even elicit a response. Hopefully.
I tap out the exact amount she sent me and add, “no thank you” to my own transfer. Keep it cool and mysterious. If shethinks she can send me money and write off the night as nothing more than a little release of steam, then two can definitely play this game. I’m about to shove my phone into my pocket when it vibrates. It’s another Cash App notification with Grace’s name in bold and the money I sent back. This time, no ominous one-word explanation attached to it. Just the money.
This distracting little game of hot potato gains all of my attention. My thumbs hover over my screen as I send the money back once again along with an added deterrent of an extra twenty dollars.
Every time you send it back, I’m adding another twenty.
