This made me laugh.
“I’d recognize your morning-after voice anywhere,” I said, noting it had a hint of flirtation to it.
“So, that’s what they’re calling it these days?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t know.” I felt myself smiling and wondered what the heck I was doing.
“I wasn’t asking about your hangover, though,” Mick said abruptly. “I meant your wrist. Seemed like you were in a lot of pain, and I wanted to check in. I am a fixer, after all.”
“Oh, that. It’s fine.” I pulled up my sleeve, still able to make out Tommy’s fingerprints. Moving it around, I was relieved that it did feel a bit better.
“Good. You know if you need a fixer, I’m your man, right?” he said, and this made me laugh even harder. “Okay, okay, I realize that was cheesy. I was concerned, that’s all, and I liked our time together. I’d like to do it again.”
“Day drink?” I said, trying to make light of it.
“Day, night, whenever you’d like.”
“Oh.” I pulled in a breath, unable to say more. Even wordsmiths got tongue-tied at times.
“What are you doing now?” Mick asked.
“Um, I just sent off a piece and was going to think about some lunch.”
“Forgive me if this seems too forward, but want to meet up?”
“Uh, are you free?” My mind was such a jumbled mess, I could barely get my tongue to move.
“Actually, I am.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“Okay, you want to meet? Or okay, you’re saying good-bye?”
“The first,” I said before I changed my mind.
“I’m on the Back Bay. Where are you?”
“Brookline.”
“Great. How about the Paula in about forty-five minutes?”
“Okay,” I said again. I was so flustered at Mick’s call, it seemed to be the only word I could make out.
“See you soon,” Mick said, hanging up before I could change my mind.
Taking a sip of my lukewarm coffee, I wondered what I’d just done. Then I was reminded of Tommy and his half-and-half, and decided I was doing what was good for me.
Outside my parked car, I paced left and then right, my ankle boots clomping on the pavement. I should get back in my car and drive away. Walking to the left again, I thought, Why should I leave?
I liked the Paula. The last time I’d been at that restaurant was for a girls-only lunch with some of the other moms. I’d been so happy to be out and included that I’d gone home smiling and nearly floated through the remainder of the day. If I remembered correctly, I even sloughed off Tommy not eating the pasta primavera I’d made him that evening. Instead, he demanded a tuna steak, and I made it without a protest.
I was going to the Paula for a late lunch. How wrong could that be?
It was a bad idea, but like a bowling ball heading down the lane, there was no stopping now.
Beeping the locks on my car, I walked toward the Paula, its bricked-in door frame and shiny glass front beckoning me. The wind swept under my hair, chilling the beads of sweat forming there, and cooling jumbles of hormones I didn’t know I had.
“Hi!” For the second time in two days, a perky hostess greeted me.
