“Okay, sweetheart. If I’m going to be honest with you, then I have to confess that I’m no longer an expert on flirting. Your mother beat that out of me years ago. I walk straight lines, with a straight face, looking straight ahead at her—the only woman for me.”
“Bullshit. What about your favorite waitress at The City Grill? I’ve watched Mom elbow you in the ribs at least a hundred times. I just always miss what you do to make her react like that.”
The latch to the back-screen door clicks. Mom has two bottles of beer and a fruity wine cooler. “He looks at her boobs when she’s taking our order and watches her ass when she leaves the table.” She hands a beer to Dad and the wine cooler to me before frowning at the brown basket of harvested goods—four small tomatoes, a tiny head of cabbage, and a gum-ball sized onion.
“Lies. All lies.” Dad shakes his head just before wrapping his mouth around the amber bottle’s neck.
“How did you get on this topic?” Mom asks, squinting against the setting sun while swatting at a fly.
“A doctor has eyes for our Dorothy.” Dad winks. “If he hurts my baby, he’ll get his ass handed to him.”
I spit out my drink, earning me two unappreciative scowls from my parents wiping at the splattered wine cooler and saliva on them. “Oh my god! You have to rock three times to get enough momentum to get out of the recliner. I don’t see you handing Dr. Hawkins his ass. He’s at least six-four and much younger. And I heard someone say he’s done the Iron Man competition.”
“Whoa … wait.” Mom peels her index finger from her bottle and points it toward me. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same doctor who invited you to dinner, would it? A young, athletic, and tall doctor. Tell me more, Dorothy.” My mom taps her mouth with the beer bottle to hide her smirk.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Is he cute? Did you tell him you’re a vegetarian?” She nudges my dad’s elbow. Why? I don’t know. Is she asking him to answer her question?
“His wife … ex-wife is Dr. Julie Hathaway.”
My parents look at each other with wide eyes before sharing knowing expressions with me.
“Boss Bitch?” Mom asks.
I nod with a grin. Dr. Julie Hathaway isn’t a new name in our house. She’s a familiar fixation of mine. I try to emulate her confidence every single day … with little success. Dr. Hathaway knows her stuff, owns her job like a bad-ass, speaks with intelligence and authority, yet focuses her goals around surgeries that give children a sense of confidence and belonging. She heals them in ways that go way beyond surgery.
“Yes.” I sigh.
“So Roman is her son?”
For a high-functioning person, it shouldn’t take me so long to really think about that. Dr. Hawkins asking me to babysit his son is—on a mind-numbing scale—the equivalent of asking me to look after a piece of my idol. Quite possibly the most important piece of her life.
I’m nauseous, so nauseous I have to sprint to my room, take out another new journal, and list all of my fears. My predictions never come to fruition, so I list every possible fear to prevent anything bad from happening.
Roman gets kidnapped … on my watch.
* * *
Roman chokes and dies on a grape … on my watch.
* * *
Roman gets attacked by a mountain lion … on my watch …
Chapter Seven
Mixed Signals and Matching Bibs
Elijah
“Blue or green?” I hold up two shirts as Roman jumps on my bed.
“Boo!”
“Blue it is.” I slip on the short-sleeved shirt and button it while my mini-me giggles with each jump.
The spaghetti is done, resting in a strainer while the sauce simmers on the stove.
Salad in the fridge.
Roman’s favorite homemade cherry popsicles in the freezer for dessert.
Why am I so nervous I can barely button my shirt? Oh, that’s right. I haven’t been on a date with anyone but Julie. Does six kids in the eighth grade going to a movie together count as a date as long as I held Candice’s hand? God, I hope so. Otherwise, my dating track record is pathetic.
“It’s not a date,” I mumble to myself in the full-length mirror. “It’s dinner with Roman and a woman that might babysit for me.” I laugh at myself while ruffling my damp hair into something resembling a stylish look. When did I start talking to myself? And why are my hands sweaty?
“Listen, Daddy! Listen!” Roman jumps off the bed and runs toward the stairs.
The doorbell rings again.
“Slow down, chief.” I follow him down the stairs. Dorothy is thirty minutes early. “Rules, Roman. You don’t answer the door. Remember?”
He fights with the deadbolt, yanking on the lever handle. “She’s here. Babysitter’s here! Open the door!”
I had to explain the reason for our dinner guest, so I told Roman we were thanking Dorothy for the superhero cape, and that if things went well, she might babysit him sometime. I don’t need a babysitter. I have joint custody of Roman, parents to help out, and two older sisters in Portland who jump at any chance to watch Roman.
“Oh, hey, guys.” I smile at the two young kids at the door, selling something. Someone is always selling something. I have a credenza by the door with cash in a drawer for all the kids in the neighborhood who come around raising money for activities like Little League and band trips.
We make our usual exchange of money and a handshake promise that they’ll eventually return with ten tubs of popcorn or whatever I just purchased for thirty dollars. Just as I start to close the door, a familiar white Audi Q5 parked across the street catches my attention.
“I think that’s Dorothy’s car. Think we should go see?”
“Yes! Come on, Daddy. Let’s go!” He runs into the yard, no shoes. I quickly catch up to him, scooping him into my arms. “Let me down. Down, Daddy!” He giggles as I vibrate my lips onto the tiny areas of exposed belly. “Stop!”
I shift him upright onto my hip and knock on Dorothy’s window.
She jumps, closing the visor mirror and meeting my gaze with her wide eyes. Dorothy’s freshly glossed lips pull into a tiny smile as she rolls down her window. “Hi. I’m early. I just wanted to make sure I knew where I was going.”
“Hi.” I have more to say, but I just want to stand here and let her obvious excitement to see me soak into my skin, all the way to my bones. I’ve nearly forgotten what that look of adoration—from someone who isn’t my mom—feels like. It’s pretty damn good.
“Hi, Dorfee,” Roman greets her while pressing in on my cheeks, making my lips into fish lips.
“Hi, little Romeo.” The corners of her mouth continue to climb up her face.
He giggles. “My name is Roman!” My cheeks take the brunt of his excitement as he relaxes the pressure on my lips, but only to play a tough game of patty-cake with my face.
“Let’s ask Dorothy if she wants to come inside.”
“Dorfee, you come inside. Pa-sicle, Daddy!”
I step back and open her door, unearthing a bit of ingrained manners. “Pasta before popsicles, little man.”
“Thank you.” Dorothy climbs out, wearing a pink skirt that flows just below her knees, a pink and yellow floral, sleeveless blouse, and white flats.
“You uh …” I clear my throat. “Have something on your cheek.” I point to my own cheek in the same spot as the brown smudge on her face.
Her hand flies to her cheek, rubbing it furiously. “It’s chocolate. I was just checking my face when you knocked on my window. I stopped for ice cream on my way here.”
I chuckle. “You’re making this tough on me. I won’t let Roman have a Popsicle before dinner, but you stopped for ice cream?”
“Yes. In case dinner doesn’t go well.”
I head toward the house with Roman on my shoulders and Dorothy right beside me. “Not well as in my culinary skills, or not well as in bad company?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I glance over, but she gives nothing away. That’s okay with me. I want to discover the layers of Dorothy Mayhem by following her pace. Julie crippled me in a way that feels equally devastating and pathetic. There’s no switch to turn off my love for her, all those years of marriage, college, careers, a child … I wonder if I’ll ever find a switch, or if I’ll simply have to find a brighter light.
At the moment, Dorothy shines, and it thrills me because I can’t pinpoint what it is about her that brightens my day.
“Mmm … it doesn’t smell bad in here.” Dorothy closes her eyes, taking a slow inhale after I shut the front door behind us and set Roman down to go play with his toys.
I wait for her to open her eyes. One, because I like looking at them. Two, because I like how they look at me.
When she grins, I can’t help but wonder if she tastes like chocolate, if she closes her eyes when she kisses, or if her mind goes to the same questionably inappropriate places mine does.
“I’m trying really hard to think the best of your comments. Can I take the not bad as meaning good? Or is that too presumptuous? Does your not bad mean not awesome but it could be worse?”
Slipping off her flats, she wiggles her toes painted in white toenail polish and stares at them while she delivers her answer. “Definitely good. Not meaty or spicy. I’m already regretting the tacos.” Her nose wrinkles.
“Tacos?”
She nods. “I got home early, and my dad fed Orville and Wilbur, so I had way more time than originally anticipated. My parents were going out for an early dinner because they’re old. I’ve discovered that’s what old people do. So I followed them to their favorite Mexican restaurant. But I only had three tacos and a basket of chips and guacamole. So I can probably take down some pasta.”
God … my cheek muscles ache. I can’t stop grinning. “I have two older sisters, I was married for years, and I see plenty of young female patients. But I’m not sure I’ve ever been around a grown woman, as petite as you, making references to taking down pasta.”
“I’ve mastered the art of burning calories.”
“Oh? Then you should sell that secret. People make a lot of money off weight loss breakthroughs.” I jerk my head toward the kitchen for her to follow me.
“Not mine.” She laughs. “I just walk, hike, and bike the trails. Bounce on my trampoline, and chase Gemma, Orville, and Wilbur. People don’t like those weight loss tips. I broke my leg several years ago and gained fifteen pounds because I stopped moving but didn’t stop eating.”
“How’d you break your leg? Trampoline?” I lift a glass. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Lemonade? Water?”
“Water, please. And I broke my leg on a Segway. One of the city tours.”
“You took a Segway city tour?”
“No. A tourist on one hit a pothole in a crosswalk and crashed into me.” She curls her hair behind her ears, gaze surveying my kitchen. “You like to cook?”
“Yes. Ice water?”
“Yes, please.”
I hand her the glass of water. “Are you serious about the Segway?” Another unexpected chuckle rumbles my chest.
“Uh … yeah.” She lifts her skirt and traces the scar on her leg. “I had to have surgery.”
“Nice scar.”
Legs. I say scar, but I mean legs. Dorothy Mayhem has incredible legs. Not legs for miles like a runway model. Nope. I’m done with those legs, especially since they walked away from me. The legs on display before me are petite, muscular, sun-kissed, and riddled with more than one scar and several scrapes and bruises. They look like the legs of a hardworking woman. A woman who doesn’t give up. A woman who sticks it out during the hard times. And the fact that she dresses them in flowing, girly skirts only makes them that much sexier.
Yes, my fascination (slight obsession) with Dorothy Mayhem has happened quickly—a toxic mix of hating my wife and going so long without getting laid. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I tell myself a lot of things to get through the day. Eventually, I can’t distinguish truth from intention. If I look and act like a functional male, I’ll actually be one. It sure sounds good to me at the moment.
“Did you get a fair settlement from the lawsuit?”
“What lawsuit?” She sips her water.
“The one against the Segway tour company.”
“It wasn’t their fault. Something was worked out between the woman who crashed into me and the Segway company. Honesty, I’m not sure who paid for what. I just know that my medical expenses and time off work were covered.” She gives me a shoulder shrug. “That’s all that mattered to me. It’s not like I was permanently disabled. And I’m sitting just fine financially.” Another shoulder shrug.
“How un-American of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone sues for everything.”
“Oh. Ha! Yeah, I suppose that’s true. I’m not a fan of conflict.”
“Are you a fan of cooking?”
She uses the glass to hide her smirk as she pauses it at her mouth and shakes her head. “I can make like … three things.”
“Do tell.” I run warm water over the pasta in the strainer, dump it into the serving bowl, and pour the marinara over the top of it.
“Grilled cheese. Mac and cheese. Bean and cheese microwave burritos. That doesn’t count pouring cereal into a bowl in the morning. Oh! Peanut butter sandwiches and microwave nachos too. That’s five.” Dorothy grins, chin tipped up with so much pride.
“Not pasta?”
“I suppose I could, but I usually make more single-serving meals unless my mom cooks for all of us, which is risky because she’s not any better than I am at cooking. But she’s too stubborn to admit it. I rarely eat with them unless we go out or get takeout.”
“So you live with your parents?” I hold up a finger to pause her response while I call Roman to dinner. “Spaghetti, Roman!”
Dorothy takes a seat at the table as Roman careens around the corner, nearly crashing into me.
“Slow it down.” I pick him up, set him in his Stokke chair at the table, and fasten his bib.
“Do you like spaghetti?” Dorothy asks Roman as I set out the salads and bottles of dressing.
“Um … yes. I like … I like sketti.” He tugs at his bib. “Take it off!” Tugging harder, he growls at me.
“You’ll have sauce all over your clothes if I take it off. Just leave it on.”
“No. I won’t!”
“Roman …” I frown at him.
He closes his eyes and throws his head back. “Daddy, listen, listen, listen!”
Dorothy bites her lips to keep from smiling. I blame Julie for his constant, “listen, listen, listen.” She always shushes him and tells him to listen. And in the process, she’s created a defiant little monster that tries to get his way by always interrupting me and telling me to listen, even when he has no follow-up to his chanting “listen.”
“I’m listening.”
Roman opens his eyes, and just as I anticipated … nothing.
“Do you have another bib?” Dorothy asks.
I nod. “It won’t matter which bib, he just doesn’t want any bib.”
“I want a bib. I want a bib like little Romeo’s bib.” She removes his bib and fastens it around her neck. It never would fit around my neck, but Dorothy is petite. And cute … and sexy.
Gah!
Yes, she’s sexy. And it’s the last thing I should think about with my son sitting just inches from me.
Roman studies her for a few seconds. “Daddy, I want a bib!”
Dorothy … Dorothy … Dorothy …
The girl with an old lady name, an uncensored tongue, and the most contagious grin has managed to flip my world on its side. Only, she thinks she’s here for a possible babysitting position, not a date. Things are complicated.
After retrieving a bib and serving up the pasta and salads, I take a seat on the other side of Roman. “So you live with your parents?”
Dorothy eating with a Cookie Monster bib around her neck … I can’t stop grinning. It shouldn’t surprise me. After all, she abandoned a patient, risking her job, just to tell me she’s a vegetarian. My mind stopped speculating anything about her long before she arrived at my house.
“I have no thoughts on the matter.” I twirl spaghetti around my fork while eyeing her.
“My uncle died. Left me a lot of money. Since I lived at home well into my adult life, I decided when I got a place of my own the right thing to do would be to let my parents live with me. I bought some land with an existing house on it and added onto it so they could live with me without actually living with me. We share a kitchen and laundry room. That’s it.”
“More, Daddy! More sketti!” Roman reaches for my plate.
I dish part of my spaghetti into his bowl. “You like it?” I smile at him before shifting my focus to Dorothy. “I hope our guest likes it.”
She pats her mouth with her napkin, cheeks puffed out with a mouthful of pasta, and she nods. After she swallows, she takes a drink of her water. “It’s good. Not chunky or too spicy. And the water is good too. It doesn’t have a funky taste to it … just how I like it.”
I tap my bottom lip with my fork, eyeing her for a few seconds, holding back the full shit-eating grin I can’t seem to control.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, forcing myself to return my focus to my food. It’s hard to do because I love staring at her, waiting for her next look, her next smile, her next words.
We finish dinner and popsicles with Roman interrupting all attempts at conversation. Dorothy entertains his every murmur with enthusiasm. I expect nothing less from the woman who wears a bib for dinner.
“Little man, you can watch one show while I clean up the kitchen and talk with Dorothy.”
“Kratts! Dorfee, wanna watch Kratts?” Roman squirms as I wipe his face.
“Sure.” She grins while removing her bib.
Keep This Promise Page 173
