“Breakfast of champions,” Mitch’s deep, familiar voice said behind her. “Try this instead.”
She turned and he held something wrapped in crisp white paper out to her. Mitch was a fifth-grade teacher: handsome, easy to talk to, single, and eleven years younger than Lana. She was too far out of the game to know if his regular attention meant he was interested or just a nice guy.
“I can’t take your breakfast,” she told him.
“We’ll split it.” He opened the paper and she saw the bagel was already sliced into two half-moons, slathered in melting cream cheese.
“How do you do it?” she asked, accepting half. It was still warm, comfort in her hands.
“I have a gift.” He took a bite and looked over her shoulder at the papers she’d set on the counter. “Mrs. Jennings’s class?”
“Yeah.”
“Get coffee, too. You’ll need it.”
The class wasn’t as bad as Mitch had made them sound. The kids were in their midweek stupor, sleepy-eyed and slow-moving. The day dragged but was uneventful enough. After school Lana tucked a note into Mrs. Jennings’s cubby outlining what they’d covered in her absence. She rubbed her weary eyes and turned to see Mitch smirking in her direction.
“What?” she asked.
“I told you to get coffee.”
“There wasn’t time. And this coffee’s like battery acid.”
“You’ve tasted battery acid?” he asked, smiling, leaning against the counter very close to her.
“No, but I’ve tasted coffee that my father says tastes like battery acid. And he’s an expert on everything, as he’ll gladly tell you.” She smiled back at him and wondered if they were flirting. It had been way too many years to know for sure.
“We could go grab a decent cup now,” Mitch suggested. “Maybe head over to Coffee Cup Café? We can just make it before they close.” He checked his watch, nodding, then laid those blue-gray eyes on her. It seemed impossible that Lana could land two coffee dates with two stunning men a mere week apart. She’d been avoiding Nick since the Matt incident. Nick seemed mad at her about the whole thing, but she wasn’t sure why. And didn’t care to find out. Maybe she’d have better luck with Mitch. She grabbed her coat.
At the café, Lana dove into a mocha Thai: a thick, creamy, warm dessert in a cup, masquerading as coffee. She was going to have to do something about her calorie consumption soon, because even her big jeans weren’t big anymore. But not today. Today, like every day since Graham had left, Lana wanted the comfort of food that made her feel loved. Even if it was only self-love. And even if she didn’t love herself quite so much when she glimpsed her expanding rear end in the mirror on her way to the shower each morning. Lana’s mother had been a lifelong dieter, a calorie counter, and in extreme moments even a binger and purger, and she raised her daughters to follow her example. Which was why neither Lana nor Becca had Gloria’s svelte figure. Nothing like being raised by a food tyrant to make you love the illicit pleasure of food.
“Did you know this was my favorite place?” she asked.
“I think maybe you mentioned it once, yeah.”
The fact that he knew this about her sent her head spinning. She knew nothing about Mitch beyond his job, beauty, charm, and ability to show up in the teachers’ lounge at the exact same moment she did whenever she had a job at Las Juntas Elementary.
“So, are you from San Diego originally?” she asked.
Mitch leaned back and laughed, crossing his arms, which flexed his tan biceps. “Are we doing this now? The getting-to-know-you conversation?”
She tilted her wrist as if to check her nonexistent watch, and nodded. “Yep, it seems about time for it.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the wobbly table edge. “Good. And no. Oxnard.”
“Ah, close to Santa Barbara?”
“Ish. And you?”
“San Clemente.”
“Ah, with the swallows of San Juan Capistrano?”
“Ish.”
He smiled at her and she wondered if he had any idea how handsome he was. How easy things would come to him with a face like that: wide slate eyes, prominent cheekbones, a slim jaw, full lips. She had the urge to take a picture of him and send it to Becca, so that she, too, could marvel at the ridiculous beauty of him.
A pierced and tattooed waitress with shoe-black hair streaked with orange leaned over Lana’s shoulder to set the check on the table and let them know they were closing.
“No,” Mitch pouted. “We were just getting to the good stuff.”
The waitress smiled at him and shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “Rain check?”
Mitch turned to Lana, palms up. “She says I get a rain check. That okay with you?”
Lana laughed and nodded. “Sure. To be continued.”
“How about over dinner? Maybe Friday?”
Lana wondered how he’d managed to hit the one evening she had free. She briefly wondered if it was fate, then had to laugh at her girlish hope. First Nick, now Mitch. She’d gone from no prospects for eight months to two so quickly that she didn’t have time to process whether she was even ready to date again. If either one could even be called a prospect. She reminded herself that one was an ex-boyfriend and the other was a coworker, and that was all. So far. She agreed to dinner.
After coffee they went their separate ways. Lana had kids to pick up from school, homework to supervise, a picky brother to cook for, and Mitch had no such constraints. He was off to meet some friends at the beach, torn between rock climbing and surfing for the rest of his day. As she listened to him rattle off his options she felt silly for entertaining the thought of a romantic connection. Never mind the eleven-year age difference. What did they really have in common?
Friday came quickly. Lana changed her clothes four times in a quest for the elusive perfect outfit. She wasn’t sure about the one she’d settled on, but she was out of time to try another. The doorbell rang and Lana checked the peephole to see Graham squinting in the bright glare of the porch light.
“Kids! Your dad’s here,” she called to them.
She opened the door and Graham smiled. Not a sincere, happy-to-see-her smile, but a resigned one, like he’d been hoping someone else would answer the door.
“They’re coming,” she said.
Graham reached into his pocket and pulled out a check, folded in half. “Should be enough, for the mortgage, the utilities, et cetera.”
“And half the grocery store for Byron?” Lana laughed. It was uncomfortable, receiving a monthly check from her own husband, like amends for leaving her. Severance pay. Becca kept telling her she needed to run the support calculators, make sure she was getting her fair share. But it wasn’t Lana’s way, demanding money. Lana’s way was passive, accepting, adapting without a word to the wants and needs of others for the sake of keeping the peace.
She slid the check into her pocket without looking at it. It seemed rude, checking the amount in front of him. But the truth was it wasn’t enough. She knew without looking. It never was. Even with Matt’s help on rent she was barely scraping by. At some point she was going to have to resurrect the old money battles with Graham, one of their chief disagreements their whole marriage. But that could come later. Today she had a date with possibility. With someone who saw Lana as more than cook, maid, child care, and underemployed drain on the family bank account.
She stepped aside so that Graham could come in. He remained on the doormat, hands in his pockets, rolling up onto the balls of his feet and back onto his heels. It was something he always did when he was bored or impatient. It had become increasingly annoying to witness the longer they were married. “Come in and sit down like a civilized person,” she said. “You drive me crazy with that rocking.”
He blanched at the rebuff. This was the new Lana talking. The less decorous version of herself that she’d had to resurrect for dealing with Matt. “It’s good for my plantar fasciitis,” he reminded her, continuing to do it. “Are you dress
ed up?”
She was, a little, in soft olive pants and a black blouse with a hint of shine. “Well, I am without kids for the night. I thought maybe I’d try out the bar scene. Hit a rave or two.”
“I figured maybe you and Nick Parker . . .” He trailed off and she just smiled, shook her head. The truth would have thrown him for an even bigger loop—first the return of Nick Parker and now another handsome man taking her out to dinner—but she realized that she’d wanted to make Graham jealous only when she had no prospects. Somehow having two men show an interest in her eliminated any need to involve Graham at all. “You look nice,” he said.
The compliment confused her. Graham had not been one to dole out flattery freely. So why do it now? Her anger bubbled up. She was tempted to ask: Why’d you leave me, if I still look good to you? Good old Graham, who’d kept a running tally of all the ways Lana had disappointed him. Lana, always scrambling to shorten the list, to prove her love. He’d give a weary sigh before launching into a new disappointment. “I need more here, Lana,” he’d say, about whatever it was this time: more time alone, more passionate Lana-initiated sex that usually meant a quickie for him and no climax for her, more enthusiastic praise of whatever he was already doling out. When did he scramble to prove his love to her? He didn’t. That was expected to be a given. He loved her and she shouldn’t doubt it, shouldn’t need reassurance, shouldn’t need anything he wasn’t already willingly giving her.
She pictured the captivating beauty of Mitch to clear her mind, and backed up and turned away. It was easier to talk to Graham when she didn’t look at him. “Byron has an essay to write on Japanese internment camps. If he could get the research started with you, that’d help a lot. And maybe you could look over Abby’s chemistry labs. And make sure she eats.”
“Eats? You think I starve them?” Up on his toes, back on his heels, up on his toes, back on his heels. He was making Lana seasick.
“She seems too distracted to sit down and eat a proper meal these days,” Lana said. “She looks thin to me.”
Right on cue Abby came trotting down the stairs, light as a butterfly, and into her father’s arms.
“She’s fine. More grown-up each time I see her,” Graham said. Abby smiled, gave Lana a halfhearted wave, and practically skipped toward his car. Byron came tromping toward the door with much more vigor.
“History,” Lana reminded him.
“Sucks,” he finished.
“Enjoy the rave,” Graham said, heading out.
Moments later Mitch’s white SUV pulled up, surfboard still strapped to the roof rack. “Are you waiting for me at the door?” Mitch asked, grinning as he stepped out of his car, unfolding his lanky body like a model in a photo shoot.
“Just said goodbye to my kids, off to their dad’s house for the night.” She stepped aside and Mitch came in, taking a quick glance around the half-empty living room. She needed to rearrange the furniture to cover for the pieces Graham had taken: his recliner, one end table, the coffee table. There was a Graham-void in the room.
“How old are they?” Mitch asked. Lana wasn’t sure he knew how much older she was. But he would when he heard she had teenagers.
“Fourteen and fifteen. God help me,” she said with a laugh.
Mitch looked her over, dashing as ever in dark jeans and thin blue V-neck sweater, black shoes so shiny Lana wondered if they were new.
“Oh,” Mitch said. “So you were a child bride.” He shook his head. “No wonder it didn’t work out.”
Lana laughed and some of her nervous energy dissipated. Matt peeked out at them. Lana introduced Mitch to Matt, and they shared a stilted greeting before Matt retreated. As she climbed into Mitch’s SUV, something crunched under her feet. She hoped it was papers and not discarded food. The SUV was pretty messy inside, the backseat full of gear and clothes for Mitch’s various hobbies. There was sand everywhere, and the smell of the ocean filled the car. Lana struggled between the desire to clean it up and envy for all the freedom the mess represented.
Mitch’s restaurant choice was a noisy, artsy place in the Gaslamp Quarter, brimming with business types and dressed-up twenty-somethings gearing up for a night on the town. Lana wondered if he’d chosen the trendy, upscale place to impress her, but as they made their way to the table, it seemed half the young people at the bar knew Mitch. He briefly greeted them, but didn’t introduce Lana.
“Are you a regular?” Lana asked as he pulled out her seat for her, curious to see this little glimpse into Mitch’s life outside of school.
“No,” Mitch said. “Not really.” Lana waited for him to explain. He offered nothing else but his winning smile. They ordered and launched into work talk: school policy changes, the two teachers quitting, test scores, and funding shifts. It felt like any Monday meeting at the school.
“Where did we leave off the other day?” Lana asked, hoping for more meaningful conversation.
“Childhood?” Mitch asked. “Happy or not?”
“Mostly happy. Dad was a lawyer and Mom was head of the PTA. I had three siblings, so it was a lively house. My brother Matt came along and sort of tipped the balance. You know, having a sibling with Asperger’s is a unique challenge. And then my brother Stephen was diagnosed with leukemia and everything changed. He went through several rounds of treatment, but it was no use. I was eleven when he died. Stephen was only sixteen. It was like we weren’t really a family anymore after that. It became each of us for ourselves.” Lana set her wineglass down and picked up her water. She’d overshot her mark on the deep stuff. “Sorry. Two glasses of wine and I lose my filter.”
Mitch smiled. “No worries. I’m not much for small talk. Sounds like a lot to handle. Is that when your caretaker streak kicked in?”
“Am I a caretaker?” Lana asked. She wanted to disagree, but he was probably right.
“Two kids and an autistic brother? You have your hands full.”
“Full in a good way,” she said. “Matt’s got his quirks, but he’s also brilliant, gentle, funny. It can be hard to get close to someone with Asperger’s. We’re getting a second chance to bridge that gap.”
Mitch smiled, held up his hands. “I like how protective you are of him.”
“I’ve always been protective of him,” she said. “Someone had to be. My family was gutted by losing Stephen. Mom went from Mary Poppins to a robot overnight. Dad lost his humor, threw himself into work. My older sister kept busy chasing boys and emulating the popular girls at school. Matt and I were the two left behind. Matt was brilliant, but awkward. He was teased and bullied.”
“And who did you become?”
“The good girl. Perfect to a fault. A sealed-up box of tightly contained emotion. Unless someone hurt Matt. Matt had this one tormentor, Tommy. He was big, older. Relentless. I hit him in the face with a metal can of paste and nearly broke his nose. He never teased Matt again.”
“I’ll be sure not to piss you off,” Mitch joked.
“A good plan,” Lana said, smiling. What had happened to that fighter in her? Was she gone forever, or just dormant, resting, waiting? “What about your childhood?” she asked.
Mitch took a sip of wine and smiled at her. “Good enough. Loving mother. Nice sister. My parents divorced when I was ten, and I didn’t see my father for fifteen years. We’re back in touch now, but it’s not really a father-son relationship.” He shrugged, resumed eating. Lana waited for more, but he seemed to be done sharing. “So are you and your ex on fairly good terms?” Mitch asked.
“We’re . . . friendly, but not friends.” She wasn’t sure if that was true, but it sounded good.
“You think you might get back together?” Mitch asked. Lana was surprised by the directness of the question. It wasn’t a typical date question. But maybe it wasn’t a date.
“No, I don’t think so,” she told Mitch.
Mitch was watching her closely. “But you haven’t filed for divorce.”
“No, we haven’t. We hand kids back and forth, he giv
es me some money every month, but aside from that we hardly even talk anymore. He’s dating someone, busy enjoying his new quieter, responsibility-free life, and I’m holding the rest of the family together. I guess we just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“But you think you will? Divorce?”
“Definitely,” she said. She switched back to drinking her wine. Mitch ate a few more bites. Lana’s plate was empty, though she had no memory of consuming her food.
“What was the biggest issue?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It starts with money battles and next thing you know you’re fighting for ground on every front. He’s a CPA, so he insisted on being in charge of our finances. I’ve been self-supporting since I was seventeen and I’m used to living on a tight budget, saving as much as I can for those unexpected bills. Every suggestion I gave on how to cut back expenses was like an insult to him. Every dollar he wasted was like an insult to me. Extrapolate that out to raising kids, home repairs, family vacations, family crises, the finer things he needed as rewards, my fear of being broke, saving for college . . .”
“So he’s the controlling type,” Mitch said.
It wasn’t a word Lana would’ve used back when they were together, but now that she was the one in control of everything, she realized how rarely she’d been allowed to be the authority on anything. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we’re just both too stubborn. Too much will and too little compromise.”
“You’re hardly what I’d call stubborn,” Mitch said. Lana smiled, not sure if it was a compliment or criticism.
After dinner they strolled around downtown. The dry Santa Ana winds kicked up, gusting dust, debris, and static electricity. The abrasive breeze drove them back indoors. They chose a café where a young couple with long hair, hippie-throwback clothes, and wooden bead jewelry had set up a makeshift stage in the corner. The young man played guitar and the girl played a clawhammer banjo and they sang sweet mountain songs about lost love. The music took Lana back to her childhood, when her southern-born grandfather would play similar music, but one glance and she could see it did nothing for Mitch.
The Art of Adapting Page 12
