You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  Dylan checked his Mickey Mouse watch. “Are you doing anything for dinner? We need to celebrate. My treat. Consider it a bonus.”

  Wow again! “Do you still have those menus?” Hope asked. I’m not hesitating at all this time. Why am I not hesitating? I must want to eat.

  Dylan pulled the menus from his hoodie pocket.

  This man is ever ready to feed me. Hope took the menus. “I’ll hold them, and you choose this time.”

  Dylan reached out and pulled. “Taro Sushi.” He grimaced slightly. “I’ve only had sushi once.”

  “Me, too,” Hope said. “I had a little trouble with that green stuff.”

  “The wasabi,” Dylan said. “Spicy stuff.”

  She handed back the menus. “I guess I could be running my cards now. How many should I run?”

  “Thirty each,” Dylan said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  Three hundred more ! This is amazing ! She wrote up a work order.

  “I’ll pay in full this time,” Dylan asked, again taking out his check card. “Two-forty, right?”

  “Right,” Hope said, taking the card and zipping it through. She checked the clock. “I better get started on these. Can you tear off the receipt when it prints out?”

  Dylan nodded. “I’ll be watching you work.”

  Then I’ll just have to give him something more to see.

  Hope swayed a little in front of the mainframe, throwing out a little hip. She bent down slowly as she added paper to the DocuTech, her hair reaching out for the floor. She wiggled as she removed the cards, arching her back as she fed the cards into the Baum. She smiled slyly as she bagged the order and set it on the counter.

  Dylan didn’t say anything or even look at her, gathering up the new bags with the others and moving toward the front door.

  Did I do something wrong? Did I overdo it? How would I know? I’ve never posed and shown off like that before! What did he see that has shut him down?

  “It’s six o’clock,” she said softly. “I’ll get my coat.” She put on her coat and knocked on the office door.

  The door opened a crack, Justin’s nose and half his chubby face visible. “Quitting time?” he asked.

  Hope nodded, handing him his keys.

  “Oh, yes,” Justin said. “I might need those. Thanks.” The door shut.

  Hope moved slowly around the counter and stood beside Dylan. “I can carry some of those bags.”

  Dylan shook his head and held them up with one hand. “It’s all right.” He looked away. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” What did I do?

  Dylan held the door open for Hope, she stepped through, and as they turned south on Flatbush, Hope felt a warm hand take hers.

  “Is this okay?” Dylan asked.

  I must have done something right.

  Hope squeezed his hand and smiled at the sidewalk. “Yes.”

  “Good,” Dylan said. “This is good.”

  I am never letting go of this hand.

  Chapter 8

  They walked leisurely hand in hand down Flatbush to Taro Sushi, finding seats at a wooden counter in front of four Japanese men wearing white paper chef’s hats. Dylan set the bags on the chair next to him, his hand leaving hers as he opened a menu.

  I wish we were still walking, Hope thought. It was an effortless walk. I didn’t have to stretch my hand down to him, as I had to do with Odell. I may even get to wear heels again, not that I ever would. Not in Brooklyn, anyway. Sidewalks steal heels in Brooklyn.

  Dylan stared at the menu. “I have no idea what to order. Do you?”

  “No,” Hope said, looking at the pictures. That one looks especially evil. Is that a squid? Do they remove the ink first?

  “You need more time?” one of the sushi chefs asked.

  “We need help,” Dylan said. “This is our first visit.”

  Which means this may not be our last visit. She reached under the little counter and squeezed Dylan’s leg. Nice and solid and here.

  “What do you recommend?” Dylan asked.

  The chef smiled. “I hook you up.”

  In a matter of minutes, the chef hooked them up. Dylan stared down at something called “Spider,” a fried soft shell crab covered in lettuce and smothered with spicy mayonnaise. Hope admired a dish appropriately called “Mountain,” which was a mountain of sushi made out of tuna, avocado, and yellowtail.

  “Where does one begin?” Dylan whispered.

  Where, indeed? Hope thought. His whisper just gave me goose bumps.

  Hope picked up a piece of sushi wrapped in green seaweed and took a bite. This is nice. “Try this.” She held it up to his lips.

  Dylan took a small bite. “Mmm.”

  Hope eyed the crab on Dylan’s plate. “Are you supposed to eat the whole thing?” she whispered.

  Dylan leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “Should we ask?” Hope whispered.

  “Let’s just . . . explore,” Dylan said.

  And explore they did, finishing most of both plates but leaving part of the crab untouched on the plate.

  After Dylan paid and gathered all the bags, they left Taro Sushi, standing just outside. “Where to?” he asked.

  “I live . . .” She pointed down Flatbush. “Not too far from here.”

  “May I walk you home?” Dylan asked.

  Hope nodded. She held out her hand.

  Dylan took it.

  Hope smiled at the sidewalk again.

  They walked.

  “Hope,” Dylan said, “where do you see yourself in ten years?”

  I can only see myself walking down this street. This is a moment, and I’m living in it. “I don’t know, hopefully not at Thrifty.”

  “Why not work at a gallery or a museum?” Dylan said.

  “I looked into that possibility ten years ago, but . . .” I’m too critical. Everything is brutal.

  “What about starting your own gallery or selling your own art?” Dylan asked. “You are certainly talented enough.”

  “I’d rather eat,” Hope said. Wasn’t that an ironic thing to say?

  He tugged her hand and pulled her closer to him. “I can see you at an archaeological dig somewhere, like in a rain forest down in South America.”

  Where my hair will become a frizzy collection of spiders’ nests.

  “And I see you uncovering an unknown civilization’s artwork,” Dylan said.

  “Really?” I’m only seeing lots of mud and giant mosquitoes for some reason.

  “Really,” Dylan said. “And there I am taking pictures of you for National Geographic.”

  “Without my permission,” Hope said.

  “Right,” Dylan said. “You’ll have mud up to your knees, your hair will go in every direction at once, and—”

  “My glasses will be completely fogged up,” Hope interrupted. “I’ll have to get windshield wipers for them.” That almost made sense.

  “Could you ever live where it didn’t snow?” Dylan asked.

  Hope shrugged. “When I get my beach house, I hope it never snows.”

  Hope steered them east on Sterling and pulled Dylan to a halt in front of Prospect Perk Café.

  “Coffee?” Hope said. “My treat.”

  “Sure,” Dylan said.

  They stood under two gargantuan, grimacing red tomatoes hanging from the ceiling and ordered two House Blend double-doubles. They then sat outside on a little wooden bench under an orange awning as workers removed chalkboards advertising the day’s specials. Art, mostly photographs by local artists, watched them from the other side of the window.

  “Have you ever thought about teaching art?” Dylan asked.

  “No,” Hope said. “I’m too shy, remember?”

  “But isn’t art much more about doing than talking?” Dylan asked. “I’d like to see you in action.”

  I’d like to see me in action, too. I’d put a couple mirrors around us, and then we’d do a lot more doing than talking. “I’d be
so nervous.”

  “You weren’t nervous when you did your drawing for me yesterday,” Dylan said.

  “It was just a doodle,” Hope said.

  “But that’s what kids love doodling—I mean, doing,” Dylan said. “I will have you teaching in front of them one day.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Hope said.

  The lights inside Prospect Perk Café winked out.

  Dylan stood. “Guess it means it’s time to go.”

  They continued east on Sterling.

  “Where do you see yourself in ten years, Dylan?” Hope asked.

  Dylan looked at their hands for a moment.

  He’s looking at our hands. Does this mean he sees us like this in ten years? Hope smiled at the sidewalk, and the sidewalk seemed to smile back. This, however, was Brooklyn, where nearly ever sidewalk cracked a smile.

  “You know I want to open a children’s arts center,” Dylan said.

  “Art for Kids’ Sake,” Hope said. “You told me about some of the costs. Do you have an official business plan?”

  “I do,” he said. “Art for Kids’ Sake will be a preschool devoted to the arts. Art all day for active minds with active hearts. Sculpture in the morning. Woodcrafts before lunch. Drawing after lunch. Painting until we close. We can do our own art shows, have guest artists come in, especially that famous Island woman artist from Canada, Hope Warren. Ever hear of her?”

  Hope squeezed his hand.

  “At Art for Kids’ Sake, the kids would travel the city learning everything there is to know about art,” Dylan continued. “But whatever the kids do, they’ll be learning by playing and creating, not stuck with their noses in some book. I only need a space I can afford.”

  “How much money do you need to get started?” Hope asked.

  Dylan’s shoulders slumped. “Much more than I have. Much more than I may ever have. Counting taxes, utilities, insurance, staff, benefits, and then all the equipment and supplies I’ll need, I’ll need at least fifty grand just to get into the building, and this assumes that I can tear parents away from their current day care centers. People get comfortable, you know. They get attached. I don’t blame them. If you have a good thing, stick to it, right?”

  It’s why I’m holding your hand, Dylan Healy. “What would you charge?”

  Dylan sighed. “And that’s the big question, one I don’t have a good answer for. I want to provide quality care at an affordable price. Did you know that some people in this city are paying as much as twelve hundred a month for day care?”

  “That’s insane,” Hope said. They could easily rent a cheap apartment and lock their children inside. Hope shook her head. I’m sure many people do exactly that anyway, and they call these apartments “home.”

  “It is past insane,” Dylan said. “It borders on psychosis. I want to charge only half that a month, but I’d need at least fifty kids to break even, and with fifty or more kids, I’d need seven or more staff, which adds payroll, benefits, and I’d want to pay them well enough to live in this city . . .” He sighed. “I need to gross at least fifty grand a month.”

  “Why so much?” Hope asked.

  “Well, I wouldn’t need so much if I didn’t want such a big space,” Dylan said. “That’s my problem. I won’t settle for a cramped space. Kids need lots of room to create.”

  Hope pulled Dylan south on Washington Avenue.

  “I don’t plan on taking a salary,” Dylan said. “You don’t need to get paid for your dreams to enjoy them, right?”

  “I guess not,” Hope said. It certainly doesn’t hurt, though. “Dylan, I’m not quite grasping your math. You’re planning to charge six hundred dollars a month. Why not eight hundred? With fifty kids, that’s a gross of forty thousand, right?”

  Dylan sighed. “Yeah. Maybe two hundred a week will do it, but I don’t want to price anyone out. A person working forty hours a week making only minimum wage would have to work over a hundred hours in a month just to pay for day care at that price, and whatever’s left would have to cover rent, food, clothes, emergencies . . .”

  So Dylan isn’t going for an upscale clientele. He wants to help ordinary people. She squeezed his hand more tightly.

  “If I charge too much, Hope,” Dylan said, “I won’t be able to help the kids who most need it, kids like I was. I want to bring in enough so that I can even provide scholarships for those who can’t pay. I looked into going completely nonprofit so I could get in on some government grant money, but there’s so much red tape and an endless number of regulations, all of them designed to cost more money than if I stay for-profit.”

  He’s really getting worked up. His hand is so hot! “You could open a card shop on the side, say, in the reception area of the arts center.”

  “I could do that,” Dylan said.

  “It wouldn’t need much space,” Hope said. “Our cards would be there. Any cards the children make would be there. You are going to have computers so the children can do graphic design, aren’t you?”

  Dylan stopped walking, leaning against a dim streetlamp. “But who would run the card shop and teach graphic design?”

  I talked myself into that one. “I . . . might be persuaded to leave my lucrative, fulfilling, and exciting copy shop job if the salary and benefits package were right.”

  He pulled her close. “I won’t forget you said that.”

  Hope looked down Washington Avenue. “It’s just a little farther.”

  They continued to walk.

  “So,” Hope said, “how much space do you really need?”

  “The space I want has five stories and nearly seven thousand square feet,” Dylan said. “You look at it every day. It’s right across from Thrifty near the subway entrance.”

  He wants that massive space? “That’s been vacant for a long time.”

  “I know,” Dylan said. “Going on two years. What a waste of space. Get this: They want twenty grand a month.”

  Ouch. “Maybe you can talk them down.” To reality. Twenty thousand dollars? They have to be off their medication.

  “I’ve tried,” Dylan said. “But they won’t budge. They told me, ‘The economy is coming back.’ ”

  “When?” Hope asked.

  “Right, when,” Dylan said. “I looked at a few other spaces on Flatbush, but they all want too much for narrow rooms with few, if any, windows. The space has to have lots of natural sunlight.”

  “Why Flatbush Avenue?” Hope asked.

  “Flatbush has the highest visibility and traffic flow in Brooklyn,” Dylan said. “I’ve done the research. I need a prime spot that will eventually advertise itself.” He shook his head. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

  “No.” She pulled his hand, and she turned him to look in the window at The Islands. “This is an excellent restaurant.”

  “You’ve eaten here?” Dylan asked.

  Hope nodded. Another time, another place, another person, who rarely if ever held my hand.

  “What’s good here?” Dylan asked.

  “Everything,” Hope said.

  Dylan smiled. “I think I’ll get us a menu.” He looked at her hand. “If it’s all right.”

  “It is, but hurry. My hands get cold quickly.” She let go of his hand.

  Dylan went in and returned a few seconds later with a menu. “I’ll add it to our stack.”

  Our stack. I like the sound of that. “I live just around the corner from here.”

  Dylan held out his hand.

  Hope took it.

  They walked half a block more and stood at the entrance to her apartment building, a blue butterfly mural on the wall behind them.

  “This is nice,” Dylan said, touching the butterfly, “and I noticed murals all around the building. Did kids do them?”

  “I’m sure they did,” Hope said.

  “Well,” Dylan said. “I don’t want this good-bye to be awkward, do you?”

  I don’t want this to be good-bye.

  “I enjoyed most of
what I could identify at dinner,” Dylan said. “I may never eat crab again, though.”

  Me either.

  “And I truly enjoy your company.” He looked at the door. “I hope you had a good time.”

  “I did.” Don’t let go of my hand.

  “I’m no good at games, Hope,” Dylan said.

  “Games?” What games?

  Dylan set down the bags and took her other hand in his. “The game where I ask you if I can come in, you get all shy and defensive and say something like ‘Oh, Dylan, we’ve only just met, let’s take it slow,’ and I hesitate but then grudgingly agree it would be best and tell you I’ll see you tomorrow as I walk slowly and sadly away into the cold, dark night.”

  “Is that the way you want this night to end?” Hope asked.

  “Honestly, no,” Dylan said. “But I have to be up before the sun rises, and I do believe that if I accompanied you to your apartment, we would not get any sleep.”

  “Oh,” Hope said. He’s right. We’d be up all night talking.

  “I mean this as a compliment, Hope.” He squeezed her hands.

  “I took it as one.” Though it makes me sad. How can a compliment make you feel sad?

  “I don’t want to leave you because you’re amazing,” Dylan whispered. “These last two days have been amazing. Our conversation isn’t finished, right?”

  Hope nodded. “Right.”

  “And I don’t want to do anything that might interrupt or change that,” Dylan said.

  Hope looked at the ground. “Neither do I.”

  “I like you, Hope,” Dylan said. “I never thought I’d meet someone who could . . .”

  She looked up. “Who could what?”

  “Who could help me dream again.”

  Oh, that is so sweet.

  Dylan took a deep breath. “Now is this where we hug or . . . kiss . . . or should we just . . . squeeze hands, smile, and walk away?”

  Hope stepped in and hugged him, burrowing her face into his shoulder as his arms pressed her close.

  “That answers my question,” Dylan whispered. “This is where we hug. I will dream of you tonight.”

  I will dream of you, too. Hope stepped back, reached into her coat pocket for her keys, found them, and stepped over to the entrance. “See you tomorrow.”

  “For lunch,” Dylan said.