Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

  Maybe tonight’s date is the beginning of something beautiful, I don’t know. But God does and I’m leaving it up to Him. If I’ve learned anything this spring, it’s to lean on Jesus. I’ve lived the results of my handiwork. Not so pleasant.

  I decide it’s just too gorgeous a day to stay inside. Standing on my screened porch, I gaze out toward the complex pool.

  I haven’t sat by the pool and soaked up rays in years. Wouldn’t that be fun and relaxing? Nothing like a little kiss from the sun to make me look radiant.

  I hurry inside to get ready, but my trip is delayed when I can’t find my bathing suit.

  I call Lucy. “Where’s my bathing suit?”

  “How should I know?” She sounds sleepy.

  “Are you just waking up?” I look at the clock. Ten-thirty.

  “I stayed up until two reading.”

  “Ooh, pass it to me when you’re done.” Anything that keeps Lucy awake that late must be spectacular.

  “Why are you looking for your bathing suit?” Her question is punctuated by a big yawn.

  “I’m going to the pool.”

  “What? Macy, don’t. You’ll get burned.”

  “Get burned,” I echo. “Hello, I’m not twelve.”

  “Whatever. Did you look under that pile of stuff in your laundry room?”

  I check the “to be dealt with later” pile and find my suit under a stack of wrinkled clothes. Fortunately, it’s clean.

  “Are you excited about tonight?” Lucy asks.

  “Actually, I am.” I anchor the phone between my chin and shoulder and wriggle into my suit.

  “I’m coming over to help you get ready.”

  I laugh. “You just want to check him out.”

  “Well, I don’t have a date tonight.”

  “First time in what, forever?”

  “Please. I didn’t have a date last weekend either.”

  “Okay, forget this weekend and last. How many dates have you had since January first?” I run upstairs for my beach towel and flip-flops.

  She evades my question with one of her own. “What time shall I come over? Four-thirty?”

  “If you insist.” I let her off without an answer, but I know she’s been on at least five or six dates this year.

  I grab the novel I’ve been reading, which by no means keeps me awake until 2:00 a.m., my journal and a pen just in case inspiration hits.

  I jerk my minicooler from under the sink and stock it with water, Diet Coke and grapes. At ten forty-five I head for the pool.

  By eleven o’clock I’m slathered in coconut-scented oil with an SPF of four. I plan to be out here only an hour or so. The low SPF should get me a nice glow while protecting me from those nasty UV rays.

  I recline, slip my shades into my hair and welcome the warm sun and cool breeze on my face. This is the life.

  Two minutes later I sit up. Now I remember why I never sunbathe. It’s mind-numbing.

  I pick up the novel, drop my sunglasses over my eyes and start to read. One sentence later I trade the book for my journal and pen. I am not in the mood for other people’s words.

  Opening to a blank page, I wait for inspiration to hit, though it’s all around me. Blue skies, golden sun, thriving oaks and green palms. The breeze carries the scent of orange blossoms, the song of the birds and the laughter of children. I realize how blessed I am, even in light of recent events.

  I open my journal and scribble at the top of the page, “Things I want in a husband.”

  Thumping my pen against the paper, I ponder just what exactly makes a man husband material. What qualities did Chris have that made me consider him for a lifetime commitment?

  Well, he’s handsome, intelligent and has money. Shame on me for not digging deeper. I write my first requirement.

  “Committed to Jesus.” I underline it for emphasis. Deaf, dumb and blind by the ringing of my biological clock, I overlooked that aspect with Chris. But I won’t the next time.

  Good-looking (at least to me.)

  Sense of humor

  Sense of seriousness

  Kind

  Rich

  Poor

  Somewhere in between rich and poor

  Love fast food

  Love my family

  Nice teeth (I have a thing about teeth. Ever since junior high hygiene class.)

  Loyal (Chris was not)

  Smart; common sense

  My best friend

  I pause and review. While Chris fit most of the requirements I jotted, I’ve learned to go deeper and ask the hard questions. Sometimes we can want something so badly we refuse to look at what we see.

  I’m in a list mood, so I turn to a new page.

  Things I want in a job

  Attila-free zone

  Mike-free zone

  Respect

  Respect (worth repeating)

  Opportunity for growth

  Challenging and creative environment

  More money

  Good money (as long as the work is satisfying)

  Cozy office

  Decision maker

  God first, work second

  There. Straight from my heart. I like my lists. They make me feel content and focused. I settle back and close my eyes. The sun is warm and the breeze refreshing. In a few minutes I’ll take a dip in the pool….

  I wake with a start. Something’s not right. Why is the sun on the other side of the pool? I snatch up my watch.

  Two o’clock. I scramble to my feet. Oh. My. Word. I’ve been out here for three hours. And the spring sun is the worst—I am so burned.

  I slip my feet into my flip-flops and stoop to gather my unread book, unopened cooler and unused towel when Drag strolls by in his wet suit, surfboard tucked under his arm.

  “Whoa, Macy. You are fried.” He falls against the pool gate and I see pity in his eyes. “You really should use sunblock.”

  “No kidding.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to be out here so long.”

  “You look like a candy cane.” Drag points out, laughing like Goofy. “The red is red, and man, the white is white.” He shakes his head and pushes his sunglasses down over his eyes.

  I offer a crushing retort. “Har, har!” and I shuffle home in pain, the cooler banging against my burned thigh. When I fumble through my front door, the air-conditioning in the condo hits me like an arctic blast. I drop my stuff in the foyer and run to the downstairs bathroom mirror. Oh, no.

  I look like a slice of red velvet cake. Worse yet, I fell asleep with my sunglasses on and white rings circle my blue eyes. Everything else is red. Lucy will never let me live this down.

  I go upstairs, hop into the shower hoping to wash away the redness. But after toweling off, smearing on what’s left of a two-year-old bottle of aloe lotion, I am redder than ever. And freezing. I turn the air up to eighty.

  I slip into my pink robe and, catching my reflection in the dresser mirror, I can’t tell where the robe ends and my skin begins. I hope Austin likes this color, because he’s going out with Pinky Moore tonight.

  By four-thirty when Lucy rings my doorbell, I’ve put the pool gear away, eaten a light lunch and paid a few bills.

  She falls against the door, laughing. “Oh, Macy, I don’t want to say I told you so!”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I told you so!” She just couldn’t leave well enough alone. “You’re brighter than Rudolph’s nose.” She makes no effort to contain her merriment, which only irritates me more.

  “I’ll have you know, I’m in pain.” I ease down to the couch, wincing.

  “I’ll bet. What happened?” She kicks off her sneakers and goes to the kitchen. I hear the fridge door open and close.

  “I fell asleep.”

  “Classic move.”

  “But I did accomplish something today.”

  “Besides that brilliant sunburn?” She collapses on the couch next to me sipping bottled water.

  “I made a couple of lists.”

  �
�What kind of lists? The list?”

  “One list for my dream job. And yes, the list.” I wriggle my eyebrows at her.

  She made her list years ago, but I refused. How unromantic is it to look for a man the way one shops for groceries? But today somehow it seemed like a fun idea.

  “Well, I’m impressed. Let me see it.” She holds out her hand.

  “Forget it. It’s between me and God.”

  “What? You’ve seen my list!”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  She looks shocked. “I’m your best friend.”

  I offer to show her my job list, which she reviews begrudgingly. She’s sure I can find a better boss, but doubts I have the guts to do it.

  “Why not?” I demand.

  We banter back and forth until Lucy happens to notice the time. “Macy, it’s five-thirty.”

  “Rats.” Now I’m scrambling to get ready. Fortunately my hair is thick and straight, so it’s easy to style.

  I lose the robe to the bedroom floor and stand in front of the closet. Lucy is calling out the time from the living room, where she’s flipping through TV channels. “Five forty-five.”

  I skim through my wardrobe. Ah-ha, just as I suspected. “I have nothing to wear,” I yell out my bedroom door and down the stairs.

  “Are you insane?” Lucy yells back. “Your closet is so stuffed you can’t push the clothes aside to see what they look like.”

  “I’m telling you, I have nothing.”

  She stomps up the steps to help me, laughing again when she walks into the room. “I can’t help it.” She motions to my face. “It’s so red.”

  Since I’m so burned, we decide I should dress warm to combat frigid restaurant temperatures.

  “Here, try this.” Lucy jerks a white top out of the closet, one with three-quarter-inch sleeves and a scoop neck.

  “I forgot I had that.” I slip it on and decide it looks fabulous against my red skin.

  “And this.”

  Lucy tosses me a soft purple sweater, and a pair of jeans with the tags still on them.

  Last but not least, she pulls out my pair of vintage red Mary Janes.

  “Ooh, I love those shoes.” I slip gingerly into the jeans and I try to button them. Hmm, a little snug. I suck in my breath and try again.

  “Didn’t you try them on?” Lucy asks, hands on her hips, head tilted in disbelief.

  “Well, I was in a hurry. Normally this size fits me fine.”

  “Oh, they must be sizing down these days.” She’s so sarcastic.

  “I’m sure of it.” I squat and walk duck-style around the room. The material rubs against my burned legs.

  “Or maybe all those large fries have come home to roost on your backside.”

  I duck-walk from the bed to the bathroom hoping to relax the gripping threads. But when I stand, a tiny roll of flab pooches over the waistband.

  Lucy gives it a pinch. “No way. You can’t go out in those. They are too tight.”

  I unbutton with a loud exhale. “They were killing my legs, anyway.” The jeans slide to the floor.

  “Wear this skirt.” Lucy hands me a cotton flared skirt with a purple pattern that matches the sweater. “And these mules.”

  The skirt does not irritate my sunburn and is the perfect look for a spring date. Now I feel pretty and skinny.

  “Hurry with your makeup. I’ll go downstairs and wait for Austin.”

  I smack Luce’s cheek with a kiss. “Thank you.”

  Austin rings the bell at 6:02. Lucy hides in the kitchen while I open the door and invite him in. He declines, saying he’d rather get going.

  “Fine.” I peek at Lucy as I grab my bag. She gives me the he’s-gorgeous expression and I’m off on a date with Austin Ramirez.

  Chapter Twelve

  The date starts slowly and awkwardly, but that’s to be expected. He opens the car door for me, bumping my shin with the door’s edge. The metal end scrapes across my sunburn and I breathe through my teeth, wincing. “Ow.”

  Austin apologizes. Of course he didn’t mean it.

  On the way to dinner, he compliments me without even glancing my way. “You look nice. I love your cologne. What is it?” He sniffs.

  “My perfume is Chanel number five.”

  “Very nice.”

  His words flow like memorized lines from Dating for Dummies and do not give me the warm fuzzies. My sunburn feels cozier. But I chalk it up to first-date jitters.

  In a nice turn of events, he chooses a place for dinner without taking a ride on the where-do-you-want-to-eat merry-go-round, and I’m adequately impressed when he drives to Bella’s in downtown Melbourne. How did he know I am in the mood for scrumptious Italian food?

  We exchange the expected small talk as we walk in—the weather, what he did today, what I did. Which is not hard to guess, since I’m still as red as Bella’s tomato sauce.

  We are seated at a cozy table for two by the window. The waitress takes our drink order, but when she walks away, so does our ability to converse.

  He stares out the window at the street. I stare at the dessert menu. The cannoli look great. After a few minutes I remember a tidbit Beka told me.

  “Beka tells me you like to fish.”

  “Yes.” He looks at me for a nanosecond, then back to the street.

  “Interesting. I know nothing about fishing other than that it requires hooks and worms. Ha, ha.”

  He doesn’t laugh or say another word until the waitress returns with our drinks and a basket of garlic knots and we order our main course.

  “So, Austin Ramirez,” I say after ordering stuffed shells. “Where is your family from?” I sip my Shirley Temple and reach for a garlic knot.

  “Around here.”

  I study him for a sec. Well, of course. “I mean originally, Spain, Mexico?”

  He shrugs. “My dad and mom were born in Puerto Rico.”

  “I hear Puerto Rico is beautiful.”

  He nods with a shy smile. “Yeah.”

  We fall back into an awkward silence. I get nosy and probe some more. Do you know your grandparents? Have you traveled to other Latin American countries? Et cetera, et cetera. As it turns out, my boy Austin, thirty-two years old, has never traveled outside Florida besides Puerto Rico. He lives with his parents and from what I can tell, always will.

  His mom does his laundry and cooks his meals. Marriage, he claims, is a mystery and children are a quandary.

  “Don’t you have any goals or aspirations?” I am so frustrated. What kind of thirtysomething lives at home and lets his mom do his washing?

  “Sure. Fish, work on my boat, go to the gym.”

  “What about your job? Do you want to advance? Earn more money?”

  He shrugs. “Not really, unless I want to buy a bigger boat.”

  When the food arrives, I’m relieved. Now I can use my mouth for something besides this incessant questioning. I have absolutely no response to his last answer—a bigger boat. Wow. I never dreamed.

  Nevertheless, dinner smells marvelous and I’m starved. Asking a bazillion questions does that to me.

  While I’m shoveling in the creamy cheese-covered shells, Austin barely touches his dinner.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I ask.

  “I’ve had a stomachache for several days.” He wrinkles his nose and rubs his belly. “I almost called to cancel, but my parents insisted I go.”

  I fall against the back of my chair and set my fork down. “Are you okay?” I can’t believe it. Going on a date with me has made a man ill.

  He eyes his car just outside the window and claims, “I’ll be fine.”

  This is a new low. The Single Saved Sisters will not believe it. As a collective group we’ve had our share of awful blind dates, no-show dates and he-tried-to-grope-me-all-night dates, but this is a whole new category. How could Beka and Rick not warn me?

  Our waitress breezes by with a smile and I motion for the check. Might as well release Austin from his misery. Sin
ce tonight barely qualifies as a date, I offer to go Dutch.

  “What?” He furrows his brow in confusion. “Go Dutch?”

  Ooh, I hope he’s not insulted. “I know it’s not what the night started out to be, but…?”

  “What do you mean, ‘go Dutch’?”

  I’m shocked. I shouldn’t be, but I am. “It means we each pay for our own dinner.”

  “Oh, no, I can’t do that.” He insists on paying the bill. Seems his father coached him in the fine art of bill paying and tipping. At least the waitress is one girl Austin took care of tonight.

  With his food boxed up, the two of us standing on the street corner, Austin asks, “Where to now?”

  I can tell he’s in pain—if not physical, mental.

  “Listen, I love hanging around downtown. Why don’t you go on home? I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Are you sure?” He smiles with relief, a beautiful, sweet, empty smile. What a waste.

  “I’m sure.” I back away, indicating he doesn’t have to kiss me good-night or tell me he’ll call sometime. I want this night over, cut clean. Done.

  “How will you get home?”

  “Cab, friend. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way.” I shoo him with my hands. How I’m getting home is a good question. Not sure I thought this one through. Call Lucy, I guess. Oh, man, she’s going to love this.

  As he drives away, I chat with the Lord. “Take care of that one. He’s going to need it.”