by Jenn Faulk
Dinner is in the oven, everything is right on schedule, Emma is playing contentedly on the floor, and I find myself checking the window by the front door every few seconds, biting my lip and trying to still the frantic beating of my heart.
Why am I so nervous?
“Mommy?”
I turn to see Emma hold up a play saucer and teacup, as though she’s offering me a treat.
“Oh, well, thank you very much,” I say, reaching down for it.
Just as I get within an inch of her, she throws it up in the air and laughs uproariously at her own joke.
Here’s hoping she doesn’t do that during dinner.
“Ha, ha, very funny,” I say, looking at the mess she’s made in the few minutes I’ve been watching the front door like a teenager waiting on her prom date (seriously, what’s wrong with me?), wondering if I have enough time to clean it up so that Peter won’t think I’m a complete slob and all—
The doorbell rings.
Well, so much for that. It looks good enough. And really, why am I trying to impress him? This is just a meal to thank the man for spending hours of work to find my daughter, then refusing any payment as a thank you.
That’s all it is.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and force myself to stop biting my lip. Then, I take a breath and begin to make my way to the door.
I give the room one last glance before turning the knob.
“Hey,” I say as soon as my eyes meet his.
He doesn’t look any different than normal. Just Peter, just like he’s always been.
My heart, though, is seeing him in an entirely different way. I can feel my pulse pick up as my eyes are on his, as his eyes are on mine, and I wonder at the breathless way I feel, watching him watch me.
I would try to convince myself that this is all just because of Emma, because he found Emma . . . but I’m enjoying this feeling way too much to try and explain it away to myself.
I’m attracted to him. Not just superficially, either, which is pretty much all I’ve known of relationships and love up until now.
I’m suddenly even more nervous.
“Uh, hi,” he says, giving me a tight nod, which is when I see that there’s something different about him after all.
“You did something different with your hair,” I notice, then regret it just a moment later. He’ll think I’m paying way too much attention to the way he looks, which will leave him concluding a whole lot of things that I’m sure I even understand yet.
Or not. Because this is Peter.
The mention of his hair has left him frozen before me. So, I do my best to change the subject.
“No trouble finding the place?”
Probably not, since he’s here and all.
Stupid Maggie.
“Uh, no,” he says, shaking his head. He holds up his phone. “GPS.”
“Oh,” I manage, taking another breath. Before I can offer him any more cringeworthy small talk, I feel a set of hands on my knees.
Emma has come over and is looking at Peter from where she stands, slightly hidden behind my legs.
She’s smiling at him, of course.
“You remember Peter?” I ask her.
She nods, and once again, she holds her arms out to him. Just like she did at the restaurant.
“Hey, there,” he says, a big smile stretching across his face. He starts to reach for her but then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just touches her hand with one finger and leaves it at that. “How are you doing?”
“Tea,” she says, pointing to where all of her tea set toys are spread across the floor. Then, she turns and begins to walk that way. When she realizes that Peter isn’t following her, she turns back to us and tells him, again, “Tea.”
Well, she’s doing better than me, since she invited him into the house, at least.
“Come on in, Peter,” I say, laughing a little. “You don’t have to have tea with Emma, but you should probably come in.”
“I, um, I could have tea with her,” he says, stepping inside. “I don’t mind.”
Emma holds out a teacup to him, and he accepts it with a smile.
I find myself smiling at this, too. Well, smiling at him. He notices and looks just a little disturbed.
Oh, good grief, Maggie. Way to weird the guy out when you’re just trying to thank him.
“Dinner,” I say, trying to appear a little less frazzled. “I should probably go check on dinner. Don’t ruin your appetite with pretend tea and cookies, okay?”
“Cookies!” Emma says, handing Peter an empty saucer as he sits on the ground next to her. Peter nods without directly looking at me and begins conversing with Emma.
As I’m pulling the enchiladas out of the oven, I do my best to eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s not difficult, given how small this place is, but the couch blocks my view of Peter.
I can see Emma, though, and she’s smiling. And I can hear Peter.
He’s talking to Emma’s teddy bear, Mr. Snuffles. Of course, he doesn’t know that the bear is named Mr. Snuffles, and Emma hasn’t offered that information. She’s too busy laughing as he carries on a conversation with Mr. Snuffles about the weather, about how he was expecting it to rain earlier, and how he suspects that Emma has some rain boots that she could wear to splash around in the puddles that would have come if it had.
All of this. He says all of this. There’s no stumbling over his words or awkward pauses, like when he talks to me. No, this is like when he talks about computers, about his business, and about what he’s hacking into next.
Who knew talking to a bear and a two year old was so easy and talking to me was so hard?
I frown a little at this, as I take the pan to the table and return to grab the serving dishes that go along with it. I shouldn’t be insulted, and I’m not. I’m just curious about why Peter is suddenly so animated and verbose when he seems to second guess everything he says to me.
“Emma, this tea is just perfect,” he says.
“Perfect,” she says in imitation, and I smile to hear it.
Perfect.
I think it again as I step back into the living room and see Peter and Emma sipping tea together.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say softly, regretting the interruption I’m bringing to their playtime.
Peter looks startled at the sound of my voice, as if he’d completely forgotten I was here. He looks up, nods, and then sets down his saucer and teacup before standing up and reaching for Emma’s hand to lead her to the table.
“Mr. Snuffles,” she says, looking up at Peter and pointing to the bear.
“Yes,” I say, “we can’t eat without him, can we?”
Peter picks him up and cradles him like a baby, which delights Emma even further.
Who knew this guy was so good with little kids?
He hands Mr. Snuffles to Emma, who then runs to the table and puts him in the chair next to hers.
Peter looks to me expectantly, as I lead him into the grand dining room—all six feet of it, if that.
“Um, you can take that seat,” I tell him, pointing to it. “I hope you like Mexican food.”
He nods, pulls out his chair, and sits down.
I take my normal seat, and Emma, out of habit, grabs my hand and Mr. Snuffles’ paw, and bows her head. Then, she peeks up again and looks at my free hand. “Mommy.”
I look over to Peter, who’s watching this exchange. I think about mumbling “sorry” for what I’m about to do, but I don’t want Emma to prompt me again if I spend the two seconds doing it.
So, I reach over and take Peter’s hand. “You need to hold the bear’s hand, too,” I tell him apologetically.
He looks a little more than freaked out but does it before Emma can correct him, too. Welcome to my life, Peter.
Emma starts in just as soon as our heads are bowed.
“Thank you, God, for this food. Amen.”
Simple. Just like she’s always done it.
“Am
en,” I say.
“Amen,” Peter echoes, and when he looks up, he seems a little less freaked out.
I move to get everyone’s plates fixed, wondering a moment later if I should have let Peter serve himself. Since it’s always just Emma and me, though, I’ve grown accustomed to doing it this way, and Peter doesn’t seem to mind, as he begins eating immediately and we settle into silence.
After a few moments, he clears his throat and looks directly at me.
“So, um, I um . . .” He coughs again. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Oh, no. Maybe he’s rethought what I owe him. That’s fair, though. I prepare myself for it and force a smile.
“Yes?”
“You, uh, you offered to pay me yesterday, but I told you that you didn’t owe me anything . . .”
Well, of course, he’s rethought it. “It didn’t seem right when you said it,” I assure him. “I understand. What do I owe you? I mean, you spent more than several hours working on all of this. I’m not even sure what your rate is, but I’m good for the money.”
I’ll figure out something.
I glance at him expectantly, and he gives me a very confused look.
“What?” he asks. Then he shakes his head. “Oh, no. That’s not what I mean. Well, I mean, that’s exactly what I mean, but . . .”
He sighs.
“I’m not good at this,” he says finally, looking at me.
I’m not sure what he means. The expression on his face is so defeated, though, that I want to reassure him that whatever he’s trying to say can just be said.
“Peter,” I say, “you’re fine. Just say what you’re thinking. It’s just me.”
He looks at me doubtfully.
“Look,” he says, putting down his fork. “What I’m trying to say is this . . .”
And at this point he focuses on the table, as if that’s going to help him say what he wants to tell me. And apparently it does.
“When somebody does a job for somebody, they usually pay that person. And then—when that person won’t accept any money—the person who was expecting to pay feels like they owe that person. And then they invite that person to dinner or something to try to pay them back.” He looks up at me and says quietly, “I didn’t mean to make you invite me to dinner.”
Oh. Oh, he thinks I feel guilty or obligated or like I owed him something and that was the only reason I asked him over for dinner. I do owe him. That much is true. But it was more than that.
Wasn’t it?
I’m having trouble sorting it all out, yes. I just got Emma back, and my emotions are all over the place. I can’t really trust my feelings at this point because of all that I’ve been through and the part that Peter played in it all . . .
But honestly? The reason I asked him to dinner was because I enjoy his company. I wanted him to come here and have dinner with me.
Is it crazy that I wanted more of his time, now that he’s done the job and should be finished with me?
I wonder how I should answer him when he speaks up.
“And I have to keep looking for Brandon,” he continues. “I can’t really tell you why, but I know you might find out about it, and I don’t want you to think that I’m doing it for you or that you owe me anything . . .”
Brandon.
I haven’t been thinking about Brandon.
I don’t want you to think that I’m doing it for you . . .
I’m not even a client anymore.
“Oh,” I say, forcing a smile even though I’m irrationally embarrassed by this dismissal. “Well, I won’t. And, well, good. That you’re still looking for Brandon.”
I can’t imagine who’s hired him now, but really, it’s none of my business. Peter has made that clear.
The sooner he leaves, the sooner I can get on with things and stop . . .
Wait.
Suddenly, I realize who he must be working for now.
Move over, Maggie. There’s another woman looking for Brandon.
I feel that irrational jealousy come back.
“Oh,” I manage, but the word is much different this time around. Peter senses the difference, too, judging by the alarm on his face. “You’re helping Crystal now, huh?”
“I, uh, well. Sort of. Not really.” He shakes his head. “I can’t really say.”
“Well, good for you, Peter,” I say when it’s obviously not good at all. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun working with her.”
And then, I shut up, angry and embarrassed and confused all at the same time. Why do I even care?
The silence between us is uneasy now, enough so that Emma even looks concerned.
Peter looks down at his plate and sighs. He picks up his fork, but doesn’t start eating. He seems to be concentrating hard on something, and after a long moment, he puts his fork down and looks back up at me.
“Nothing I say ever comes out right,” he tells me quietly.
It made good sense to me. But maybe I heard it the wrong way because he said it the wrong way.
“What did you mean to say?” I ask, just as quietly.
He waits for another long moment before answering. “That I was really glad you asked me over for dinner, but that I was sorry if you felt like you had to do it. I wasn’t trying to make you feel obligated or anything when I didn’t let you pay me.”
He thinks for another moment, and then nods.
“And,” he goes on. “That I am going to keep looking for Brandon, but that I don’t want you to feel obligated about that, either. Crystal didn’t hire me, but . . . but I can’t really tell you what’s going on. I’m not trying to be rude. If I could tell you, I would. But I can’t.”
He pauses again.
“And this is good,” he finishes, nodding at the meal on the table. “Really good. And, uh. And, uh . . . thank you.”
I listen to what he’s saying. And, wow, he’s said a whole lot. I’m not doing anything out of obligation. I hadn’t even asked about Brandon. Yes, it annoys me a little that he’s still helping Crystal out.
I’m hearing all of that, but I’m also hearing something he’s not saying.
Why can he talk to Mr. Snuffles, for pity’s sake, and not me? He also has no trouble with Emma. He was even smooth and completely capable when we went to visit Crystal.
“Peter,” I ask, flat out. “Why do you have trouble talking to me? I mean, you talk to everyone else with no trouble at all.”
He looks somewhat horrified that I’ve asked him this and stares at me as if uncertain how to respond before apparently deciding what to say.
“No, I don’t,” he argues, shaking his head. “I have trouble talking to all sorts of people.”
“So, I’m in good company,” I say, unable to hide the sarcasm.
He furrows his brow as if trying to understand what I mean.
“Why me specifically, though?” I ask, trying hard to not let my hurt feelings show so blatantly. “I mean, why is talking to me so different than talking to Crystal?”
Oh, and that hits a nerve with me, at least. Because I’ve compared myself to her for as long as I’ve known about her, and now, here I am, wondering why Peter is totally at ease with her but acts like this with me.
He looks at me carefully and then answers simply, “Because I guess I don’t really care what she thinks of me.”
I watch him for a long moment.
“Why do you care what I think?” I ask.
The slightly horrified look returns to his face.
“I just do,” he finally manages to say. And then he looks down at his plate, picks up his fork once more, and begins eating again.
“But why?” I press.
He glances up at me and then lowers his eyes again.
“Well,” he says with a sheepish shrug. “For one thing, you’re, uh . . .” He looks up and down again quickly. “You’re very pretty.”
Oh.
I’m so shocked that it takes me a second to respond to that. And then, when
I do, I can only manage this.
“Oh.”
He keeps his head down and cuts at his enchilada with the side of his fork but doesn’t eat anything. Finally he looks back up and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something when suddenly Emma’s plate hits the floor.
“I’ll get that,” I say, already onto my feet, going to get a dish rag, then kneeling beside Emma’s chair. I think through Peter’s words, through this admission he’s made, as I’m cleaning up the mess.
And I’m excited. Flattered. Eager to hear what else he says . . .
My, how quickly this evening has changed everything.
Once the mess is cleaned, I get back to my chair after giving Emma a handful of chips, where I notice that Peter is taking his last bite.
How did he do that so quickly? And why did he do that so quickly?
“I’m going to go now,” he tells me after he’s swallowed. He puts his fork down and picks up a napkin to wipe his mouth. He’s avoiding my eyes. “Thank you for dinner. It really was very good.”
He can’t leave now. Not after he said what he said.
You’re very pretty.
I’d like to hear that again, quite honestly.
“But I made dessert,” I tell him. “Really, you don’t need to—”
“Like I said before,” he interrupts. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Peter,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm so that he’ll look at me and finally, blessedly, stop trying to explain himself.
He watches me cautiously.
“I didn’t invite you over here because I felt like I owe you something. I invited you over here because I like spending time with you.”
And that’s the truth.
I look at him and wait, hoping that I’ve said just the right thing. Finally.
~Peter~
Andrew’s idea of not looking directly at Maggie while I tried to explain things to her seemed to work fairly well. Of course I had to find a spot on the table to stare at where there were no salt and pepper shakers that needed straightening and no placemat with fringe that needed to be smoothed, but I finally did it. I pretended it was Andrew I was talking to and I did it. Not that anything came out the way I’d planned, but at least it came out. Andrew would probably be pleased—at least more pleased than he was with my attempts to follow Crystal’s advice about doing something a little less “severe” with my hair.
