by J. M. Snyder
While on the phone they’ve covered a gamut of topics about themselves. Alan now knows more about Jim than he ever could’ve gleaned over dinner. They jump from high school to college, then one-up each other recounting the varied jobs they had. They talk about what foods they love, which restaurants in town are the best, and what they can’t stand to eat. They reminisce over TV shows they remembered from their youth, and laugh about all the silly little toys they had as kids. They tell each other about their first dates, their last dates, and everything in between.
When the conversation finally lulls, Alan glances at the digital display on the DVD player. Then he sits up so fast, he almost falls off the couch. “Bloody hell, it’s late.”
“How late?” Jim doesn’t wait for Alan to tell him, but immediately adds, “After midnight, damn. We’ve been on the phone what, three hours now? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I should go,” Alan admits, “if only to make sure Brooks is in bed. If he isn’t, I can’t rightly tell him to get off the phone when I’m still on it myself, can I?”
They both laugh at that, but Alan isn’t eager to hang up and Jim doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, either. But after a few quiet moments listening to each other breathe, Jim says, “Well, six o’clock comes around too early. I really should go.”
“Will I see you at the Brew tomorrow?” Alan doesn’t even try to hide the hope in his voice. Another coffee with Jim sounds like the perfect start to the day.
“I’d love to, but I can’t.” Jim sighs. “We have a department meeting at seven sharp. They usually last a few hours, but at least they’re catered. I’m going to need all the coffee I can get to stay awake for it.”
Alan tamps down his disappointment. “Right, well, we’re still on for Friday. So I guess this is goodnight.”
“Can I call you tomorrow evening?” The words seem to tumble out of Jim, as if he’s afraid Alan will hang up before he gets them all out.
Smiling broadly, Alan asks, “Same bat time, same bat channel?”
Jim’s chuckle warms him up inside. “If you don’t mind. Believe it or not, I’ve had a better time tonight, talking to you, than I have in a long while.”
“Me, too,” Alan admits. “Talk to you tomorrow, then. Sleep tight.”
Chapter 10
It turns into a nightly ritual, one Alan looks forward to all day long. After Brooks heads up to bed, Jim calls and Alan easily loses three or four hours chatting with the detective. They talk about any- and everything, from how work was to what they dreamed of the night before. Often they end up all talked out; when that happens, Alan simply listens to the sound of Jim’s breath in his ear, enjoying the comfortable silence between them.
By the end of the week, their phone calls have become such a routine, Alan can’t quite remember what it was like when they weren’t talking to each other every day. It’s hard to believe he used to drop Brooks off at the mall in an attempt to…what? Get Jim to notice him? Talk to him? Go out with him?
If I’d known how easy it was going to be, I could’ve just asked him outright.
Thursday evening when their conversation draws to a close, Jim says, “So about tomorrow.”
“Don’t you back out on me now,” Alan warns. “I already told Brooks I can’t drive him and his little girlfriend to the cinema because we’re going out.”
“No, no,” Jim hurries to assure him. “We’re still on, don’t worry. I just want to know which one of us is driving. I mean, I can pick you up, if you want.”
As tempting as that sounds, Alan says, “I have a parking pass for the theater. It’s part of the subscriber package. So I don’t have to pay anything extra if we take my car.”
Jim laughs. “Okay then, you drive. What are you wearing?”
Out of nowhere? Alan frowns as he looks at his legs, stretched out along the couch cushions. “Well, I changed into jeans when I got home. Nothing sexy, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Tomorrow,” Jim says, laughing harder. “What are you wearing tomorrow? I’m not talking about now, jeez. I’ve never been to an opera before. I don’t know how to dress.”
“Oh! Right. God.” Alan lets out an embarrassed little chuckle. “I don’t know, something nice. A suit is fine.”
“Coat and tie, like I wear at work?” Jim clarifies.
“Or just slacks and a nice shirt,” Alan says. “Don’t worry—you always look good.”
The words are out before Alan even realizes he’s said them. The moment they’re free, he wants to take them back. He already knows I like him, hell. Doesn’t mean I have to wear my heart on my effing sleeve, does it?
Too late to take it back, though.
“Thanks. So do you.” Jim’s voice is a low rumble that stirs Alan’s blood. “That’s the first thing I noticed about you, really. How well you dress.”
“Thanks,” Alan whispers. Then, trying to lighten the tension, he jokes, “I have to admit, your shoes were the first thing I noticed. Since I spilled my coffee on them, you know.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. I can’t wait for tomorrow evening,” Jim admits.
Alan has to concur.
* * * *
The plan is for Alan to pick Jim up at his apartment at 5:30. Alan leaves work a little early, then rushes home to freshen up. Though he wore a suit to work, he changes into something a little more casual, a pair of khakis and a dark blue button-down shirt. He spends way too much time in the bathroom, rolling and unrolling his sleeves, unsure which looks better.
Finally he calls Brooks in. “What do you think?” he asks, holding out his arms. One sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, the other is smoothed down and buttoned at his wrist. “Up or down?”
Brooks rolls his eyes. “You sound worse than Kylie. Does it really matter?”
“I think it does,” Alan says, bristling.
“Then up.” When Alan gives him an odd look, Brooks explains, “It shows more skin, I don’t know. It just looks good.”
Alan isn’t so sure. “You don’t think it’s too much? I mean, we’re going to the opera here, not a rock concert.”
“I think it’s fine.” Brooks shakes his head, amused. “You don’t see me obsessing over what I look like before I go out.”
With a telling glance at Brooks’ disheveled hair, Alan suggests, “You might want to rethink that strategy, son.”
He reaches out to smooth down the wayward locks, but Brooks ducks away. “I look fine. You look fine. God! It’s a date, not a wedding.”
“You sure Kylie’s mother’s picking you up?” Alan asks as he unbuttons his sleeve and rolls it up like the other one.
Brooks flops down on Alan’s bed. “Yes, jeez. She’ll be here in an hour.”
Turning to the mirror above his dresser, Alan futzes with his collar. How many open buttons are too many? He isn’t sure. “And what time will you be home?”
The question earns him a dramatic sigh. “Before you, I’m sure. We’re only going to the movies.”
Alan meets his nephew’s gaze in the mirror. “Before eleven, I hope. Detective Garrison won’t be there to bring you home tonight.”
Brooks rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. What time are you getting home?”
“We’ll see.” Alan smiles at his nephew’s scowling reflection. “I’m not the one with a curfew, am I?”
* * * *
Jim lives downtown, in an attic apartment of a three-story Victorian row home located a few blocks from the James River. When he first told Alan the address, Alan joked, “Jim on the James. Sounds like one of those fusion cuisine restaurants they’re always opening around here.”
“Well, that isn’t where we’re going to eat,” Jim said with a laugh. “Jim on the James can’t boil water.”
“Then you’ll have to come over here one evening,” Alan said. “I know my way around the kitchen. I’d love to have someone to cook for.”
“What about Brooks?”
Now it was Alan’s turn to laugh. “He’s
a teenage boy. He eats anything I put in front of him. Fine dining is wasted on kids his age. They’d rather have pizza.”
Alan doesn’t know where Jim is taking him to eat, but his only request is that it’s somewhere near the theater so they don’t have to rush through their meal in order to make the 7:30 curtain time at the opera. He’s picking up Jim two hours earlier, and leaves early to give himself plenty of time to locate the address.
But the building is easier to find than he thought it’d be, and he even manages to snag a coveted parking spot on the street not half a block away. Turning off the car, Alan pockets his keys as he glances at the clock on the dashboard display. He’s a full ten minutes early.
Damn.
Should he sit in the car and wait a bit? Or go up and knock, and hope Jim is ready? Or send a text, something like not trying to rush you but I got here early?
Sod it. He knows I’m coming. So I’m early, so what? Just means I can’t wait to see him again, that’s all.
Exiting the car, Alan jams his hands into the pockets of his light jacket and takes his time strolling to Jim’s building. The sidewalk buckles under overgrown tree roots, and the first crumpled leaves of the season litter the curb. Alan scuffs his shoes through a few of them, then almost stumbles on the cracked concrete.
Smooth, mate. Sprain your ankle before the evening even begins.
When he reaches Jim’s building, he skips up the steps to the porch. There’s a panel near the door with three buttons on it; Garrison, J is beside the top one. Anxious nervousness bubbles up in Alan like heartburn. Christ, we’re practically old friends now. Man up already.
But tonight will be more than a few hours chatting on the phone. It’s safe to say if the date doesn’t go well, Alan probably won’t be spending any more evenings listening to Jim’s voice curl into him so seductively. So no pressure, but the state of their relationship—whatever it might be—sort of depends on how well they hit it off tonight. Sure, they can talk to each other on the phone, but will the same chemistry simmer between them when they’re face to face for more than the few minutes they grab here and there at the Brew?
Taking a deep breath, Alan holds it in a moment to steady himself, then releases it as he presses the button beside Jim’s name. He hears a faint buzz far above him, but when he cranes his neck back, he only sees the dingy underside of the porch’s awning.
A moment later, the intercom on the panel comes to life. Through the crackle and static, Alan recognizes Jim’s voice. “That better be Alan out there.”
With a grin, Alan pushes the TALK button. “It is he.”
When he releases the button, the intercom squawks with Jim’s laughter. “Mr. English professor. Be right down.”
Alan shoves his hands farther into his pockets and turns around slowly, taking in the building’s boxy front yard. There’s little grass; mostly wild vines of ivy cover the ground, dotted here and there with big, fat, white mushrooms. Tall trees shade the walk from street to porch, and every now and then, something small skitters across the awning above, acorns or little twigs, maybe a squirrel. The end of day light has taken on a golden hue that seems to deepen as Alan waits. By the time he hears the door behind him open, a faint breeze has picked up and turned chilly. He’s glad he wore the jacket now.
He turns back as Jim comes out, dressed in a pair of dark pressed pants and a pale pink Oxford shirt tucked in at the waist. The sleeves are rolled up, thank God, Alan thinks. He’d feel as if he had to roll his back down, too, if Jim’s were. The detective’s usual tie is missing, and instead of wearing a suit jacket, he has a tan blazer slung over his shoulder, which gives him a more casual appearance than Alan is used to seeing.
Not that I’m complaining.
“Hey, you look handsome,” Alan says, then hurries to add, “Not that you don’t normally, but—”
“Thanks.” Jim locks the door, then rattles the knob to make sure it’s locked. “You look really good, too.”
Alan shrugs. “Eh, I clean up nice.” Then he laughs, a little self-conscious. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
That earns him a warm smile. “It’s been what, two days?” They last saw each other Wednesday morning at the Brew, where they shared cups of coffee before work.
Reaching out, Jim trails a finger down Alan’s arm to his wrist. Alan removes his hand from his pocket and suddenly Jim’s fingers entwine with his. Jim’s hand is strong and warm, and grips Alan’s confidently.
“But you know, you’re right,” Jim says. “It does feel like it’s been forever. Though I have to admit, I really look forward to talking with you every evening.”
Giving Jim’s hand a squeeze, Alan teases, “We’re going to miss that call tonight.”
Jim leans into Alan, pressing his whole body along Alan’s arm. “Yeah, but this is the next best thing.”
“I’m hoping it’s better than,” Alan says.
Jim returns the squeeze. “I’m sure it will be. You hungry?”
“Famished.” Alan isn’t only talking about dinner, either.
Chapter 11
Jim won’t tell Alan where it is they’re going to eat. “I sort of have to know if I’m going to drive us there,” Alan points out.
But Jim shakes his head. “I’ll tell you how to get there, don’t worry. It’s a little hole in the wall but the food is fantastic. I hope you’ve never been there before.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be there soon.”
But Alan follows Jim’s directions, turning left then right then right again, until he’s so thoroughly lost in an unfamiliar section of downtown that he wonders if they’ll ever make it to the theater in time. Maybe they can find a McDonald’s and grab a couple of Big Macs at the drive-thru. If they happen to pass a McDonald’s. So far all he’s seen are houses crowding narrow streets.
After a good fifteen minutes, Alan sighs. “Where are we, exactly? Do you even know?”
Jim laughs. “We’re almost there. In fact, you can park here. This lot’s free after five on weekdays.”
As Alan parks, he’s sure Jim will now drag him around another couple of miles on foot. In front of the car Jim’s hand finds Alan’s, and he leads the way out of the lot through a back gate that opens onto a one-way street Alan recognizes. “Hey, this is Cary!” The deck where they’ll park for the theater isn’t far at all.
With a frown, Jim says, “Don’t tell me you’ve been to Marie’s before.”
“I have not,” Alan admits. “I’m more familiar with the Carytown restaurants than with anything on this end of the street. Brooks loves Mom’s Siam. What’s Marie’s?”
Jim stops in front of an old brick building with a walkway that disappears off to the side. “You’ll see. I hope you like it.”
Alan follows Jim down a few steps and onto the walkway. On the side of the building, the restaurant’s door is hidden in an alcove partially obscured by flowering vines. Nearby there’s a small wrought-iron bench and a menu stand, both coated with verdigris for an aged appearance. As they approach, Alan glances at the menu.
“No prices,” he says, nudging Jim with his hip. “That’s American for you can’t afford it.”
“Hey, dinner’s my treat,” Jim reminds him, “so we’re eating where I want to eat. You’ll love it, trust me.”
Inside the restaurant is dimly lit, most of the illumination coming from candles that flicker on every table. Alan hopes this isn’t one of those tiny portions places—he wasn’t kidding when he said he was famished. When they’re shown to a small table, his stomach growls appreciatively, triggered by the succulent smells of food on the tables they passed.
Once they’re seated, Alan opens the menu and frowns; still no prices. “What is this, guess the price?” he jokes. “Or no, wait. Name your price. Pay only what you want to, eh? How’s it work, exactly?”
Jim leans over to point at the edge of the menu. “Every section is the same price, see? All appetizers are ten bucks. All salads are twelve. All entr
ees—”
“Okay, I get it now.” It’s an odd way to do it, and everything seems to be overpriced, in Alan’s opinion. “How’d you find this place anyway?”
“Someone once brought me here on a date,” Jim says a little too casually.
Alan isn’t sure how to feel about that. “And now you’re bringing me. Hopefully things will turn out better tonight, is that it?”
With a laugh, Jim explains, “The food was excellent, the company was not.”
“So what do you recommend?” Alan frowns over the menu. “Something other than what your date ordered last time. No need for me to tempt the gods.”
He lets Jim order. They have an appetizer of curried oysters to start, followed by a local greens salad with blood orange vinaigrette. He didn’t know blood oranges were local, but he doesn’t say anything. Then there’s a pasta course, and Jim orders two different dishes for them to share—a seafood linguine in a spicy tomato sauce and a mushroom fettuccine in a garlicky béchamel. For the meat course, it’s two sautéed filet mignons in a green peppercorn and cognac cream sauce with a side of seared asparagus. Jim defers to the wine steward, ordering the recommended rosé that’s light and bubbly and pairs perfectly with every dish.
At one point he says, “So, question. Why doesn’t your nephew sound like one of the Beatles, too?”
“The Beatles!” Alan almost chokes on his steak, and has to take a gulp of his wine to wash it away before it can go down the wrong pipe. “Christ, they’re from Liverpool. I’m a Londoner, mate, you know that.”
With a frown, Jim points his fork at Alan. “Wait a minute. You mean there’s more than one British accent?”
“There’s a few.” Alan laughs. “There’s more than one American accent, innit? Why can’t we have more, too?”
