My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  “I’m not a prophet, I’m not a prophet, I’m not a prophet,” I whispered to myself.

  “Leah?”

  I jumped in my chair, just catching the laptop before sending it crashing to the ground. I whipped around to see Kate standing over me. “Oh, hi.”

  Kate glanced over at Dad, then behind her, then said, “What were you saying?”

  I clamped my laptop shut and stood. “It’s nothing, just a writing exercise. You’re back so soon?”

  “Soon? We’ve been gone for four hours. I was worried it was too long.”

  Four hours? I looked at the wall clock. I couldn’t believe the time had slipped away like that.

  “How’s Dad?”

  “The nurses said he’s doing fine. He hasn’t woken up, but he stirred once or twice. How’s Mother?”

  “Much better now that she’s had a chance to rest and apply rouge. She went to get some coffee. Look, why don’t you take a break. You really look pretty awful.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Yeah. Go home, maybe come back after dinner.”

  Dinner. Cinco. My heart fluttered with indecision.

  “Okay. Tell Mother I’ll be back after dinner. But call me if anything happens.”

  “I will.” Kate smiled, and for the first time in years, it was the smile I remembered from our youth. I felt tears strike my eyes and I turned away. Maybe it was the fatigue and the stress of the last few hours talking.

  “I’ll see you,” I said, walking out the door. I’d seen a flash of Kate’s old self, and maybe, just maybe, I had Dillan to thank for that.

  I went home, agonizing over what to wear, then agonizing over the fact that I was agonizing over what to wear. After the fourth application of eyedrops, I realized my eyes were just going to have to look tired. I was, after all, tired. I couldn’t shake the excitement that kept buzzing through my body as I waited at Mangalos, a full fifteen minutes before we’d agreed to meet.

  I stood outside the door and watched the attractive people enter the attractive restaurant. There were two voices going off in my head as I waited. The first was guilt. I was having dinner with a man and hadn’t told Edward. I’d tried to tell Edward, but Edward seemed very uninterested in my life. But maybe that wasn’t fair. After all, he’d dropped a couple of thousand dollars to buy me a laptop computer, which was supposed to solve the apparent premidlife crisis I was enduring.

  I argued with guilt, defending my position. If not for Edward, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. Edward had been the one insisting that I go to the stupid class. So I went. I conquered. Now I was celebrating. And that was all it was. A celebration dinner.

  Guilt, however, was no match for Jodie Bellarusa, who was the second voice and in a particularly foul mood following this morning’s conversation with J. R. She’d been snappy and sarcastic all day. She was often fond of playing the devil’s advocate. She took a completely opposite stance of guilt, and as I stood quietly in the shadows, she got pushy.

  Edward doesn’t deserve to know about your escapades.

  “Escapades!” I whispered. A few people glanced in my direction. I stepped deeper into the shadow of the building, until my back was against the wall.

  All right. Maybe that’s too harsh of a word. I meant “escapades” in a completely non-sinful sense. But if Edward thinks the solution to all of your problems is that you need to drink coffee that costs ten times as much as it does to make it at home, maybe Edward needs a wake-up call. That’s all I’m saying.

  It wasn’t often Jodie took my side. Mostly she ridiculed me, so I stayed silent to see what else she might have to say. But then I noticed him. He was taking long strides down the sidewalk, combing his hair with his hands.

  He walked under the awning toward the front door, and as I stepped away from the building and into the soft light that illuminated the front of the restaurant, he spotted me.

  His face looked both distressed and relieved. “Hi.”

  “Hi there.”

  “I thought I was running late.” He checked his watch. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not late,” I said. “I’m early. I was nearby, so it wasn’t far for me to get here.” Lie number one. I’d gone home and I knew it. Who was I trying to fool? Actually, that was lie number two, because lie number one was that I didn’t care what I was wearing.

  He placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me in the door. I could smell his cologne. It made my knees weak. And the fact that my knees went weak made my heart flutter. And my heart fluttering made my cheeks flush. I tried to get a grip.

  We were taken to our table, which had a nice window view, on the second floor of the restaurant. The room was filled with dusky light, and the candles were already lit. This was much more of a romantic setting than I had imagined.

  Cinco pulled my chair out, waited for me to sit, then took his own chair. He smiled, and for the first time I noticed how straight and white his teeth were. They weren’t overly white like they’d seen a bleaching tray. They just looked natural and clean.

  He tilted his head. “You look a little tired. You okay?”

  I blinked away my observations and focused. “It has been a long day. I’m . . . wrestling with the play I’m writing.”

  “You write plays?” His face lit up with complete interest. It had become so much my toil and labor that I’d actually forgotten it was kind of an interesting aspect of my life. Maybe the most interesting aspect of my life. I was not all that interesting of a person apart from that.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I had one that took off, but I’ve been struggling ever since.”

  “What is your play about?”

  It was a question writers loathe. Most people ask the question because it seems to be the one that should be asked of a writer. But most people’s eyes glaze over as you begin to answer, because they really don’t want to know. It’s kind of like the literary form of “How are you?” Except there’s no way to answer, “Fine.”

  I waved my hand. “I’m not really sure yet. All I know is my character is named Jodie and she’s an antiromantic.”

  Cinco laughed. “An antiromantic. That sounds interesting.”

  “You would think, but my agent doesn’t really agree.”

  The waiter brought us water and menus. “So, I’ve been wanting to ask you about your name. Every time I say it, I feel like I need to throw a fiesta and eat guacamole. Where did the nickname come from?”

  “I insisted on a nickname when I turned ten, and it was actually my buddy who named me. He happened to be taking Spanish classes at the time. We thought it was pretty funny. My parents never liked it, and they still call me Rupert.”

  “What does a string of Rupert Dublins do all their lives?”

  “We’ve all been in journalism of some sort. My great-great-grandfather started a printing press, my great-grandfather took over the business, my grandfather started a newspaper from that printing press, and then my father became a journalist.”

  “Then there’s you.”

  “Then there’s me.” He smiled. “And my parents are still getting over the shock of me moving to radio. But they also see the importance. I’m lucky that they’re supportive.” “I’ve tried to listen to your show before.”

  “Tried?”

  “It gets pretty intense, and I usually turn on the radio when I’m trying to wind down.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, it gets intense. But I love passion. I’m a passionate person, and I love talking about passionate topics. I just need to work on keeping my cool when people are really pushing my buttons.”

  I nodded, but all I could focus on was the flutter in my stomach every time he used the word passion. There was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. I’d seen it the first time we met. It was what made me squirm when I was around him. That and the way he didn’t seem capable of mincing his words. Plus, he had gorgeous eyes.

  He looked down at his menu. “So, we get to experience a new restaurant. I lo
ve trying new things. Do you?”

  Flaming pancakes came to mind. “Sometimes.”

  We took a moment to read over the menu, and then he said, “Let’s try something crazy. What do you say? To celebrate our victory.”

  Try something crazy. I already was.

  Chapter 17

  [She turns, addressing him.]

  My choice wasn’t out-of-this-world experimental, but I tried the Caribbean fish with fruit I’d never even heard of. Cinco ordered mahimahi, and we each agreed to taste the other’s dish. While waiting for our dinner, Cinco asked, “So, I’ve always wondered where the word playwright comes from. I have to admit, I don’t go to the theater much, but I do find it interesting.”

  Now, that was a good question. “Well, wright comes from the word wrought, meaning to craft or work into shape. I love one definition of wrought—‘to beat into shape by tools.’ That’s what I do. I beat my story into shape with my tools.”

  “And your tools are your words.”

  I couldn’t help the smile that came. “That’s right. It’s been said that poems and novels are written, but plays are built.”

  “I’ve never known a playwright before.”

  “Our jobs aren’t all that different, are they? You, after all, beat people into shape with your words.”

  Cinco laughed. “You know, I didn’t realize you were so funny. You’re very reserved at the group.”

  “It’s uncomfortable; what can I say?”

  “I noticed. You’re really uncomfortable every time you’re there.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out. It makes me feel more comfortable.”

  “Sorry. But it does interest me. You’re an attractive, bright, obviously successful woman. Why is it hard for you to assert yourself?”

  I could feel my ears burn, and I was thankful my hair was down to cover them. I tried to smile and pretend I was unaffected by the fact that we were talking about my greatest weakness.

  “I’m making you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m not . . . I’m just trying to . . . to . . .” My words hung in the air. What excuse could I make? I glanced at him, and he looked like the kindest person in the world. He had the darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen, lined with dark lashes and topped off with unruly eyebrows. Something made me want to be vulnerable. The skin on my neck was begging me not to, but before I knew it, I said, “Yeah, okay. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like talking about myself, and I don’t like the attention on me. That’s why this class is—”

  “Good for you.”

  I smiled and looked down. “Right. Good for me.”

  “And good for me. I need to learn to stop saying everything that comes to mind. Maybe it’s okay on the air, but sometimes it leaks into my personal life too. It’s how I was raised. My father taught me to speak my mind, so I always have.”

  “My parents taught me not to, so I don’t.”

  “That can be a good thing. Because my father taught me to speak my mind, I did, and for a while in my twenties, we didn’t have anything to do with each other. But we’re okay now. I regret it, because I missed learning a lot from him. At the time I didn’t want anything to do with him or what he did. I think I could’ve learned so much from him during those years.”

  This man spoke calmly and quietly, as if he knew that all the sounds around him would settle down, as if his words were important enough to strain a little to hear. A gentle, genuine peace filled his eyes, and he didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with telling me about his past, estrangements and all.

  I reminded myself this was not a date, but if it were a date, this would be the part where the two individuals normally paint the very best pictures of themselves. Date or not, Cinco didn’t seem the least bit concerned about what I thought of him. He shared openly about his life—his fears, his weaknesses, his misguided attempts at fame and fortune. I listened intently, unaware that time was passing.

  “So,” he said, smiling, “now I’m here. I have my face on a billboard, and it makes about a million people cringe when they drive by.”

  I laughed. “Does it make you cringe seeing your head that big?”

  “From my perspective, it looks a little small.”

  I cracked up. “Sorry, but you’re not really selling me on the idea that you have a big head.”

  “Better luck next time.” He smiled. “So, why don’t you tell me about Leah Townsend.”

  “But I’m really enjoying hearing you talk about yourself.”

  “I know. I can tell. You could let that go on all night. But I’m starting to bore myself, so you better start talking.”

  “I’m afraid you may still be bored. I live a pretty uninteresting life.”

  “Uninteresting life? You’re a playwright. That’s a dream job.”

  “It’s very interesting when you’ve written a blockbuster and you’re the It writer of the moment. But that goes away, and then you’re just part of the daily grind like everyone else.” I looked into his shining eyes. “Except you don’t look like you know what I mean. Your job is never a daily grind?”

  “What can I say? I love it.”

  “Except when you punched out that reporter in front of your home.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled sheepishly. “Except that. I’ll pay the consequences, but sometimes the consequences are worth it. That guy needed a beating. Period.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t relate. I felt guilty about most everything in my life. If I ever punched out someone, no matter how much they deserved it, I would prob ably eventually punch myself out too, just to make sure everything was fair.

  “What are you learning from the class?” I asked him.

  “That a diverse group of people can all come together for the same reason.”

  “So, who is your polar opposite?”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “You.”

  “Me?” I laughed, spewing a little water. I blotted my mouth, eying him. “How is that? Surely we’re not that different.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” His eyes engaged mine, and without any reservation, he held them, a small smile perched on his steady expression. Luckily for me, I’d worn a mock turtleneck. But I was feeling the heat. “So,” he continued, “how’s your brother doing?”

  I couldn’t help but look away. I wasn’t good at lying, even though I seemed to be doing it all the time lately. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, he’s been through a lot.”

  “He’s fine.”

  “And what about you? You’re recovering from losing a kidney?”

  “It’s hardest on the recipient.”

  “Feel any different with just one kidney?”

  “How do I turn you off?” I finally asked.

  He grinned, then threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. What can I say? I’m curious.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “You want to switch topics, then?”

  “That would be nice. I’m not one for dinnertime discussions of bodily organs.”

  He laughed hard. “Good point.”

  “So, yes, let’s change the topic.”

  “Okay. Are you dating anyone?”

  My jaw dropped open, and I couldn’t hold in the shocked laugh that always escaped whenever I was feeling uncomfortable or vulnerable. He sat there, obviously fully aware that the sudden silence was doing a great deal of explaining.

  Thankfully, the waiter saved me. He brought our food to the table and was asking if there was anything else we needed. I was about to make a bold move and preorder dessert. But in that moment I was struck by the realization that this was not truly a celebration dinner, and I wasn’t here just because I had nothing better to do. My father was lying ill in a hospital bed, my boyfriend was at home believing I was out with my class, and I was here with Rupert Dublin V—Cinco. And I was enjoying every uncomfortable moment of it. I didn’t need Jodie to tell me that. My fluttering heart was doing a fine job on its own.

  Then enjo
y it. Let everything else around you go, and enjoy it.

  One of Jodie’s stronger qualities was not compassion, but on occasion she would drop her facade and actually show a bit of wisdom.

  My head was spinning, and yet there was only one image that kept showing itself front and center: baked cod in a Piperade sauce. I loathed baked cod. Why had I ordered it? Because Edward suggested it? Why didn’t I just order flaming pancakes? I wanted flaming pancakes. There was nothing wrong with flaming pancakes. I looked at Cinco across the table, who smiled gently, confidently, like he assumed there would be no other place in the world I’d rather be. Maybe this was the spice. And when you find a good spice, you should use it a lot. That’s what Mother always said—one year we could taste Beau Monde in everything she cooked.

  Let everything around you go. That was Jodie’s advice. And why not? Here I was, uptight and worried about what other people would think. Why not throw caution to the wind? Why not—

  I gasped. Cinco looked up at me. There, three booths away on the opposite side, was Dillan. And another woman! Cinco was asking for more water, so I managed to steal glimpses. He was smiling! Flirting? Was he flirting with this woman? I couldn’t see her face, but she had long blonde shiny hair and delicate shoulders. Dillan was definitely enjoying himself.

  I tried to focus back on Cinco and concentrate on my own . . . escapade. Is that what this is?

  Yes. Because I knew that if Dillan saw me, I’d have as much explaining to do as he did. But we were talking about my sister. The one he’d rescued from the depths of her multicolored hair and eight-too-many body piercings.

  Cinco noticed I was distracted. “You okay?” he asked.