The Ground Rules

by Roya Carmen

  I’m sure it will, but still, I can’t seem to calm my nerves. I fiddle with the hem of my dress—I’ve worn the quintessential dinner with friends piece—the LBD—or “little black dress” for the layman. The chunky, amber, Bohemian necklace I picked out to accentuate the dress is nice. It seems like a fitting outfit for dinner at a Malaysian place and an art showing. I was kind of going for that I just threw this on look, but really…I spent a gazillion hours putting it together—like I was prepping to be on the cover of Vogue.

  “You look nice, by the way,” Gabe tells me, and I light up. I was hoping he’d noticed.

  “Thank you.”

  “Nice dress,” he says, looking me over a second too long.

  “Watch the road,” I say, a smug smile on my face.

  “I just have one problem with it. I don’t think it’s short enough.”

  I laugh. “It falls just above the knee. How short do you want it?”

  “Shorter.”

  I smile, catching my reflection in the side mirror. “I’m not trying to be sexy, just sophisticated.”

  “Well, if you’re trying not to be sexy, you’ve failed miserably.”

  I laugh. My chances of getting lucky tonight are probably pretty good.

  We park near the restaurant, and I wobble in my heels a little. Why does restaurant dining always involve heels? I could have worn more sensible shoes, but Bridget is likely to show up in stilettos, and then everyone will tower over me. With the four inch heels, I stand at a proud five-foot-eight.

  There’s no sign of Weston and Bridget when we get to the restaurant.

  “Let’s go in,” Gabe says, resting his hand on the small of my back. “They’re probably inside.”

  The warm atmosphere is cozy. The walls are lined with striking rosewood paneling set against stained glass windows. The filtered sunlight creates a warm glow.

  The hostess welcomes us and we tell her we’re meeting friends. She informs us they haven’t arrived.

  Surprisingly, I don’t care. I just want to stand here and take in the room. Large paper lantern lighting fixtures hang at varying heights, casting a soft orange light. I stretch my neck to peek into the dining room—people enjoying their meals, seated at white linen covered tables. I spot booths in the back—they look so fun and comfy. I really want to sit in a booth—I’m like a child discovering a new playground.

  I love this place.

  “Check out those booths,” I tell Gabe. “Don’t they look cool?”

  He laughs. “You’re such a kid.”

  I hear the doorbell clang, and I turn to see Bridget and Weston enter. He’s holding the door for her, and they both smile warmly at us. He looks very sleek in a cream-colored fitted suit and flashy orange shirt.

  And suddenly, the room gets a few degrees hotter. I’ve never seen a man in a suit like that, and he certainly makes it work. I’m so busy looking at Weston, I barely notice Bridget who happens to be wearing a little black dress too, under her cream-colored pea coat.

  “You look fantastic,” she says, kissing me on the cheek.

  “You too,” I reply. I’m sure she hears that a lot.

  Weston speaks to the hostess, and she takes our jackets and leads us to the dining room, to our table. Weston pulls a chair for Bridget, and Gabe does the same for me—apparently, the boy is learning some manners. I smile up at him.

  “Booth next time,” he says.

  “Next time,” I say, a little disappointed.

  Weston looks at us, a quizzical expression on his face. “Would you rather sit in a booth?”

  “No, we were just saying…they look cozy.”

  He looks over. “Yes. Actually, they do. I’m sure we can make that happen.”

  The hostess smiles at us warmly as she walks us over to one of the booths. Like all the others, it’s an enclosed space—a little room of its own. Plush orange patterned cushions are meticulously lined up against the rosewood benches.

  I slide easily along the wood bench and set my purse beside me.

  Bridget smiles at Weston and signals him to slide in and sit across from me—the woman sure likes to share her man.

  I’m not complaining.

  She gingerly sits next to him and tilts her head, her blond curls bouncing slightly against her shoulder.

  The server hands us our menus and takes our drink orders. Bridget and Gabe fall into conversation—and it flows so smoothly and effortlessly. There doesn’t seem to be tension between them, like there is between Weston and me.

  Bridget asks me how my week was, and I tell her all about my rambunctious kids.

  “But at least I’m not dealing with accused murderers, like you do,” I add, a pathetic attempt at conversation.

  She laughs. “I think a class full of five-year olds is a lot scarier.”

  I like her…I like her sense of humor.

  Bridget tells us about the menu items and gives us her recommendations. I tell her I’m having what she’s having. I realize I’m trying to emulate her a little, but who wouldn’t?

  I bury my face in my menu, checking out the dessert choices. I look up at Weston. He smiles and opens his menu.

  I was right—the booth is cozy…real cozy—it’s very intimate.

  The atmosphere is charged.

  And sensual.

  I don’t think Weston could have picked a sexier restaurant if he tried, and I wonder for a second, if he did so on purpose.

  Of course not. Of course he didn’t.

  Get your mind out of the gutter.

  Obviously, I really don’t mind sitting across from Weston—there are worse things to look at. I take in the details of him for a second—crisp orange button shirt, tiny black fish dotting his tie, a silver-trimmed, amber tie clip, and matching oval cufflinks. It’s all in the details, they say. He may be the most stylish man I have ever met.

  My fingers trace the edge of my own silver-trimmed amber pendant, a larger version of his cufflinks.

  We look at each other, but we don’t say a word.

  I finally summon the courage to speak. “I like your cufflinks.”

  “Thank you. I like your necklace,” he says, his gaze intense. “We make quite the pair.”

  Oh…I wish.

  “Did you purposely color coordinate with the restaurant?” I tease, looking up at the soft orange light fixtures above us.

  He laughs, looking up. “No. It’s purely coincidental.” His laugh is soft…beautiful.

  “Well, you look very nice.” Geez…is this my attempt at flirting? Well, if it is, it is a feeble attempt at best.

  “Thank you. You look quite nice yourself.”

  I smile at him, and I suddenly feel shy.

  “I confess,” he says. “I really can’t take the credit for my appearance.”

  “Bridget picked it out?”

  “Actually, my stylist did.”

  Wow…the man has a stylist. I thought only movie stars had stylists.

  “Trust me,” Bridget chimes in. “He needs her.”

  I hadn’t realized Bridget had been listening, and I’m a little embarrassed—because of the despicable flirting. But then again, she has been flirting shamelessly with my husband too.

  “He is such a nerd. He has no clue when it comes to style.”

  “She said she wouldn’t be seen with me in public if I didn’t hire a stylist,” Weston explains.

  “You should have seen the looks of him,” Bridget tells us between giggles. “He used to wear these horrid tweed jackets.”

  I find her words a little harsh. Geez…give the guy a break. Weston seems mildly uncomfortable—she’s probably shared too much, and I get the feeling she does that a lot.

  “Well, the stylist did a great job.”

  He blushes a little—which makes him even sexier.

  God help me.

  The truth is…he fascinates me.

  He first comes off as hard, sleek, cool, and collected, but underneath the armor hides a sweet, sensitive introver
t. I shift my gaze to Bridget—bubbly and outgoing. They are perfectly suited to each other—she’s the yin to his yang.

  Gabe looks over my menu and decides he’s having the beef. He suggests I try the red curry chicken. I’m not sure why he always feels the need to order for me. It’s probably about him wanting to eat my food too and making sure I’ll order something he likes.

  The server takes our orders and leaves us. Bridget digs for something in her flashy purse, creating a lull in the conversation.

  “Thank you again,” I tell them. “Thank you for the beautiful roses.” I know I’ve thanked Weston already, but I feel the need to thank Bridget as well.

  She smiles, pulling out a tissue from her purse. “It was our pleasure. You should really thank Weston. He was the one on top of it.”

  I’m thrilled to hear it. I don’t know why. Just the thought of him picking the flowers and…

  “You wrote the card?”

  He pulls out the familiar small plastic bottle from his suit jacket. “Yes, I wrote the card,” he informs me, his expression neutral, “or rather, I dictated it. The woman at the flower shop wrote the card.” He rubs his hands with disinfectant.

  He’s put on his “all-business” face again.

  Which is fine.

  I decide to drop the subject.

  But…

  Just one more thing.

  “The flowers she chose were beautiful. Please thank her on my behalf.”

  He smiles and looks over at Bridget and Gabe who are discussing the restaurant’s furniture…I think—I’m not sure—I’m not really listening to them.

  “I chose them,” he corrects me, his eyes are dark and absolutely devastating. “I chose the flowers.”

  This is where I should offer a simple thank you, but my intuition tells me we’re having a between-the-lines conversation.

  I bite my lip and after a long, intense moment I ask, my voice quavering, “Why lavender?”

  He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he fiddles with his place setting, readjusting the cutlery just so.

  The man is driving me insane.

  I seriously start to think he might be missing some synapses in his brain, particularly in the lobe responsible for social interaction skills. Or something like that…

  And just as I look away, he says, so softly, I barely hear him. “You know why.”

  The server comes over to top off our water glasses, and my head is spinning. Suddenly my senses are heightened. I’m overwhelmed by the clatter of dishes and utensils and the buzz of the conversations around the room.

  I’m smothered, suffocated, trapped in this wooden hell of a booth.

  I can’t breathe.

  And I seriously worry I’m about to have a full-on panic attack—I’m very prone to them. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I nudge Gabe who’s still in conversation with Bridget and completely oblivious.

  “I need to get out. I need to go to the washroom.”

  He slides out, not even taking his eyes off Bridget—I might as well not even be in the room. I glance at Weston as I leave the table.

  He’s noticed my sudden panicked reaction.

  He looks mortified.

  I’ve overreacted. I press my back against the cold hard tiles of the bathroom stall. I’m safe here, relaxed.

  Away from the situation.

  But something is happening between Weston and me.

  And it’s scaring me to death. I’ve never faced this kind of situation before. Yes, I’ve found some men attractive, but never like this. I’m simply not equipped to handle this. I vow to keep my composure around him, from now on.

  All business—no more flirting, no more between-the-lines conversations.

  Surprisingly, the rest of dinner flows smoothly. We talk about our children, our families, and our lives. I bore them with stories of my Irish Catholic upbringing. Bridget can’t believe Gabe and I have been together for eighteen years, and I’m shocked to learn Bridget is actually a year older than Weston.

  Weston and Bridget met in Boston. He was doing his Masters, and she was a freshman. Despite this, he was actually a year younger than her—he had skipped six grades.

  “A real mathematical prodigy,” Bridget comments. Weston’s mouth curves up at the corners as he looks away, and I can’t quite tell if he likes the attention or not.

  “He was such a cute sweet little thing. I absolutely had to corrupt him.”

  “Well, I’m sure he didn’t mind,” Gabe chimes in.

  Weston smiles a little, still not quite looking at us.

  “Then I fell in love,” she says, looking over sweetly at Weston. “I never thought I would fall for a nerd.”

  Well if he was a nerd, he surely isn’t anymore, I think, eyeing the clean smooth lines of his build and fantastic head of hair.

  “I bet you liked the jocks,” Gabe ventures, flirting with her.

  “Oh yes,” she tells him.

  “You would have liked me,” he says, completely serious.

  He is so arrogant.

  “For sure,” she laughs.

  I decide to change the subject—enough with the flirting already. “So tell us about your kids.”

  Yes, you are married with kids, remember?

  A smile lights up her face. “Well, Ashton is just like his father, a real whiz.” She rolls her eyes, like this trait irritates her somehow. “They spend hours building things, gadgets.”

  “It looks like you have two nerds on your hands,” I tease.

  She laughs. “I do.”

  Weston smiles in my direction, taking it all in stride.

  “And Lizzie’s my little girly-girl. We do everything together…shopping, shows, mani-pedis.”

  “Sounds fabulous,” I say, realizing I’ve never gone for a mani-pedi with my girls. We should try it out sometime.

  “But Weston spends a lot of time with her too. He’s such a good dad.” Somehow, that’s easy to believe. He seems tenderhearted. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s just intuition.

  “When she was little, they’d play tea party for hours.”

  I smile at the vision—absolutely adorable. I look over at him, and he averts his gaze, a sweet smile on his face. I’m not sure he likes all this talk about him.

  “Our two girls love to have tea parties too,” I tell them, redirecting the focus. “We usually have iced tea and animal crackers.”

  So the conversation goes, the usual small talk—nothing electrifying. But somehow, there seems to be a charge in the air. My intuition is telling me we should all be very careful.

  Learning so much about Weston and Bridget, and the reality of their lives, makes whatever happened between Weston and I seem insubstantial.

  Which is a good thing.

  A great thing.

  The gallery décor is very “urban country”—exposed brick walls, large reclaimed wood beams, ultra modern chrome light fixtures, and white walls accentuated with bursts of color as far as the eye can see. Wine is flowing, and conversations are filling the room. I’ve dressed appropriately—it seems almost everyone is wearing black. I spot a woman in red, and my gaze is drawn to her, like the focal point in a painting.

  The artwork is incredible—rich colors, impressionist style, splatters and diluted washes mixing together beautifully. It’s messy and loose and somehow breathtaking. This is what true talent is, I muse, standing next to a painting of an old man pulling a rickshaw, the sun beaming hard on his back. I’m in awe. Gwen and I take a watercolor class on Saturday mornings, but I am nowhere as good as this, and I realize I never will be. It’s an innate talent I just don’t have. I try too hard, according to my teacher. I need to loosen up, she says. Apparently, it comes from the soul.

  Bridget spots her friend and practically runs to her. “Hi, Simone. These are fantastic,” she says, hugging her delicately, trying not to spill her wine glass.

  “Thanks for coming, Bridget,” Simone says. “Where’s Weston?”

&
nbsp; “Somewhere,” Bridget tells her, and we all turn and scan the gallery.

  He’s standing there by his lonesome, staring at a piece, glass of wine in hand, looking very introspective.

  “That suit is fabulous on him,” Simone says without reserve. Obviously these two are close.

  “I know…right?” Bridget agrees with a sly smile. “And lucky me, I get to take it off tonight,” she adds, laughing.

  They both giggle like junior high school girls, and I want to vomit a little.

  Yeah, I’m jealous.

  I’m jealous she gets to take that suit off. There is something fundamentally wrong with me, I realize as I gaze at the colorful paintings lining the walls.

  “Oh my God,” Simone suddenly blurts out. “Who is he talking to? He’s gorgeous.”

  I peel my eyes off the paintings and turn my attention back to Weston. He and Gabe seem to be in deep conversation. What could they be talking about?

  Bridget laughs under her breath. “That’s Gabe, a friend of ours,” Bridget answers. “Mirella’s husband,” she adds. “I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you two.”

  Simone offers her hand, and I notice how beautiful she is, European features, dark complexion, long silky black hair.

  “Well, your husband is gorgeous,” is all she says—very forward, in my opinion.

  “Uh…thank you,” I stammer a little.

  It isn’t long before Bridget ends up on Gabe’s arm, walking through the gallery, introducing him to people. He’s so friendly and charismatic—he’s enjoying every second of it. I notice how, occasionally, he puts a hand gently on the small of her back. It doesn’t bother me too much—he’s a very touchy-feely person. And I notice how he whispers things in her ear, and she laughs out loud.

  I’m standing next to Weston. We’ve been walking together, discussing the art—which pieces stand out and which pieces evoke emotion. He seems genuinely interested, and I discover he’s quite the art aficionado, unlike Gabe who seems more interested in the women and their sleek little black dresses than the art.

  I tell Weston all about the watercolor class Gwen and I take on Saturday mornings.

  “We’re the youngest there. We’re in a seniors’ class.”