Kevin is smiling down upon me like the ray of sunshine he is. Should I feel guilty that he was dating my friend a mere week ago? It’s so high school to date someone’s ex. The gnawing shame is making me wonder if I’ve got a future on TV as a catty bachelorette. You know, the one who tries to sleep with the guy to get “ahead” in her standings. Yeah, like that works. And really? Is it worth it when the whole world knows you’re a hooch?
After a harrowing hallway and an elevator, we’re finally in the airport parking lot. I know it’s shallow, but I’m breathless with anticipation. Does he drive something cool like my TT? Or is he a more traditional guy like a Toyota Camry? I’d say he’s an American traditionalist. I’m thinking Buick.
But we get to his car, and I laugh when he says, “Here we are.”
Big mistake. He is not kidding. He opens the trunk—or should I say he unties the trunk because there’s a rope holding it down. All bets are off. “This is your car?” I try to keep all emotion from my voice.
But my Stanford-educated doctor is driving a Datsun B210, circa who knows when. I’m not superficial about this, just curious. What’s his motivation here? Is he a starving student? Or just doesn’t speak vehicle?
“Sorry about the car.” He smiles, but there’s no other explanation. He’s just sorry. Like the car.
“No, please don’t apologize. I’m happy for the ride and the company.” And I am, but okay, there is this gnawing princess inside.
“Arin told me you drive a fancy convertible,” he says quietly. Okay, now I’m embarrassed. He knows I’m shallow and discontent. Thanks a million, Arin. Her parting gift, I suppose.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but sounds judgmental. I whack my forehead. What a stupid thing to say. I was really talking about me, begging a ride home but it sounded like he’s the beggar. And is he? What about his medical school bills? Do I need that kind of pressure? I just have legitimate fears that without two steady incomes, we’ll all end up living with my mother in one big dysfunctional family house.
Kevin locks, or should I say knots, my suitcases in the trunk and opens my door for me. Avoid the car as a subject, avoid the car as a subject.
“So,” I say. “How was your trip to Taiwan?”
He shrugs and starts the car. Three times, until it actually does what he’s asking of it. “Uneventful. I don’t think the technology is right for us. It has potential, but it’s nowhere near something Stanford would consider now.”
While Kevin is extremely chivalrous, I notice that he’s almost shy in his actions. I’m used to engineers and their undeserved bravado. Kevin is the kid in school who you never really knew was in your class until the reunion—and then you’re like, who is this hottie and how did he escape my high school radar?
“Hmm. Well, they’re lucky to have sent you. Now you’ll know when the time is right.” I pause for a moment as he pays the parking attendant, not even turning to ask me for a dollar. What a hero! “So what do you like to do in your spare time?” I ask.
“I don’t really have much of that. I used to like to build the great ships. You know, models? It’s good practice for a surgeon’s hands, but with my salary I don’t have anywhere to put them in my small apartment. It was them or me.”
Okay. Models. Not the lingerie type, he’s interested in the hobby-house kind. Perfectly admirable interest. Much healthier than a rabid interest in science fiction.
“I did the Starship Enterprise last time.”
Strike first opinion—far too optimistic. Making models of Star Trek vehicles enters shaky territory and is definitely not acceptable according to the list I just penned on the plane.
“Do you have any tribbles on board?” I say, praying that he does not get my joke, but he laughs heartily.
“No, no tribbles. I do have miniature-sized Spock and Captain Kirk, though. I painted them myself.”
I nod and look out the window. “What a beautiful day,” I force out before my real comment cannot help but develop. Why are all men twelve-year-olds in disguise?
“Arin told me you like chick flicks and shopping.” He smiles. It’s a nervous smile, like he’s as agitated as I am. Could Arin have made me sound more superficial? Chick flicks and shopping? Sheesh. She should have added monster truck rallies and watching Jerry Springer to the list and made me just as desirable.
“I do like those things.” I laugh lightly. “But I like to collect teapots. And I have a rabid political bent. Secretly, I wish I was the president’s speech writer. Oh, and I sing in the church band every other month. Sometimes with Arin. That’s how we met.” I just love standing next to her size-two figure while we sing so I can look like the great opera diva next to her. Every other month answer your questions how he might not have heard her? Or do you need more here?
“Arin told me, but I have to admit I’ve heard you sing at church.”
And then . . . nothing. He isn’t saying anything! This is a point in conversation that calls for a compliment. The lack of one is like an immediate affront! I can almost hear him saying he heard the dogs howling outside.
“Arin said you have a way better voice than her.” He turns and faces me. (We’re at a stoplight.) “She was right.”
That’s it. I’m bearing his children.
“No, Arin has a beautiful voice.”
He looks at me with an intensity that feels laserlike. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Alrighty then. I say almost nothing I mean. Do you think that’s a long-term issue? “I do sometimes. It’s part of being an attorney, holding your cards close to your heart, bluffing.”
“I would despise a life of that. I’m a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. I’m illiterate when I have to read between the lines. That was part of my problem with Arin.”
I don’t see communication as a long-term problem, not really; I’m more worried that we’re talking about the ex. He must not be over her. I am the Transition Girl. The big shoulders he will cry on until he’s ready to venture out into the dating world again.
“How did you two meet?” My voice is chirpy. Bad Ashley. Do not continue conversation on Kate Moss. It’s relationship suicide.
“We were living in the same apartment complex on campus. She was locked out.” He shook his head. “I actually thought it was endearing.”
“It is,” I say. If he doesn’t find it cute that I’m absentminded we’re in trouble.
“I don’t want to talk about Arin. You know, when we were first dating, when I first saw you sing at church, I asked her your name.”
Butterflies like bats now. Men can say these things, and a woman’s heart pounds hopefully like she has spent thirty minutes on the Stairmaster. We say it, and we’re cornering them and forcing intimacy so they retreat faster than a moray eel into a hole—better known as the Lack-of-Commitment Cave.
“Really? You wanted to know my name?” I ask.
“I just thought you looked like someone I’d like to know. I think you look much better with shorter hair. It shows off your facial structure, which is really beautiful.”
This date is an unnecessary formality. Just get me to Vegas. “Thank you. I wasn’t too sure about it at first.” I’m running my hand down the back of my hair.
We’re in the city now and the traffic is just horrendous, but everyone is steering clear of us because Kevin obviously has nothing to lose in the game of insurance Bingo.
As much as I don’t care what Kevin drives—not when he’s so handsome and charming I’m ready to bear his children now—I’ll admit I’m embarrassed we’ll be pulling up into the Mark Hopkins Hotel for valet parking. I actually pray about this, but Kevin is completely prepared.
“I’m going to park in the lot across from Union Square. We can take the cable car up to the hotel and then maybe do a little shopping on our way out.”
“That sounds wonderful. I haven’t been on a cable car since I was ten.”
“I’ve never been on on
e,” he admits.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Atlanta.”
“Georgia?” Ah, Southern chivalry. Well, no wonder.
He nods and now I am absolutely dumbfounded by this enigma in the tattered seat beside me. He is dressed like an Armani model, smells like a masculine woodsy spice that is clearly not drugstore cologne fare, and yet driving a complete piece of junk in the city.
“My parents are actually here from Georgia for a surgical seminar. They’re staying at the Fairmont.”
“Are they planning to meet us?” So not ready to meet the parents.
“If you don’t mind. I realize that’s bad form, but they’re too busy with the conference to come all the way down to Stanford.”
“Of course not. I’d love to meet your parents.”
“They’re dying to meet you.”
My stomach flutters at his touch. I’ll admit I’m leery. Despite the dumpy car, this guy is just too right, too successful, too everything. But he holds his hand out and helps me from the car and my stomach flutters again. I can literally feel the electricity pulsatng between us. We have our own amazing current that sizzles like bacon. I swallow hard. We both stand there looking at one another hungrily, and I know I’m walking on dangerous ground.
“We should get to the restaurant,” I say, to plan an escape route from this passionate current I don’t want to take, but know I must.
He clears his throat. “Absolutely.” As I turn away, he pulls me back gently into his arms. And he kisses me softly on my cheek, then quickly redirects to my mouth. I can feel my pulse racing, glad that there are no heart monitors present for Doc Kevin to read. This is not like me, to be kissing on a first date, but I feel completely safe in his arms and, at the same time, in desperate trouble. I’m helpless, breathless, finding it difficult to step away . . . It is he that ceases kissing first and pulls away to stare into my eyes and caress my cheek. He breaks our gaze and drops his arms from about my waist. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what got into me.”
Oh, Lord, I am treading dangerous undertow waters. Deliver me.I haven’t actually started the date and I’m falling. Am I so desperate?Is he?
15
I’m in the elevator of the world-famous Mark Hopkins Hotel, brushing my skirt casually as if I haven’t just lost all judgment. I toss my hair before remembering it’s only about five inches long—kind of loses the effect. Once the elevator doors shut, I am instantly mortified. I’m overcome by the sickening-sweet scent of restroom soap fumes. My expensive cologne is vying miserably against the vaguely familiar smell. I’m tormented. Do I say something? Like, Hey, I know I smell like a public restroom, funny story actually . . . or do I just ignore it?
If Kevin has noticed my industrial-strength odor, he’s keeping it to himself. I have hope, because hospital soap is much more antiseptic-smelling, so maybe he’s not familiar with the standard bubblegum-meets-strawberry-meets-sanitation department fare. I pray.
My silence is too obvious, and Kevin is looking at me expectantly. So I smile and tilt my chin like I’m just so darling. “I am really glad you picked me up at the airport.” Ack. I hope he knows that I meant “pick me up” in the pure sense of the phrase.
“Me too,” he says, ignoring my blushing face. “It was nice to be back in the world again. My first two years of residency are officially over. This deserves a celebration. And what could be better than my dad picking up the tab for such a party?”
“It’s nice your parents are meeting you here. They know I’m coming, right?”
“Of course they know you’re coming. They’re anxious to meet you. Remember?”
My eyes narrow, “What do you mean ‘they’re anxious?’ What did your parents think of Arin?” Where did that come from?
He rubs his chin. “We were never serious enough for them to think anything, but they thought she wasn’t intelligent enough for me.”
I laugh. “My mother doesn’t think anyone is intelligent enough for me. What is it with parents that they think their children are all geniuses?”
“I am a Mensa member.”
Okay, little freaky. I would think most people around here are intelligent enough to join Mensa. Actually taking the time to test?
Weird.
He shrugs and tries to laugh off my silence. “Aren’t you a member?”
“Um, no.”
“Did you ever try?” he asks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to join Mensa.
“Not my thing,” I explain.
“Well, do you think you could pass? Have you had your IQ measured?”
“Is it a prerequisite for dating you, the IQ test?”
“I’m a strong believer in the gene pool. As are my parents.” No hint of a smile here, as in, I’m joking.
“Is that why you picked pediatrics? Gene work?”
“Whatever I can do to correct genetic mistakes is a benefit to society, don’t you think?” The elevator doors open. “Here we are.”
I’m momentarily stunned by the views. The crystal blue sky pierced by the world-famous Transamerica building, and all settling on the panoramic scenery of the San Francisco Bay. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ll never get enough of this city.”
“There are my parents.” Kevin puts his hand in the small of my back and guides me towards a couple. I would say older, but they aren’t. Kevin’s father looks as though he’s just trained for a triathlon, and his mother looks like she knows the name of a very good plastic surgeon. There’s no look of surprise on her perfectly-lifted brow, and no windblown face where a lifetime of living should leave wrinkles. Now, that’s some good work. I’m studying it, trying to remove my gaze when Kevin introduces us.
“Mother, Father. This is Ashley Stockingdale.” He pushes me a bit forward.
“Hello,” I say reaching out my hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you both.” Although it could have at least been after our first date.
His mother is scrutinizing me, her eyes going up and down my black pantsuit. Probably seeing if she can make out any genetic deformities.
“Miss Stockingdale,” his mother says, with a crisp nod of her chin.
“Ashley, we’ve heard quite a bit about you.” Dr. Novak Senior says. “But my son has been holding out on how beautiful you really are.”
If that isn’t the biggest cliché I’ve ever heard. “Thank you.”
“Sit down. Sit down.” Kevin’s father calls the waiter over with a raised finger, and I find myself looking for that guy who answered the phone yesterday. I want to shout I wasn’t really dumped.
“Ashley’s a patent attorney for Selectech,” Kevin says. Again with the resume. “She’s just been to Taiwan to secure one of her patents.”
Doctor Novak is shaking his head. “Very nice, Miss Stocking-dale.”
“Call me Ashley, please.”
“Ashley? That’s a name after your time, isn’t it dear?” Mrs. asks. “I mean, usually Ashleys are about nine or ten right now.”
“My mother named me for Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind.”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
I shrug. “She liked the character, I suppose.”
“But he’s a man.” Mrs. Novak says, stating the obvious. And the Mensa member here would be?
“So what brings you two to the city?” I ask.
“Surgical conference. The latest in laser-assisted robots. You know, Ashley, I have an idea for a surgical tool, and I should get your help securing a patent,” Dr. Novak says. “I bet I could quit this line of work altogether.”
“That’s my goal too. I kept an eye out when I went to Taiwan to look at that machine, Dad. Figured out how it’s done,” Kevin says. “One good product, and you’re set for life with royalty streams.”
“Actually, you’re pretty young, Kevin, and a patent only gives you a head start of twenty years. With medical products that are specialized, it can be very slow. The secret to a good patent is a high sales pattern or
high desire for the product. If you found the machine that cured cancer, for example.”
If I’m not mistaken, Kevin’s teeth are clenched. “Who’s to say I couldn’t do that?”
“No one. Certainly not me.”
“Miss Stockingdale, where did you go to school?”
“Santa Clara University. They have a law program that’s re-nowned, and I just loved the campus from the time I was a child.”
“Yes, didn’t someone from O. J.’s case work there?” Mrs. asks.
“Gerald Uelman is a professor, but don’t hold that against us; it’s a very good school.”
“I’d never heard of it before today,” Mrs. sniffs.
Um, then how did you know about Gerald Uelman? I’m dying to ask. But I keep my mouth shut.
The waiter comes, and I want to kiss him just because he’s normal and probably has an IQ like mine. “What may I get you?” he asks me.
Someone who can discuss this week’s People. “I’ll have a Diet Coke with a twist of lemon.” Hey, I’m classy.
Kevin orders the house merlot, and then makes a big deal swirling it around in his glass for my benefit. Yeah, yeah, can you tell a fresh-roasted espresso bean from an old one? Well, I can.
“I’m dying for an espresso,” I say out of the blue. “Can you bring me a shot?” I ask the waiter while he’s looming over, waiting for Kevin to give the okay on the glass of wine.
“Of course, Miss.” And then, cute waiter winks at me. Calgon, take me away!
It suddenly occurs to me that Kevin’s hair holds absolutely the straightest part I’ve ever seen. It’s like his hair was created to lie in this ruler-like line. Does he use a surgical tool to get it that straight? Does his mother come from Atlanta to ensure its pinpoint accuracy? I wonder if God chooses your career by the hair you have. Big-haired people always gravitate towards marketing.
But there’s this attraction between us that can’t be denied. That must count for something. When I looked at Seth, there was that momentary roller-coaster-hill-thrill. I feel that same lift, only multiplied with Kevin, like a sharp airplane takeoff for noise abatement. My stomach is doing continuous gymnastics when his gaze pierces mine, but then I watch him with the stupid glass of wine and I want to hurt him. His nose is practically in the glass, and he’s inhaling like a pig snorting for a truffle. What is that about?
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