by Lisa Daily
“Thank you for being here tonight,” he says, his sensuous mouth smiling. “And for the dance.”
He walks me to my car, which I think is sweet. I’m glad for the company. Although the marina is well lit and in a safe area of town, I have no idea how late it is, and it’s never a good idea to be wandering around a parking lot alone in the middle of the night. As we reach my car, he leans down to kiss me on the cheek.
I should go home now, it’s already so late, but I lean upward to kiss him on those full, perfect lips once more. He kisses me back, gently, sweetly, at first and then hungrily, his firm body coaxing mine up against the door of my car. I kiss him back with ache and urgency, every nerve in my body on fire.
What is it about being kissed against a car or a wall that is so thrilling, so carnal? Is it the firmness of the wall against your back, while he urgently presses into your every curve? Is it the delicious feeling of touch on nearly every part of your body? Or is it that a wall is a vertical substitute for a bed, a steamy prelude for what’s to come?
At last, I tear myself away, my skin flushed and my heart thudding wildly.
Daniel looks at me with longing, but takes a step back, opening the door of my car for me. I toss my clutch inside, and get into the car.
He leans down so that we’re eye to eye, puts his hand to his heart, and taps his fingers on his chest like a heartbeat.
“Sweet dreams, cher,” he says, and then closes my door firmly. I smile, knowing exactly what I’ll be dreaming about tonight.
52
Jeez, it’s 3:24 in the morning. Time with Daniel went by so fast, but I can hardly believe I stayed so late. Thank goodness it’s still dark; another couple of hours and I’d be making the walk of shame in last night’s clothes in front of my neighbors.
Before I make my way home, I check my phone and find three voice mails from Carter, and a bunch of texts.
CALL ME, NEED TO TALK
CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS
CALL ME, NO MATTER HOW LATE
The last message was thirty minutes ago. I almost ignore it, wanting to relive every moment of tonight with Daniel instead. But I know if I don’t call Carter back, I won’t be able to think about anything else. Damn my type-A tendencies.
It’s way too late, but I dial his number anyway. I know why he’s calling and I just want to get it over with. Worry unmercifully clenches my intestines as Carter’s phone rings, and I struggle to take a full breath. Every time I start to believe I can not be more humiliated, or more hurt, some new affront comes to light. I brace for bad news.
“You’re up late,” says Carter as he answers the phone.
“What’s up?” I ask. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
“Jesus, Alex, I’m so sorry about tonight,” Carter says. “I realized almost immediately that you must have thought that Michael was the guy I had feelings for in college. You must have been completely freaking out. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t want things to get even more awkward than they already were.”
“Was it Michael?” I ask. “Did you guys get together in college? You said you knew the whole time he was gay. Is that how you knew?”
“It wasn’t Michael I was in love with,” he blurts out. “It was Daniel. I was dating Gabriel, his brother. Daniel is great; you know how great he is. Anyway, after a few visits to New Orleans I realized that I had some pretty serious feelings for Daniel, and that he was unequivocally straight. I didn’t want to hurt Gabriel, or freak out Daniel, so I made up that story, a half-truth, really, about falling for a straight guy in college—the one that got away, you know. Gabriel and I broke up, Daniel and I stayed friends. At first I was dreaming that we’d have some magical Hollywood moment in a rainstorm where he realized he was gay after all and that he was madly in love with me the whole time. His shirt would be sticking to his chest from the rain, and he’d be wearing really tight jeans, and his hair would be sort of pushed over to the side. Maybe a little beard stubble.” He grew quiet.
“It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” I say, letting the image of Carter’s fantasy of rain-soaked Daniel play in my mind. What, I’m supposed to let that image go to waste?
“A lot of thought,” he says. “A lot. But it became pretty apparent very quickly that it wasn’t going to happen. He’s a really decent person, and we’ve been friends ever since. But he doesn’t have any idea about my feelings for him, no one does. No one but you. And I think it would make things awkward between us if he knew. He’s a really good friend, and I don’t have feelings for him anymore. Except lust—but who doesn’t?” He’s rambling, even more than usual. “Please don’t say anything to him, I don’t want it to get awkward.”
“And nothing happened between you and Daniel?” I ask. Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m continually unnerved by the pernicious effects of my romantic past.
“Nothing happened. Nothing even came close to happening. Sadly for me, he’s not at all ambiguous about his sexuality.” I smile. Not so sadly for me.
“I won’t say anything,” I say, exhaling stress as thick as cigar smoke. I’m just so relieved that Carter and Michael didn’t hook up. Or Carter and Daniel. Disaster averted. Finally, after all this time and drama, it seems like things are going my way.
53
Once my call with Carter is over with, I practically float the rest of the way home, replaying every perfect, enchanted moment of the night, like a romantic movie playing in my head.
When I get home, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into a pretty camisole nightie I haven’t worn in over a year. For the first time in forever, I feel beautiful and desirable and flirtatious, and my usual post-breakup bedtime wardrobe of ratty oversize T-shirts just isn’t going to cut it tonight. Ahem, this morning.
Putting my decorative pillows on the dresser, I climb under the covers and arrange my pillows just so. Morley jumps up on the bed next to me, and settles himself at my side. I was out very late, maybe the little guy missed me. Reaching out to touch him, I stroke his fur gently. He hisses and claws at me with his hind legs.
“I love you too, Morley,” I say, pulling the sheet to my neck. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
I sleep until noon.
I can hardly believe my eyes when I look at the clock the next morning. Noon! Morley is meowing loudly near his bowl, and I can hear the familiar sound of one of my nearby neighbors running a leaf blower down the street. It’s Florida, somebody’s always running a leaf blower.
I pad barefoot to the kitchen to feed Morley, laughing at the fact that I can’t seem to stop myself from grinning like a fool, thinking about Daniel and every moment last night (and this morning!), from our first dance together to the final sizzling kisses against the door of my car.
I pour a glass of orange juice for myself and take it out to the lanai to enjoy the sun and the spectacular view of the inlet and the bay. The bougainvillea is still in full bloom, massive bushes of vibrant fuchsia blossoms. Every year about this time I struggle between my compulsive need to have neatly groomed landscaping, and not wanting to touch a single stalk of the vibrant, explosively untamed leaves. The bougainvillea wins, of course, it’s too spectacular to trim back. It’ll return to green again soon enough. Sitting on a lounge chair, I watch the palms sway in the breeze over the water as I sip my juice, and let my mind wander back to Daniel once again, and that first dance.
The doorbell rings, which is unusual for a Sunday. Maybe it’s Zelda with more pot muffins.
“Coming!” I yell as I run toward the bedroom, grabbing a robe from the hook in my bathroom and tugging it on as I scramble to answer the door.
Out of breath, I yank the front door open. It’s a delivery guy, with a stunning arrangement of pink peonies. I beam. The last time I got flowers was almost eight months ago, from Michael, on the morning of our anniversary. Yep, three weeks to the day before he told me he was gay.
“Alex Wiggins?” asks the delivery guy.<
br />
“That’s me!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. He hands me a clipboard to sign, and when I finish, he hands me the flowers.
“Thanks!” I say, feeling in the pockets of my robe for a tip. “Hang on,” I say. I set the flowers on the kitchen counter and rummage around in my wallet for a five-dollar bill. All I have are two ones and a ten and a couple of twenties.
I grab the ten-dollar bill and hand it to the delivery guy. Why not? I’m in a spectacular mood.
“Thanks, miss,” he says, pocketing the tip. “Thanks very much.”
“Thank you,” I say, quickly closing the door. I can’t wait to read the card to see who sent me the flowers. Every cell in my body hopes the card reads Daniel.
The peonies are beautiful, and the scent is sweetly unexpected, almost rose-like. The florist mixed in a few pale green blooms in the arrangement, and I search around among the flowers looking for the card. At last I find it.
I slip the small card out of the envelope, and my breath catches in my chest as I read the message:
ALEX,
I’M STILL THINKING ABOUT OUR DANCE LAST NIGHT.
DANIEL
I make my way out to the lanai and lay back on the lounge chair, closing my eyes and letting the sun warm my face.
My phone rings and I pick it up to check the caller ID: Daniel Boudreaux.
“Oh Daniel, your flowers just arrived. Thank you. They’re just beautiful. I love peonies.”
“You’re welcome, cher,” he says in his perfectly melodic lilt. Daniel seems to hesitate and then speaks again. Like this brash, confident guy is suddenly shy. “So I was calling, because … would you have dinner with me tonight?”
I sit straight up on the lounge chair. Is this really happening?
“No pressure, of course,” he says suddenly. “I don’t want to assume anything, it’s just after last night I thought you might … consider…”
“Sure, I’d love to have dinner with you,” I say, far more casually than I’m feeling. But I guess jumping up and down and yelling “Woo-hoo” is probably not standard dating protocol, even if it’s your first second date ever. Maybe it is, what do I know? I stand up and dance around on the pool deck in my pajamas, holding the phone away from my mouth so he can’t hear that I’m breathing like a cavewoman from all my jumping around and nineties-pop-star-quality dance moves.
A group of boaters on the inlet are cracking up; they wave at me with their phones like they’re at a rock concert. I feel my face turning scarlet, but I take a dramatic bow and wave back to them. I’m so happy I hardly care.
“I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty?” Daniel asks.
“Sounds good,” I say. “I’ll text you my address.”
“Until tonight, cher,” he says softly, his voice a quixotic melody in my ears.
54
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Daniel all day, even if I wanted to stop. Which I kind of don’t.
I realize I never felt this kind of sweet infatuation about Michael. I adored him, for sure. But there was never a day in my whole life when my mind went back to Michael over and over again, thinking about his eyes, his hair, the firmness of the muscles in his shoulders. His voice, his scent, the softness of his lips, what it felt like when he was pressed up against me.
I’m giddy, my brain drenched in an intoxicating potion of endorphins I studied in school, but apparently never fully experienced until now.
I lie out in the sunshine for a while longer, trying and failing to focus on a book I wanted to finish. I can’t concentrate; every other sentence is punctuated with thoughts of Daniel and my intermittent analysis of the fact that I have surely lost my mind. Eventually, I give up on the book and decide to just spend the next hour lost in my own thoughts, staring out at the view in my backyard.
When I get too warm, I retreat to the air-conditioning inside. It’s fairly obvious I’m not going to get anything useful done today, so I survey the contents of my closet to figure out what I’m going to wear tonight.
I pull out half a dozen dresses, all in bright happy colors that match my optimism, and try them on in front of the mirror. I plug my iPod into speakers and dance around the bedroom to my favorite playlist—Embarrassing Songs I Love—a compilation of frothy, feel-good pop songs from Hansen, ABBA, Taylor Swift, Britney Spears, and Beyoncé. Basically, the cotton candy of music.
Morley stretches out on the bed and watches me as though he’s considering having me committed for psychiatric evaluation. It occurs to me that I’ve compared myself to a crazy person multiple times in the last hour, and the doctor part of my brain wonders if I somehow equate the feeling of buoyancy and freedom I’m feeling right now to mental illness. What does that say about me? Is the feeling of emotional free-falling really so scary to me? Yes, and for once, I don’t care. Call me crazy.
I pull on a hot coral-pink dress with spaghetti straps. The color is alive with hope, and I decide it’s perfect for my first official I-actually-like-this-guy date in forever. I have some strappy gold wedge sandals that are perfect with the dress, and decide I need a pedicure before my date. My toes are pale blue, which is gorgeous, but it doesn’t really go with my dress and I’m in the mood to pamper myself. I decide I’ll forgo my usual strip mall pedicure for a more luxurious experience if I can get an appointment at the Met, a local day spa. Giving them a call, I’m delighted to learn that not only are they open on Sundays, but they have an appointment available at four, which is perfect. Clearly the Universe wants me to have fabulous toes for my date with Daniel tonight. The Universe is cool like that.
Hanging up my dress, I place it back in my closet, ready for later. I rinse my face, change into a cotton shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and throw my hair up into a loose bun. I’m suddenly hungry, and start rummaging through the refrigerator for some lunch. Morley is instantly at my feet, as though he’s been paged, sputtering and purring, looking for a treat.
Selecting a bowl of chicken salad, I set it down on the island and then go back to grab the pitcher of iced tea and a bowl of grapes. Morley is howling for attention. I pull down a plate for me, and a small bowl for him from the cabinet, grab some silverware, and drop a few scoops of chicken salad in the bowl for Morley, placing it on the floor.
Morley sort of grunts and digs in to the chicken salad. I place a large dollop on my plate along with some grapes, and pour myself a glass of tea. After putting everything back in the refrigerator, I sit down at the breakfast bar and eat my lunch.
Once I’ve finished, I put my dishes and Morley’s in the dishwasher, wipe down the countertops, and head out to the spa on St. Armands Circle for my pedicure.
55
It’s almost six when I return home from my pedicure feeling relaxed and pampered, although I can’t know for sure whether it’s the complimentary spa mimosa or the leg massage that has me feeling so on top of the world. I take a long, steamy shower and add a few extra steps to my usual routine, including deep conditioning my hair, a pore-shrinking masque, and a full-body exfoliation. I accidentally get a little of the pore-shrinking masque in my left eye and it burns like hell. What do they put in that pore-shrinking stuff anyway, hydrochloric acid?
Howling and jumping up and down, I first try rinsing out my eye in the stream of the shower but it’s just making it worse, and then I scramble out of the shower, naked, shivering, and dripping all over the floor, to try to rinse my eye with cool water from the sink. Ohmygod, my eye’s on fire!
I rush to the sink and cup my hand under the water, splashing it on my face over and over again—aiming for my inflamed, squinty eye, but mostly drenching my left shoulder and the bathroom floor instead. After ten minutes of this, the burning begins to subside a bit, but my eye is still red and swollen, and my vision is all blurry. This is terrible. Daniel will be here in an hour, and I look like I’ve just gone two rounds with Laila Ali. Or a rattlesnake that went straight for my eyeball.
Grabbing a towel to wrap around myself, I dig throu
gh the medicine cabinet and locate a bottle of saline eyewash, and then try to clean out the rest of the irritant.
Desperate, I lie on the cold tile floor in the kitchen, still wrapped in my towel, with a teabag and a package of frozen tater tots over my left eye, wondering where, at this late hour, am I ever going to find a pirate-style eye patch that matches my coral-pink dress? Morley makes his way over, rests himself on the towel wrapping my hair, and licks the icy bag of potatoes resting on top of my face until I can no longer stand (about thirty seconds) the scratchy sound of his tongue against the plastic and shoo him away.
Twenty minutes later, my eye feels better, my vision has returned, and the swelling has subsided. Disaster averted. I blow my hair dry and apply a little makeup for polish.
Ten minutes before Daniel is due to arrive, I slip on my shoes, which look fabulous with my pale pink pedicure, and select an enameled floral necklace and some drop earrings to complete the look. I dump my wallet, lip stain, keys, and phone into a woven straw clutch and set it, along with a cream-colored pashmina, on top of the breakfast bar. My heart is beating like it’s prom night, and I’m hyper-aware of the fact that this is essentially my first meaningful date ever. I was never this nervous or excited to go out with Michael—I guess because we’d known each other all our lives. There is something really delicious about the unknown, the endless possibilities of where things might go, of what could happen.
Ready five minutes early, I pace around the house looking for something to do. I fluff the throw pillows on the couch, even though they don’t need it. Start a load of towels. Refill Morley’s bowl with cold water and an ice cube, just the way he likes it. Re-puddle the living room window treatments. I go into the guest bathroom to fluff the towels on the rack, and then do the same in the master bathroom. When the doorbell rings at seven-thirty on the dot, I’m in the middle of collecting Morley’s cat toys from the far reaches of the house.
I open the front door and my heart is thumping like a rabbit’s. There stands Daniel, looking dapper in a pale pink button-down shirt and a pair of linen pants.
