I have another thirty minutes or so, and the market’s not more than ten minutes away, but could the room get any stuffier from awkwardness? So, off I’ll go, from one awkward situation to the next.
“Andrew,” Jackie says in a high-pitched voice, “Em’s leaving me. What am I going to do now?” She sticks out her bottom lip and stares his way. But he’s still busying himself with his folder.
“Here,” he says, eyes still trained on his work. He blindly reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He produces a shiny piece of plastic and drops it onto the coffee table. “You get started, and I can meet you later.”
Jackie pushes the card across the table with a nudge of her bare toes. “I already have a credit card, Andrew,” she grumbles.
“Thanks for letting me hang,” I tell Jackie. I give her a kiss on her head and whisper into her ear, “Give him an hour for work, then go have your fun with him. Waiting won’t kill you.”
She smirks and looks like she’s about to say something in protest, then nods her head. “All right,” she finally whispers.
I head to the front door when Jackie calls out, “Good luck, Emily! Whatever the outcome of the date, good luck!”
“Oh, the dating game,” Andrew says, briefly looking up from his folder. “Jackie here told me about that. Good luck.”
I open the door and just before I step out say, “Thanks. I’ll need it.”
***
I nibble on another orange slice. It has to be my fifth or sixth one. I just know the vendor is going to ask me to buy something or leave. I’m so nervous, though. I can’t do anything but stuff my face with citrus. Instead of another piece of orange, now I snatch up some pieces of clementine.
Jaime’s supposed to meet me any minute for our lunch date, and I think I’ve summoned the courage to tell him the truth. We agreed we’d be honest and wouldn’t string each other along. I already feel so sick with myself that I’ve carried on our dating so long. I should have listened to that doubt in the back of my mind from the beginning.
But that’s the thing with small doubts. Is it just fear? Is it the fear of the unknown? Of taking a chance on something new, something different? Or is the doubt a warning signal—that women’s intuition—that I should pay attention to?
God, I don’t know, I think, reaching for another clementine.
But today’s the day. I’m going to tell Jaime that we can’t see each other anymore. It isn’t fair to him; it isn’t fair to me; it sure as hell isn’t fair to his son.
I know that as much as Jaime wants to fall in love and find himself a partner for life, he also wants a mother for Toby—not some woman who sees him one or two weekends a month, per court-ruled visitation requirements.
And I can’t blame him. But that woman isn’t going to be me. As ready as I thought I might have been for children, I’m simply not. I’m ready to find love…I think. Yes, I’m ready to fall in love with a man and have a real and lasting relationship—“the hardcore stuff,” as Jackie calls it. If he’s the right one, of course. I’m ready to take a chance on a real love, but I’m not ready for a family.
I suck in a deep breath, absolutely, positively dreading what I’m about to do any minute now. In any instant, Jaime will appear and will be all smiles—his totally charming and handsome and sweet self. He’ll be completely unawares, and there I’ll be, the temptress who’s led him on and who’s about to break his heart.
I down one more clementine, for good health and fortune (I heard that once when I was over in Portugal). I lick my fingers clean of the sweet, citrusy juice.
“I’ll take three oranges, please,” I say to the vendor, catching his stare as I slowly finish licking my pinky.
“Plan to eat this today? Tomorrow?” the vendor asks, shaking open a small brown paper bag.
“Today,” I say. “All of them today.” The vendor runs his wrinkled and sun-kissed fingers over the orange globes, squeezing some, glazing over others, finding the ripest fruit ready to be eaten right away.
As I fish in my deep bag for some cash, my fingers meet some folds of papers, bills. I withdraw the small pile and feel a tug at my heart strings when my eyes fall on the small, folded note that Ben gave me a few days ago.
“Four ten,” the vendor says. He lightly tosses the bag near me, on top of the lower portion of the hill of oranges.
“Right,” I say, taking the note in one hand and skimming for a five. “Keep the change.” I hand the vendor the bill. “Thanks.”
I tuck the bag of oranges under my arm and amble away from the fruit merchant and on down the long row of tent-covered stands. I slowly open the note and can’t help but smile when I see Ben’s words: Call me, gorgeous.
I know it seems kind of shady of me, getting ready to tell Jaime I can’t see him anymore, and I’m standing here contemplating giving Ben a call, taking him up on that coffee date. This is what happens when you head down that serious path, when you really click with someone. Something wedges its way in between you or you just can’t swallow a pet peeve of theirs, or a mannerism, or something as big and important as a child.
God, I sound awful. I hate this feeling. This is why easy-breezy dating can be great. I’ve had enough heartbreak to last a lifetime. You get caught up in a feeling, and it snowballs into something more, and then you’re left feeling like this. Total crap! About to hurt someone!
“There she is,” Jaime’s voice trills from behind.
My joints and muscles lock. I can feel my eyes grow wide, my stomach churn, and a sour taste forms in my mouth.
I force myself to take a long breath in, and turn around, tucking the slip of paper into my bag.
“Hey, Jaime,” I say with a mixture of emotions.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jaime approaches me, smiling that wide, white grin of his. “How are you doing, Emily?” He pulls me into an embrace and brings his lips near mine.
Before our lips touch, I shrink back. I fall from his embrace and take a small step backward. His face drops as my heels meet the ground.
“Jaime,” I say, voice low. “We need to talk.”
His face grows longer, and he gives a short round of nods. “Here it comes,” he says. He rubs roughly at his jaw with one hand, and with the other makes a motion for me to lead the way out of the market.
“Look,” I say, taking a seat on the wooden bench facing a rather dull and industrialized portion of the waterfront. No romance here.
But Jaime won’t let me finish. His hands are clasped together, and he’s resting his forearms on his thighs. “It’s the same story, all the time,” he says gravely. “And,” he continues with a lackluster chuckle, “ironically it’s the women I’m not interested in continuing seeing who want to get serious. Those I really feel a connection to and want to be with,” he briefly looks into my eyes, then sharply averts them back to the waterfront, “they’re the ones who leave.”
I’m not sure what to say next. Sometimes silence is the best response in situations like these.
God, I hate hurting people. I’d so much rather find myself in personal agony than hurt someone else. And not because of the guilt I feel from hurting them. I just hate, hate watching someone else hurt, letting someone down.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, eyes still focused forward. “I have a pretty good hunch.” His eyes meet mine and my stomach is burning. “I’d ask, is it me, or is it because I’m a father. But I know the answer.” Eyes back to the waterfront. “It’s always because I’m a father.”
I contemplate resting my hand on his shoulder, then think better of it. I squeeze my hand into a fist and release, resting it in my lap.
“I’m just not ready to be a mother,” I say quietly. “I thought I was, I really did. But…” I ball both fists. “…it’s not fair to any of us, especially Toby.”
Jaime locks and unlocks his jaw repeatedly. I watch on in a slight bit of horror. I sound like a shallow idiot. So many women would probably kill to be with
someone as attentive and kind and handsome as Jaime. Here I am, a woman who thought she knew what she wanted, and didn’t. A woman who’s jeopardized someone else’s happiness, just so she could take a chance and feel it out.
A dam of tears is building in my eyes, and I’m mentally scolding myself. They must not be shed. I cannot cry. It will only make things harder for the both of us.
“Thank you for being honest, Emily,” Jaime finally says, his words bringing a short bout of relief. I intake a heavy breath, keeping the dam at bay.
“I’m really sorry I strung you along all this time,” I manage to choke out.
“Don’t be.” He stops locking and unlocking his jaw and turns his head. Our eyes meet once again. “How could you know if you didn’t take a chance on us?”
The burning in my stomach and the acrid taste in my mouth significantly subside. The tears behind my eyes are still there, but they’re not building. It no longer feels like a dam about to burst.
“I wish you the best, Jaime.” I rest, at last, my hand on his shoulder.
He exhales loudly. “I’d be lying if I said I’m sorry it couldn’t work out between us.” He stands up, putting one hand in his jean’s pocket. “I wish you the best, too, Emily. You’re a wonderful woman, and some other guy out there will be very lucky to be with you.”
I wave a few casual fingers at him. “Oh, I’m a vagabond who’s on the search for true love who ruins a good thing when she has it…staring me in the face and I go and chicken out and…”
He guffaws and rocks back on his heels. “You’re a character, Emily. Don’t be so hard on yourself. It just wasn’t meant to be, that’s all. Fate brought us together, and it’s brought us apart.” He shrugs. “No harm, no foul.”
“Yeah,” I say, voice small.
“So, if it’s all right with you, I’m going to try to save face as best I can and scram.” He steps forward along the winding pathway.
“Here,” I say quickly, handing him the bag of oranges. “They’re ripe and ready to eat today. Oranges.”
He makes a puzzled face, but accepts the bag with a laugh. “Oh, I’ll miss ya, Emily,” he says, giving a wave goodbye with the bag in hand.
***
“That’s it?” Sophie asks, dismayed. “Disney prince is kicked to the curb?” She dusts her flour-covered hands on her apron. “And what the hell was up with the oranges?”
“I don’t know,” I say in a squiffy-like voice.
“Well, I’m in shock!” She pads about the café’s kitchen. “I thought you’d hang it out a while longer.”
“He’s got a kid, Sophie,” I say saliently. “I wasn’t going to make things worse by going on another date when I knew I had no intentions of taking things further.”
“Good for you,” Chad says. He’s on a stepladder, organizing the ingredients in the overhead cupboards. He was pulling double muffin-making duty earlier now that the oven’s been repaired. Of course, the repairs came a day later than Sophie wanted, since Chad did, as Sophie said, “nothing but stare at the oven and say, ‘Yup, you have a problem.’” But when Chad forgot to set the timer this morning and burned an entire batch of muffins, Sophie about lost it. So for the past three hours, Sophie still hot with indignation, Chad’s been relegated to cupboard- and pantry-organization.
“Thanks,” I say to Chad, chipper. It’s the first time I actually feel chipper since I broke it off with Jaime yesterday.
“I think that’s really big of you, Emily,” he says. “Not dragging it out unnecessarily.”
“True,” Sophie says.
“So it was the kid, honestly?” Chad asks. He accidentally drops a box of baking soda, and it makes a loud thud as it hits the counter.
“Careful,” Sophie says, handing the box to him. He takes it with a mock-grimace.
“Of course it was the kid,” I say. “I’m not ready for that. His son deserves someone who is.”
“So it wasn’t that he was lousy in bed?” he asks with a snicker.
“Oh, jeez!” Sophie smacks the back of his leg.
“We never made it that far,” I say simply.
“Whoa!” Chad nearly drops the box again, clumsily catching it in midair. “Then that’s why you dumped the guy! He wouldn’t put out.” He goes back to snickering.
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Ignore him,” she says, looking at me with a tired face.
“I’d dump him, too, if we weren’t hitting the sheets after a month!” Chad’s totally flummoxed, and it’s really grating on Sophie’s nerves.
“Not everyone screws after the first date,” I say. “Sometimes, maybe,” I add in for fun.
“So it’s back to the drawing board,” Sophie says, pulling out some clean baking sheets. “Operation Blind Date back in order, is it?”
“Looks like,” I say. “It’s up to you and Claire now.”
“Do you need some healing time?” She raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “I mean, you and Jaime were together a while. Maybe a little time is necessary?”
“She needs to get back in the saddle, ASAP,” Chad says with gusto. He winks at me.
“Shut. Up!” Sophie slaps him in the back of the leg again, this time harder.
“Actually,” I say, my mind averting to Ben and that little note I’ve been carrying in my bag, “maybe a little time away from Operation Blind Date is good.” I tuck some braids behind my ear. “There is a guy from my book club, after all.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Sophie sounds. “Already got your hooks in someone, eh?”
“Whatever,” I say impishly. “I think I’ll give him a call. Go out on a date, maybe two.” I bite on my bottom lip and look up at Chad, who’s staring on at me with curious eyes. “See if there are sparks and potential and…just have some fun.” I shrug and look back at Sophie. “We’ll see.”
“Emily’s gonna get some,” Chad trills.
“Chad!” Sophie growls. “I’m seriously going to hurt you.”
I can’t help but snicker, then steal a thumbprint cookie from a plate and cram it into my mouth before Sophie catches me laughing along with Chad.
***
I listlessly flip through the album of prints I put together from my time in Ghana. I need to send some subject ideas Robin’s way for that possible coffee table book, but nailing down one adventure—one place, one time in my life, one subject—to appear in print is far from easy.
At first I thought I’d do a “Look at Africa Through a Volunteer’s Eyes” kind of thing, but then I realized that aside from Ghana I only really had photos from Kenya and South Africa, and if I wanted to do a book about the continent it’d probably make sense to do it after my Zambia trip.
I poked around the United Care Initiative site again this morning. I’m fairly confident I’m going to be in Africa repairing wells come next spring. The dating’s not really going as planned, and honestly I’ve never been the girl who gives up her dreams for a man. He could either come along with me, or the lucky dream guy from Operation Blind Date (or even Ben if I scrounge up the gall to call him) would have to be a short-term relationship, if a relationship at all. Judging by my recent dating record, I don’t think I’ll be changing my relationship status on Facebook anytime soon.
I heave the photo album aside and reach for my laptop to search through more photos. Maybe something here will pique my interest.
As I reach for my shoebox of flash drives, I come across my handbag. Ben’s note is still in there.
It’s been more than a week since I broke things off with Jaime. I’ve really been meaning to give Ben a call, but then I think back to Zambia and I kind of begin to worry that Ben will end up like Jaime. We’ll get on really well, sparks will fly, I might even consider putting Zambia on hold or something totally crazy like that because we’re getting on so well. Then I’ll get that sour feeling in my stomach again and I’ll find some reason to break it off with him. I mean, yes, I wasn’t ready to become a mom, so Jaime and Ben could be different outcomes. But the thought of becoming
really serious and tying myself down to Seattle also frightened me when I was with Jaime, son or no son.
Ben doesn’t seem like that kind of guy, though. He doesn’t seem like the type who would want to get really serious, tie each other down, create some immediate permanence…
I jump a bit at the sound of my ringing and vibrating cell phone.
“Hey, you!” Claire’s energetic voice comes over the line as I answer the call. “Bad time?”
“No. Just trying to figure out what photos I want to propose to Robin for the book.”
“Her proposal ones,” she says jovially. “Robin and Bobby love them. They’ve already got them hung up and framed around the house. You really are a rock star goddess with the camera.”
“You’re sweet, Claire.” I close the shoebox of flash drives and shelve it.
“Anyway,” she says. “Speaking of Robin, I’ve been ringing all the girls to find out when we’re doing this baby shower of hers. She’s getting bigger; latest sonogram pointed out she’s definitely having a boy, and, well…” She clicks her tongue. “We so need to get serious with this planning. I mean, she’s got a shower and a wedding to plan!”
I cradle the phone in my shoulder and begin to tidy up the mess of photo albums, books, newspapers, and magazines.
“Oh, so much to plan!” Claire shrieks. “I still have my shot at Operation Blind Date, too!” She sounds like she might burst from excitement.
“That,” I say with a trailing tone. “Yeah.”
“What?” she gasps. “What, what, what? Don’t tell me Sophie beat me to the punch! She did, didn’t she? Oh, no!” She makes a loud, long groan. “What if he’s the one, Emily? I mean, don’t get me wrong, girl, I soooo want you to find your ‘One’ and all but—but—oh but I really thought I’d be the one who’d find you—”
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 21
