One True Theory of Love

by Laura Fitzgerald

  Her heart raced as she dialed him back. He picked up on the second ring. “Meg! I’m glad you called back.”

  Meg felt her smile grow stupidly wide. Thank goodness she was alone. “And I’m glad you called,” she said. “I’ve got a boy on my hands who very much wants to learn your tips and tricks.”

  “Those would be my soccer tips and tricks?”

  “You have other kinds?” Meg asked, teasing.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Many, many others.”

  Was it possible to smell a person over the phone? Had the subtle-cologne scent of him crossed through the phone lines, or was it just Meg’s memory of him? Or was it a trick of his?

  “I can meet with Henry any night this week after work except for tonight because I’ve got golf plans,” he said. “You just tell me when and where. And then I was hoping you could stop by my office one day this week because I have something I’d like to give you. You’re welcome to bring Henry, of course.”

  His office. Meg realized she didn’t even know what he did for a living. It seemed she absolutely should know this by now, but she’d only seen him twice, after all, and both times, Henry had sucked up much of the spotlight. Was Ahmed a college professor? Owner of an art gallery? “What do you do, anyway?” she asked.

  “I’m the assistant city manager,” he said.

  “The assistant city manager of what?”

  “Of Tucson.”

  Of Tucson! “You’re a bigwig!”

  Ahmed laughed. “I’m just a cog in the wheel.”

  “Can you do anything about the sidewalks in my neighborhood?” she asked. “Because I think it’s crazy that I live in one of the nicest neighborhoods in town and I can’t even walk from my place to Rincon Market on a sidewalk. Sixth Street needs sidewalks all the way through! Tucson’s so schizophrenic with its sidewalks that it drives me nuts. We need sidewalks and we need handicap curbs.”

  Ahmed chuckled. “The RTA’s supposed to help with that.”

  “You sound like a politician.” Meg tried to remember what RTA stood for, but couldn’t. She only knew that it and something called Rio Nuevo were supposed to be the answer to everyone’s transportation and downtown redevelopment prayers, although no one in Tucson seemed to expect much from either.

  “Nope,” Ahmed said cheerfully. “I’m just a cog in the wheel. I live in the same neighborhood as you. If I had any clout, we’d have better sidewalks. I agree with you that they leave something to be desired.”

  “You’re probably just all ethical and honest and don’t want to put your own neighborhood ahead of others,” Meg said. “Am I right?”

  “Lack of clout.” He laughed after saying it.

  “Is this why you didn’t tell me what you do for a living?” Meg asked. “Does everyone always come up to you and ask you to fix things for them?”

  “Pretty much.” Ahmed’s chuckle was low and sexy. Man, he gave good phone. Meg suspected he was probably a pretty good fixer of things, too.

  “So, do I need to make an appointment to see the assistant city manager?” she asked.

  “You? Never,” he said. “I keep the last hour of my day open, so just stop on down to city hall at your convenience. I’m on the tenth floor.”

  Ahmed met them at the park the next night and showed Henry some drills he could do with Bradley, and then a few days later, Meg left Henry to tag along with Harley on a plumbing project in 108-D while she went to see Ahmed.

  Tucson’s downtown was small but complicated, with its myriad one-way streets and its resistance to a grid structure, which left the V-shaped streets sending people in the wrong direction from their desired destinations. It all felt deliberately hostile, and sensible people avoided downtown if they possibly could.

  But Meg wasn’t sensible.

  She was a fool in lust.

  She parked in the library parking lot and then walked the few blocks to city hall. In her infinite wisdom, she’d worn heels, the sexiest she owned, which admittedly weren’t very sexy, but they made her feel Like a Woman, as did the autumnal orange nail polish she’d painted on her toes the previous night. She wore a simple sleeveless dark blue linen dress that her father always complimented, going for a deliberately careless but man-she-cleans-up-good look.

  Once at city hall, she rode the elevator to the tenth floor and stopped at the reception desk. The woman behind it was cool and professional and her entire presentation was exactly of a certain type—perfectly highlighted hair, whitened teeth, long French nails that must have made typing a challenge, and a plethora of bling. Meg always wondered how people in normal-paying jobs could pull off looks like this. It seemed she must spend her entire paycheck keeping up her appearance. Meg also always wondered: if she’d remained married to Jonathan, was this how she’d look—nice, certainly, but somewhat . . . interchangeable?

  “I’m here to see Ahmed. . . .” Shit. She couldn’t remember his last name! The things she didn’t know about him could fill a book. “Ahmed . . . Bour-something? I’m Meg Clark. He’s sort of expecting me.”

  “Bourhani.” The receptionist smiled. “His name’s a mouthful. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Do you happen to know if he has any pull when it comes to putting in sidewalks?” Meg asked.

  The receptionist’s smile was practiced. “The RTA’s supposed to help with that.”

  “Right,” Meg said. “So I keep hearing.”

  She scoped out the lobby while she waited. It was pretty typical, nothing special, but right there was the mayor’s office. No matter how he tried to downplay it, Ahmed was a big fish in Tucson’s small pond.

  When a burst of cool air tickled Meg’s neck, she knew even before turning that he was on his way down the corridor toward her. Sure enough, she turned and there he was, in linen pants, a crisp white shirt, and a rich-but-casual blazer. He carried himself with a self-possession that seemed earned rather than inherited. Along with kindness, Meg found confidence about the sexiest trait a man could possess. There was no denying it: Ahmed was hot. Meltably hot.

  Perhaps best, he was clearly happy to see her. He walked toward her with intention, his eyes focused on hers with a captive intensity. Even the receptionist noticed and turned to study Meg with a new appreciation.

  When Ahmed was a few feet from her, he stopped. He was close enough that Meg could have kissed him if she wanted to. And yes, she wanted to—she could hardly stop herself, actually. This was crazy, this whatever-it-was between them.

  With a roguish grin, Ahmed extended his hand, and after he had his hand in hers, he was disinclined to let hers go. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I haven’t seen you without Henry before.”

  “He’s more or less an appendage,” Meg said, glad Henry wasn’t there. He’d steal all of Ahmed’s attention, and Meg was quite enjoying it. The way he looked at her made her feel beautiful.

  “Come on back.” They walked side by side down the corridor, which was narrow enough that it was harder for them not to touch than it would have been for her to take his elbow or for him to put a hand on the small of her back, sizzle sizzle. Meg simply wasn’t brave enough, and she supposed Ahmed was being gentlemanly, damn him.

  Ahmed’s office was of a generous size but otherwise unrevealing. He had only stock framed Tucson prints, a few standard plaques, and fake plants.

  “No pictures of family,” Meg said.

  His eyes were pleased she’d noticed. “My father’s a bit of a disapproving sort of fellow, and I don’t exactly want his face staring at me all day. Glaring at me, I should say. And my grandparents—well, I have a picture of them at home.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  “No.”

  “Ah,” Meg said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Meg walked to his large picture window. He had a perfect view of A Mountain, which was marred only by the unavoidable view of I-10 that went along with it. “Do you watch the fireworks from here on the Fourth?”

 
“I have.” He stood a few feet from her, studying her. “I like that dress.”

  I’d like you out of that dress, was what Meg heard. She swallowed hard and her heart pound-pound-pounded. “You said you have something for me?”

  “I do.” When he leaned past her to get to his desk, Meg honestly and ridiculously worried she might pass out. From lust! Was such a thing possible? His neck, his jawbone, his cheekbones, for God’s sake, taunted her, dared her to engage. She sighed helplessly. Regardless of what happened with Ahmed, it was time to rethink her vow of celibacy.

  Ahmed picked up a sealed envelope from his desk and handed it to her. Stapled to the envelope was the business card of Samuel McFarland, private investigator. “It’s not very romantic,” he said, “but I’m really hoping you’ll reconsider your policy about not dating. I know you’re a single mom and you’ve got Henry to worry about and I tried to put myself in your shoes to see what . . . well . . .” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I imagine you’ve got a lot to consider before you’d say yes to even a simple dinner date, so I thought maybe you might find this helpful as you think about it. Because I’m officially throwing it out there. Consider the request-for-a-date gauntlet thrown down, Meg Clark. You can let me know your answer at your convenience. On your own timetable. Say, by Friday.”

  Meg laughed and felt the flush of delight in her face. “That was quite the . . . quite the something.” She waved the envelope. “What is it? Should I open it now?”

  “I had a private investigator do a background check on me.” Meg tilted her head at him, curious, and he shrugged sheepishly. “Kind of weird, I know, but this buddy of mine, this guy I run with in the mornings, his daughter got massively taken to the cleaners by her boyfriend, and when my buddy got hold of his credit report and his criminal record, there were red flags all over it. So I just . . . I don’t know. A background check might not tell you who I am, but at least it should give you a good indication of who I’m not.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not a bad guy, Meg. At least, I don’t think I am—I haven’t actually read the report! If I’m a bad guy, I don’t know it. But you can call him and talk to him if you want. His card’s right there.”

  Trying to steady her breathing, Meg stared at Ahmed, dumbfounded. He got her—even though he barely knew her, he understood her essence. He recognized the scared yet hopeful heart inside her that wanted love and yet wanted even worse not to mess up.

  Ahmed might think it unromantic to hand her an envelope that laid bare the official facts and figures of which he was composed, but he was beyond wrong.

  Hands down, it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.

  When I look back on myself as a young wife, I see a girl so slight she could have been blown over by a strong wind.

  I vividly remember the final hours of that last, horrible weekend. I was on my knees on the bed, begging Jonathan for probably the hundredth time to tell me exactly what I’d done that was so wrong as to make him want to hurt me so badly by cheating on me. By leaving me. By preferring her.

  He never did tell me why.

  After he left, my body stopped working. My heart stopped beating, and this baby we’d planted needed to grow. I was terrified by the depth of my rage and grief, and one day several weeks after he left, as I lay furled under the bathroom vanity unable to move, I realized that I needed help.

  For a while, I saw my therapist twice a week. I’d sit next to her at this small, round conference table, and as she got to know me, it became such a comfort because when she’d look into my eyes, I knew I was still there. That I was safe, because she’d let me fall only so far.

  She said: you can choose to be bitter, or you can choose to be better. It was only then that I realized I had a choice as far as who I’d become, as a woman and a mother and a person in my own right.

  I decided I wouldn’t be bitter. I’d be better.

  “I think it’s kind of creepy,” Amy said when Meg called to tell her about the background check. “It’s like he’s trying too hard.”

  Meg had just left city hall. She’d made her way to the grass behind the library, found a shady spot, sat down and opened the envelope. The report was blessedly innocuous, with nothing to cause alarm. Beyond a reasonable mortgage balance, Ahmed had no debt. No arrests. Two speeding tickets. No lawsuits of any kind filed against him. But the fickle happiness she’d allowed herself crumbled at Amy’s words. It seemed to Meg that he’d been trying exactly the right amount. But then again, she wasn’t the best judge of men, as history had proven.

  Glumly, she stared at the short Guatemalan-looking man who carried an armful of rose bouquets and was systematically approaching everyone. No one was buying. Meg hated being solicited, especially when Henry was with her, which was nearly always, and she dreaded the man’s needy sales pitch. Besides, roses made her sneeze.

  “Creepy?” she said. “Trying too hard? You really think so?”

  “Background checks are meaningless,” Amy said. “Most child molesters are never caught.”

  “But the vast majority of people aren’t child molesters,” Meg said, even as she knew Amy was right. “And I just don’t think he is one.”

  “What makes you say that?” Amy said. “To an outside observer, he seems to be doing everything possible to get into Henry’s world. Running into you at the coffee shop—”

  “We ran into him,” Meg said. “He was there first. I already told you that.”

  The Guatemalan rose seller was working his way toward Meg. She pressed her hand against her purse and shifted her direction away from him.

  “Playing chess with Henry,” Amy continued. “Drawing out personal information from him like where he plays soccer and that you’re single . . .”

  “Henry’s the one to blame for all that,” Meg said. “In fact, Ahmed seemed uncomfortable with how much Henry was telling him. He sort of pulled back and didn’t engage with him until I said it was okay.”

  “And yet then he showed up at Henry’s soccer game, using that same information.” Amy was making everything sound so nefarious that Meg felt compelled to play devil’s advocate, even while her insides felt hacked up by the possibility that Amy might be right.

  “You sound like Mom,” Meg said. “Like a nicer version of Mom. Does there have to be something wrong with him?”

  “If you want me to sit here and say he sounds like the greatest guy in the world, fine,” Amy snapped. “Just tell me that’s what you want. I was under the impression you wanted my honest opinion.”

  “And I was under the impression you thought I should date him,” Meg said. “In fact, I clearly remember you telling me that in your kitchen a few days back. You wanted me to date him for you, because your own love life was so . . .”

  “Pathetic,” Amy said miserably. “I know. Don’t listen to me. I swear I’m not myself these days. I walk around feeling mad all the time, and then I feel bad for feeling mad.”

  “I’m telling you, hire a housecleaner,” Meg said. “I know I would if I could afford it, even though we’ve got only eight hundred square feet.” Amy’s poking had rekindled the fear Meg had been trying to smother. Now she wondered about Ahmed’s agenda. Maybe he was a master manipulator. But why? To what end?

  “I should,” Amy said. “But it feels wrong. I’m a stay-at-home mom! It’s my job to keep the house clean! I already get the impression that David thinks I sit around eating bonbons all day. Although, what is a bonbon, anyway? Have you ever actually eaten one?”

  “It’s your job to raise your daughters,” Meg said. “To read them stories and lie on the floor and play games with them, right? To linger with them. To live on their little-kid time. That’s what you don’t want to hire out for. The house? Let it go. Let someone else worry about it. Your house should be your refuge, your sanctuary. Not something you resent. I think bonbons are those fluffy things.”

  “Chocolates?”

  “I really don’t know,” Meg said. “I don’t even know if p
eople make them anymore, actually. Maybe they were just a fifties thing.”

  “I’m doing it,” Amy said resolutely. “I’m going to find a housecleaner before the week’s out. Someone who does laundry, too. I can at least have someone come in every other week—that I can justify. I’m sure that someone still makes bonbons.”

  “You don’t have to justify anything,” Meg said.

  “Neither do you,” Amy said. “If your gut’s telling you that Ahmed’s a good guy, then he is.”

  Meg stared at the background report. Ahmed wouldn’t have given it to her if he hadn’t known it would be clean. And sealing the envelope had been overkill. He was trying too hard. She folded up the report and shoved it back in its envelope.

  Meg sneezed. Without turning to see whether the rose-wielding man was near, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and put her head down. Hopefully, the guy could take a hint. Although probably not. Men seldom did.

  “Men are idiots,” she said. “They’re either criminals or idiots.”

  Amy groaned. “No, no! Don’t regress because of me! Just because I’m always mad at David these days doesn’t mean Ahmed’s not a great guy. You’ve been on such a nice upswing lately. I’m sure Ahmed’s on the up-and-up, and I’m sure the two of you will fall madly in love and go on to have oodles and oodles of happy babies like you always wanted. Oops, hey. I’ve got to run. Kelly just woke up from her nap and she’s calling. I don’t want Maggie to wake up if at all possible.”

  Startled, Meg straightened, cotton-brained all of a sudden. “Did I really?”

  “Really what?”

  “Want more kids.”

  “Oh my God, you don’t remember?” Amy said. “You had their names all picked out when you were, like, ten years old, and all the girls had flower names. Iris and Heather and Rose and that sort of thing. You couldn’t decide if you wanted four kids or six, but you for sure wanted an even number.”

  “So everyone would have someone and no one would be left out.” Meg remembered now. “How on earth did I forget that?”