The Other F-Word

by MK Schiller

  He followed. “That’s going to take some getting used to. You see, I’ve been thinking about Jessie for over a year now.”

  Those words sank in. He’d been thinking about me too? This was not good. He was too sweet and sexy and…just too much.

  I set down the books, straightened my skirt and squared my shoulders. “I’m sorry if I’ve misled you in any way, but the woman you danced with that night is not who I am.”

  “I think she is, but if she insists on hiding, then at least let me meet the woman in front of me. Why won’t you go out with me?”

  “I’m sure you’re used to getting your way—”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  I sighed in exasperation. “There is an age difference between us.”

  He smirked in response. “I hadn’t noticed, but now that you bring it up, I remember you told me you were a cougar. Looks like the ferocious cougar turned into a frightened kitty.”

  “It’s amazing how much courage liquids can buy. And let me tell you, I was pretty free spirited that night.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Alcohol is just a cheap, over the counter brand of truth serum. You were that way with me because you wanted to be.” He leaned in closer, bending so his mouth was hovering over my ear. “You know the cougar’s natural predator is a wolf, right?”

  I backed away until I felt the wooden shelves against my back. “I think you might need to check out some books about the animal kingdom because I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.”

  “We’ll see. I am used to getting my way. I really just want to have dinner with you. We can talk about the fundraiser.”

  “Are you insinuating that choosing the library for your charity is contingent upon us having a date?”

  He stared at me for a second, his eyes widening at my accusation. I flinched, prepared for his anger, but his voice came out steady and calm. “Of course not. One has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Then the answer is still no.”

  “All right. The library is the charity I’m going with. Now we don’t have that hanging over our heads.”

  “The answer is still no.”

  “I’m not asking you out anymore. Just listen.” He waited for me to respond so I nodded. “I want you to plan the party. Who better to plan it than the one person who convinced me of the service you do?”

  It was my turn to laugh. It was cynical, high-pitched and bitter as it escaped my lips. “I’m a librarian not a party planner, Mr Wolfe.”

  “It’s Damien, and didn’t you just finish telling me you can learn anything in the library from astronomy to quantum physics? I’m sure you have some texts about party planning here.”

  Damn…the man was making me eat my own words.

  “I can agree to those terms,” I said, crossing my arms so tightly I could feel my shirt stretch. What he offered would save us from becoming another empty structure without any more stories to tell. I wanted my grandchildren to experience the magic of this old brick building.

  “Excellent. So we’ll meet for lunch in three days.”

  What?

  He pulled out his wallet. I took another step back from him. He took out a business card and handed it to me. “I assume you lost my number, so here it is again. My private cell is on the back.”

  I flipped it, noticing he’d scrawled it in hand. It said—Jessie, don’t lose this one.

  Wow, cocky much?

  “I’m sure we can email each other, or you have an assistant I can report to. It seems highly unusual for such a busy man to be concerned with details.”

  “My business thrives because I care about the details. You’ll come to find out that I’m very hands-on.”

  I glanced at his large hands with their long fingers, remembering how they’d felt against my skin. The memory fuelled a teasing tingle through my body. I tried to recover by shifting my gaze to the floor.

  “You pick the restaurant and text me.”

  “Fine.” I crushed his card in my suddenly sweaty hand.

  “It’s a date then,” he said, walking out.

  “A business meeting,” I replied, but the door closed, trapping my words in the room with me. How did he do that? No wonder he usually got his way.

  Chapter Five

  I wore a black, pinstriped skirt just above the knees and an amethyst-coloured V-neck sweater—cute, but conservative. The black beret and silver charm bracelet with all my daughters’ birthstones made it funky and the matching purple boots pulled it together. I loved a good accessory. My outfit conveyed a perfect balance of fashionable, fun and feisty. Why was I dressing up for this? I didn’t know, except I didn’t want Damien Wolfe to associate me with words like frumpy.

  Even in this outfit, which I’d planned for three days now, I was nervous as a gaggle of geese flying next to an aircraft carrier. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to date him. I sure as hell did, but what would people say about us? I hadn’t dated in over a decade. Had the rules changed? What about sex? He would want it right away, and I wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t care to be a notch on what was sure to be a sizeable bed post. No…I had no intention of being a toy in Damien Wolfe’s sandbox. I stuffed the ridiculous thought away, waiting for him in the retro diner where Jackson Pollock prints shared the same walls with portraits of Dr Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi and John Lennon.

  It was ludicrous. A woman who’d had three children by three different men scared of sex? There was a time a man just had to cough on me and I’d turn up pregnant. That was a long time ago and I was a different person now. Marley’s father had been a horrible moment of weakness in my youth—he’d been a horrible human being in general. Stevie’s father was a one-night stand—we were never compatible. Then there was Billie’s father, Peter. The only man I’d ever loved. The only one I’d married. It wasn’t meant to be. A woman can forgive a great many things, but some she can’t forget. Still, every mistake and accident had given me a beautiful child just the same, and that I would never regret.

  “I’m surprised by your choice,” he said, slipping into the red art-deco chair across from me. He wore faded jeans today, and a simple black polo shirt. The man managed to look hot in anything.

  I wondered what he would look like in nothing. I used the menu to cover my face to hide my leering. “You’re late.”

  “I’m sorry about that. The traffic was horrible.”

  “It’s okay, except that this is my lunch hour, Mr Wolfe, so I’d appreciate a phone call next time.”

  “Would you like me to call Alan? I’m sure he’d understand.”

  Yes, he would. In fact, he’d told me to take as long as I wanted, and make sure Damien Wolfe was happy with my suggestions.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “This place is kind of beatnik.”

  “That term died out in the fifties.”

  “Okay, how about I describe it as a hippy joint?”

  “Sixties.”

  “Then I’d say bohemian.”

  “And I’d say seventies.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “What’s the right word for the eighties?”

  I swallowed. “Me. We didn’t have a term because there was so little to protest so all we did was indulge and have fun. Perhaps a little too much.”

  “Do you come here a lot?”

  “All the time.”

  “Then I take it you already know what’s on the menu,” he said, pulling it away from me. “I would like to look at you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a beautiful view.”

  I took a deep breath, hoping my face didn’t match the tomatoes on the menu. “You shouldn’t say things like that. A woman might get the wrong idea.”

  He shrugged. “I say what I feel. Life’s too short to hold back.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t matter though because he wasn’t expecting a reply.

  “Let’s stop trying to define things. This isn’t a history lesson. Just tell me why you picked t
his place. I’ve never even eaten at a vegan café.”

  “I’m a vegan. There are so few four-letter words that start with F that can satisfy me, I thought this was a good alternative. Do you mind?”

  He chuckled at my joke. For some inexplicable reason, it put me at ease. “No, I’m sure I can manage. Is that why you won’t date me? Are you just into vegans? Are you a Carna-phobe?”

  “You don’t give up.”

  “I wouldn’t be successful if I did.”

  “Actually, I don’t care. It’s just a personal choice I made a long time ago. My girls aren’t vegans either.”

  “You have kids?”

  Of course, he didn’t know I had kids. Despite how easy he was to converse with, we were strangers.

  “Yes, three girls and I’ve sort of adopted three boys too.”

  He quirked his eyebrows.

  “It was a symbolic adoption. They are part of my family.”

  “That’s a lot of kids. Are you trying to make your own basketball team or something?”

  I giggled. “Hardly.”

  “Are you trying to scare me away then?” Damien’s intuition frightened me, because I hadn’t even realised I was doing exactly that until he said it.

  “I’m just sharing my truth with you.”

  “I can respect that. And just so you know, I don’t scare easily. So tell me about them. What grades are they in? Do they play any sports in school?”

  I almost choked on my ice tea. “My kids are close to your age. I’m actually a grandmother.” The look of shock on his face was priceless.

  “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  No, but I’d like to and maybe a few other appendages. Damn…why did my thoughts run so naughty when he was near?

  “It’s no joke. So now you have to see why I can’t date you. I’d be playing the role of Mrs Robinson to your Dustin Hoffman. That’s one cliché I want to avoid.”

  He tilted his head, “Who the hell is Mrs Robinson?”

  I leaned in closer. “The fact that you don’t get my reference only supports my point.”

  The waitress interrupted us, asking for our order. I chose my usual Mediterranean veggie pasta, grateful I didn’t have to study the menu to figure out what I could eat like I did at most restaurants.

  “I’ll have the same,” he said. He waited for her to leave before turning back to me. “What is your point?”

  “You’re young enough to be my…” Son? It was true yet I couldn’t say it. “Younger brother,” I replied instead.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty-five, maybe?” I would have guessed older because my research revealed he was a self-made man, but his cocky smile, mussed hair and casual clothing made him appear much younger.

  “I’m thirty. How old are you?”

  Crap…he was young enough to be my…younger brother. “You shouldn’t ask a girl her age.”

  “I thought you were a woman, or at least that’s what you said the last time we talked. Besides, it’s such a hang up for you, we should get it out of the way.”

  My philosophy was that a woman shouldn’t lie about her age or her station in life. After all, if I wasn’t honest about myself, how could I expect others to accept me? “I’m forty-four,” I admitted.

  “You must have been young when you had your first.”

  “I was.”

  “That’s not such a huge gap. In any case, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It matters to me, Damien, so let’s drop it. Anyway, we need to talk about the party. That’s why we’re here, after all.”

  “I’m listening.”

  When he’d first talked to me about this I’d been hesitant, but the more I’d worked on it, the more excited I’d become. “What do you think of a theme? Everyone can dress up like their favourite character in a book?”

  “I like it.”

  “And we can make the invitations look like scrolls and we can have cupcakes with tiny books on them made of sugar.”

  “Sure, that all sounds good to me. You can contact Kelly Harris at the Wilston. She’ll take care of the menu. Whatever you want.”

  “That’s where my daughter got married. I’m familiar with it. It’s a beautiful hotel.”

  “And you caught the bouquet? Or rather, it was thrown in your face.” He seemed to remember every detail. Of course, he’d told me details were his thing.

  “Yes, well anyway, back to this,” I said, looking over my notes.

  “Why are you a vegan?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Or maybe you’re avoiding the question.”

  Our food came then. I dug right in, trying to avoid his penetrating stare. Those eyes were more gold now, like molten pools staring into my soul.

  “Are you going to answer?”

  “It’s a silly story.”

  “Those are my favourite kinds.”

  It was difficult not to match his grin, so I stopped trying. “When I was fourteen, my parents were kind of sick of me. They thought sending me away to my aunt and uncle’s rural farm in Nebraska would straighten me out.”

  “Why were they sick of you?”

  I shrugged. “They were strict parents and I was a rebellious child. A combination as old as time. My father was a Drill Sergeant.”

  Damien chuckled, as if I’d told a joke.

  “No, he literally was a Drill Sergeant in the Army. The traits that made him successful at work made my home life miserable. They weren’t horrible, and I know they loved me. They just didn’t like me very much. Anyway, the farm was lonely. There were no other kids so I made friends with the farm animals. Wow, this sounds weird—even to me.”

  “You’ll get no judgement from me. I was a pretty weird kid myself.”

  I smiled, feeling unreasonably comfortable with him. “There was this pig and I called him Piggy.”

  “Very creative,” he said dryly.

  “In my defence, I was fourteen. There was also a chicken and he followed me around all day. I called him Garfunkel.”

  “Wait a minute. So the pig is Piggy but the chicken is Garfunkel?”

  “Hey, you said no judgement.”

  “E-I-E-I-O. Sorry, go on. Don’t keep me in suspense.” His cell phone went off. Without hesitation, he pushed the ignore button. Such a small gesture and yet so big at the same time.

  “And a cow.”

  “What was the cow’s name?”

  “Sad Cow.”

  “Why sad?”

  “I thought it was because she couldn’t give milk anymore, but I think it had more to do with the way my uncle treated her. He was very cruel to Sad Cow.”

  “I think I know where this is going.”

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly a suspenseful story. I told these three farm animals all my hopes, dreams and fears. I talked to them for hours and I know it sounds ridiculous, but I believe they actually listened. Then one by one my friends started disappearing. Garfunkel was first and I was so stupid I ate the southern fried chicken not even realising I was eating my friend. Piggy was made into bacon the next week. Sad Cow was indeed the saddest. She was my last meal there. I couldn’t hold the food down anymore.”

  “What did you do?”

  I stared at him, wondering how crazy he thought I was right about now. “I went on a hunger strike.”

  He smirked. “Looks like you did have some things to protest after all.”

  “I guess so.”

  “How did that go over with the Drill Sergeant daddy?”

  “Not well. He thought I’d turned anorexic and hospitalized me.”

  He paused, fork in mid-air. “How much weight did you lose?”

  I swallowed. “I’m really stubborn sometimes. Too much for my own good. I weighed eighty pounds by the time I was done.”

  His eyes widened and the smile slid off his face. “Shit.”

  “Yes, well anyway, it didn’t change anything in the ways of the world, but ever since
then I’ve either been a vegetarian or a vegan, depending on how much I miss cheese at the time.”

  “You’re an interesting woman, Jessie.”

  I liked him calling me Jessie. It felt special that he had a nickname for me.

  “Eh, I was just a girl with convictions and a rebellious streak.”

  “Were your parents supportive about your choice?”

  “No, I had to move around the meat on my plate or hide it in my napkin. I started protesting silently, which is ironic, since it’s a contradiction in terms.”

  “I knew you were passive aggressive.”

  Did he realise that when I was around him, I became completely passive, possessed by him, yet desired to be actively aggressive?

  “I suppose in that instance I was. I made sure to eat plenty of side dishes so I wouldn’t lose weight like that again.”

  “That was smart.”

  “Okay, that’s way too much information about me. Tell me some truth, Damien. Why do you like Rodriguez so much?”

  “My family’s originally from Detroit…Warren, actually. We moved here when I was fifteen because the auto supply factory that employed my dad shut down and he couldn’t get work.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been back since then. I still have family there. I love Chicago and it’s my home now, but there’s something special about the place you grew up that can never be replaced. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes, it’s always a part of you.”

  “Right, anyway, my father saw Rodriguez in concert when he was a kid, at some dive bar in the city. He described that moment as being in the presence of greatness. I didn’t so much become a fan as I was born to it. Did your parents like him?”

  “No, they actually didn’t care for music like I did. Your father sounds interesting.”

  “He was. He died a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. My family misses him a great deal. I’m happy he got to see me become successful.”

  “I read up on you.” I realised how that sounded, so I straightened up real quick. “For party planning purposes. Your success is inspiring, coming from such humble roots. I know you’re a self-made man.”