I see Dean make his way back over as he says, “Catch ya later” into the phone.
I draw a tight, thin-lipped face. “Shut it,” I whisper hoarsely. I take a strong step back.
“Sorry about that,” Dean says, walking over. “Trying to get a study group set for this Bankruptcy and Creditors’ Rights course.”
“No problem,” I say with ease. I give Dean a sugary smile, then dart my eyes to Chad to signal that he can get back to mopping now.
He slowly resumes his mopping, still focusing on Dean and me.
“So, that date?” Dean says.
“I’ll call you,” I blurt out, and I hear a childish snort escape Chad.
Dean’s eyes begin to follow the snorting noise, but before they can fall on the guilty subject I stand up on my tiptoes, lean forward, and give Dean an abrupt kiss.
I’m about to pull back from the knee-jerk reaction move I’ve just made when Dean places one hand on my hip and, much to my surprise, deepens the kiss.
As the kiss breaks and Dean’s sparkling blue eyes lock onto mine all I can think is, Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into.
“You call when you’ve got time,” Dean says with a wide grin.
I’m at a loss for words and can only stumble out a pathetic, “Uh-huh.”
Once Dean leaves, as I wave loosely goodbye to him from the other side of the glass door, watching him get into his car and drive off, my stomach finally begins to feel the effects of the two mojitos. Unfortunately, it’s not of the liquid courage kind, but something akin to a hangover. Skipping right past the drunk-and-praying-to-the-porcelain-gods stage, I feel nauseated. It’s like it’s the day after a night of partying at Vogue or tapping out happy hour at House 206.
I finish locking the door, my fingers lingering a while, still gripping the keys.
Chad lets out a snort similar to the one earlier.
“What?” I practically spit as I stare out at the space where Dean’s car was only a second ago.
“Whatever, Sophie,” he grumbles. “I don’t get you.”
I shake my head softly at my totally lame reaction to Chad’s nitpicking, to Dean’s pressure, to the unpleasant situation. What have I done? What kind of signal was that to go and kiss him?
I step back from the door and tell myself that I’ll deal with the mess I’ve created tomorrow. I retrieve my handbag and pad hurriedly across the floor. Right now I’m tired and need to get my stuff and go home.
“Careful,” Chad says right as I feel my rubbery soles of my flats wobble and slide around the wet floor.
I catch my footing—though only nearly—by gripping a nearby chair just as Chad rushes over to help me.
“Careful,” he sighs, his hands pressed deeply into my sides.
“I’m fine,” I say, wiggling free from his slightly ticklish grip. My shoes make a loud squeaking sound as I find my footing.
“Be careful, Sophie.” He motions to the floor. “I’m kind of mopping here.”
I hike up my handbag and flip my long hair over my shoulder, feeling flustered and tired, when Chad says, “You okay? Did you twist your ankle or anything?” He gestures to my feet.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice brash. “Thank you, I’m fine.”
“Jeez, woman. Chill out.”
I’m about to take a cautious step towards the kitchen when I look over my shoulder at Chad.
“Wait a minute,” I blurt out. “Why are you even here? And why are you mopping?” I’m wearing a scowl, but not because I’m really upset that Chad’s mopping or that I nearly took a nose-dive. I’ve got Dean to deal with. I so did not have this disastrous event marked down in my planner.
“Didn’t know helping was considered a dick move,” Chad says snidely as he roughly jams the mop into the bucket. “I’m here to pick up Evelyn and thought I’d help out. Is that a crime?” His voice is raised a hair in frustration.
“Yeah, yeah,” I breathe, gingerly moving across the floor. “And,” I say, hot with indignation, “for your information, I didn’t say it was a dick move.”
“Your face sure shows it. Your mood, your attitude, your—” he leans forward and lowers his voice, “body language.”
“Well maybe I’m just pissed that you’re eavesdropping on my date.”
“It seemed to end well enough.” He flips his hair back and smiles in a simpering way.
“Oh, whatever.”
“Whatever that kiss was about, he’s not right for you, Sophie.”
Chad’s words stop me in my tracks.
“Not right for me? Enlighten me, Chad. Why is Dean not right for me?”
Who am I kidding? With the vibes I’m giving when I’m around Dean (minus the whole last-minute kiss thing) it’s evident to everyone but Dean that he’s not right for me. But still, what business is it of Chad’s?
“I don’t know,” he answers as he pushes the mop about. “He’s just not right for you. That’s all.”
“Just not right for me?” I plant a hand firmly on my hip. “That’s all?”
“Yeah.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug.
“Whatever,” I grumble. “Just mind your own business, please.”
“Trying.”
I shake my head brusquely, squinting my eyes in confusion. “Why are you here all the time? Picking Evelyn up? Does she not have a car of her own?”
He laughs under his breath and says, “You’d think miss go-green, Prius-driving Sophie would be a carpooling kind of woman. Besides, I had some extra time to come and help out, was finished painting over at the loft…”
“Yeah,” I snicker, pointing to his truck outside. “That gas-guzzler? Really go-green, Chad.”
“Look,” he says, mopping near the front door now. “Evelyn’s just about finished back there, and when I’m done mopping I’ll be out of your hair, okay?”
“Thank you.”
“Then you can backpedal your way out of that totally awkward kiss,” he says snidely.
“God!” I grouse loudly, loathing Chad as I gather my belongings and assist Evelyn and Oliver with cleaning up the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“It’s been weeks since you sent those papers, Robin!” I exclaim.
“I know.” Robin raises her arms high above her head and slowly bends forward, her fingers struggling to touch the tips of her prone feet. She exhales deeply, unable to make the stretch completely, so instead inhales and rolls upright, shoulders pulled back, back straight. “Total BS, I know.”
I bring myself to all fours and take a peek at my reflection in the large, full-walled mirror in the yoga studio. I make a small adjustment to my posture so that I’m in correct tabletop position. I straighten my neck and say to Robin before a lengthy inhale, “Is there a way you can apply the pressure? Get him to move faster?” As I inhale I arch my back into a cat’s pose.
“If I do that,” Robin says, “I know I’d risk getting him to disagree to the whole adoption. I don’t want to force it and lose what hope for an adoption I have.”
She attempts her stretch again as I exhale and stretch my back, head tipping backwards. She misses her toes once more and lets out a guttural sigh. “Bobby insists that patience is the key.” She huffs. “Slow and steady patience.”
“Shhh,” a mousy-brown teenager at the rear of the class hisses. “Private stretch doesn’t mean private conversation.”
I come out of my arched pose and look at Robin. I roll my eyes and whisper, “I guess Bobby’s right. Just be patient and wait.”
If I were Robin, though, I don’t know how I’d handle sitting on pins and needles, waiting for one man—one lowlife scum of a man—to call the shots in my life. I’d probably be phoning or sending streams of heated texts and emails to Brandon, demanding that the adoption is to happen now or never…and that never isn’t an option.
“He does have the papers, though?” I ask after another deep stretch and exhalation. “You know that much?”
Robin readjusts her shoulder
s, back, and neck. She closes her eyes, inhales, and nods.
“He just hasn’t signed them and sent them over?” I prepare for a relaxed child’s pose, and Robin nods again.
“Bullshit,” I breathe out, although a little too loudly, because the sixty-something regular next to the mousy-brown girl hisses out a warning sound.
Normally I’m very focused during yoga. It’s all about deep breathing and stretching, letting go of the stress of the day and weight of the world, letting yourself fall into a controlled and releasing trance—getting the chakras right. But when Brandon’s up for discussion, and more so Rose and Robin’s welfare and the progress of the adoption, it’s goodbye controlled and releasing trance and hello weighty world.
“It’ll work out,” Robin says with determination. “I keep telling myself it will.” She raises her hands above her head. “It will, it’s just so darn hard to believe it sometimes.”
She inhales loudly and deeply and attempts the long stretch once more. This time her fingers grip her prone toes, and as I hear her heady and exhaustive exhale it’s obvious how scared she is about the adoption, about having to deal with Brandon, and about having to put her family and herself through such a trying situation.
“You’re right, Robin,” I encourage as I go in for my last child’s pose, this time stretching my arms behind my back for a deeper stretch. “Patient and positive. It will all work out.”
***
“You have got to be kidding me, Sophie,” Emily says as she dips a teaspoon into the large bowl of bourbon vanilla cupcake batter.
“She’s serious,” Oliver says in a flurry as he carries a hot tray of pains au chocolat from the oven.
The new ovens Jackie hooked me up with are a dream. They seem to make everything bake that much more evenly, make everything taste that much better. I told Oliver this yesterday and he tittered, tossing back his chef-hat-topped head, saying, “Or it’s the fabulous French pastry chef you hired.” Point taken.
“I don’t know how to get out of it,” I say to Emily in a self-defensive tone.
“Uh.” She gives me a pointed glance. “How about this? Thank you for the offer, Dean, but I’m just not interested.”
She licks her lips, then says as an aside, “By the way, the bourbon in the vanilla batter kicks total ass.”
I plunk myself down onto one of the barstools at the busy island table. “I don’t want to hurt Dean’s feelings, Emily,” I say sullenly. “He’s a nice guy, and I don’t want him to think it’s him.”
“Except that it is,” she says matter-of-factly through a tiny giggle.
“Not really. It’s just…us. We’re not a fit.”
“Then tell him that.” She temporarily abandons the cupcake batter and pulls up a seat next to me.
Emily’s been a great help this past week, and not just as an extra set of hands at the café. It’s like the old days when she used to work here—getting to talk, having her fill the room with cheer…and the occasional piece of sage advice. I’m sorely going to miss her when she leaves for Australia the day after tomorrow.
“How?” I ask, sounding helpless, like a five-year-old girl who’s lost her cat in the neighbor’s tree.
This is rather absurd, because I’ve solicited everyone’s advice on what I should do with Dean when, always craving control, I should be able to take the bull by the horns and figure it out for myself. When it comes to relationships, though, I’m evidently more of a plebeian foot soldier than a commanding Napoleon.
“How do I do it?” I plead.
“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” Oliver interjects without so much as a smile.
I can’t tell if he’s serious or cracking a joke. His French directness, yet his tendency to make light of issues through giggles and jokes (which he attributes to his gayness) makes it difficult for me to know what he’s actually feeling or saying or intending half the time.
“Rip off the Band-Aid?” I say in an intrigued tone as I watch Oliver delicately handle the warm pains au chocolat. He sets them onto a vintage, sea-foam cake stand Em got me for Christmas this year from an antique market when she was back home in Boston.
“Oui, oui,” Oliver says, accent heavy. “Expose the truth.”
“Okay…”
“You rip off the Band-Aid!” he asserts himself. “Expose the truth quickly and painlessly. Just get to it. The sooner the better.”
“He’s right,” Emily says with pursed lips. She rubs at the gold stud in her nostril. “Not so sure about the whole Band-Aid analogy being entirely painless, but the meat of his advice is right. Just get it over with.”
I ask Emily what she thinks about this whole taking-a-chance thing. What happened to the pressure to do something proactive about my love life? Where did this prudent advice to crawl out from under my dateless shell and get myself some action go? Where’s the whole “find some love and find that special man” encouragement?
“I know,” Emily says in a whining way. “I totally think you need to take a chance and be more open.”
“And?” I look from Emily to Oliver then back to Emily, dumbfounded.
“If not Dean, then someone else,” Emily says at last. She takes a fresh teaspoon and reaches over for another taste test. “Look at me with all those guys I blind-dated.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not getting set up on blind dates or being privy to some dating game, Em.”
“And I’m not suggesting you do.” She licks the back of the spoon. “I’m just suggesting that, like me, you be open to dating, period. And don’t stop at dating one guy who’s obviously not working out. Not everyone hits it out of the park on the first try.”
“Is that very true!” Oliver gasps.
“You’ll have to push past a few of those bad apples,” Emily waxes on, “and the apples that are good, too, even. They’re good, but just not a match for you, you know?” I nod. Is that very true! “And eventually,” she continues, “you’ll find that ripe and tasty one.” She winks.
“Great idea,” Oliver says, face as expressionless as it was when he mentioned the Band-Aid option.
“Seriously?” I ask Oliver.
“Oui!” He says this like it’s the most obvious thing ever.
I look at Emily, and she just nods her head.
“Well…” I push back my bangs and pan the kitchen.
I’m about to argue how I’ve done the whole “bad apple” thing time and again, but it’d be an exercise in futility. Emily’s not one to hear me rag on and on about how life seems unfair. I’d no doubt get an earful about how “we make our own luck” or “fate will work out” or “don’t dwell on the past and the negative; look forward and be positive.” All of which are absolutely, positively spot on.
Rather, I say, “You know, it’s not like I have a line of men waiting to date me.”
I pause and look at Emily, waiting for her to insert her opinion. She’s only staring on, waiting for me to proceed.
“So this whole finding-your-apple thing,” I say, “it doesn’t seem very feasible, at least not when it comes to instant gratification.”
“Ha!” Emily laughs out. “Instant gratification? Words that should never enter into one’s vocabulary. Moving on. And?” She looks at me with a goofy half-grin.
“But I suppose…” I drag out, scrambling for a string of logic. “Like Dean…yeah! Like Dean, I suppose, the men creep up somehow.” I shrug, flashing back briefly to the talk of patience I had last time I saw Robin. “Eventually another guy will pop onto the scene.”
“And he will,” Emily says with confidence.
“Then I can have a go at that apple!”
She knocks on the table as if ringing a bell to announce that I’ve successful answered the question and won the prize behind door number one.
I furrow my brow and say, “I guess I’ve got to be honest with Dean.”
“Please.”
“First things first,” I toss up a hand, “if I’m going to open myself to dating others, I’v
e got to deal with Dean. I’ll come right out and tell him I’m not interested.”
“Be nice, PC,” Emily adds, “but honest.”
“Psh.” I leap from the seat, though without much spunk to my step. “I don’t care what they say—there’s no nice or PC way to tell someone you’re not interested in dating them.” I pick up the full stand of pains au chocolat as soon as Oliver removes a few stray flaky crumbs. “Nor is there any nice or gentle way to rip off a Band-Aid.”
***
I considered giving Claire a call, a nice deviation from having to ring Dean, but I knew that once I called her she’d just ask if I’d broken it off with Dean yet or planned the next date. There was no way around it. The Band-Aid needed to come off before I could go rooting through the apple bin—that minimally full apple bin with nothing but baggage waiting to load me down.
I’ve tried to reason with myself, with the situation, thinking that perhaps the reason I’m not in love and in a committed relationship is because I’m not ready for one. Yes, that’s probably the best and most logical answer for why I’m Single Sophie. It’s just not my time.
Emily’s always saying we’ve all got our own life’s paths and we have our own adventures in fate’s hands. We can’t rush, we can’t make demands, we can’t force things. We have to be proactive and receptive, but we can’t expect all things to go according to plan.
Easy for her to say; she’s all windswept and fancy-free, ready to see where the wind blows her. I, on the other hand, feel naked without my iCalendar, empty without the week’s menu planned, lost without Plans B and C at the ready. Okay, I’ve been blindsided in the past no matter how prepared I thought I was, and crap inevitably happens, but when you put your mind to it you can find a way out (hence Plans B, C, maybe even D and E).
No amount of reasoning, though, can help me out of whatever wrought circumstance it is I have with Dean. So eventually I, finger temptingly poised over Claire’s speed dial number, give in and call up Dean. His tone when he answers is so peppy my heart aches a bit when I realize how incontrovertibly his tone will change by the end of the call, if not within the next thirty seconds.
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 25
