First Crush

by Linda Seed

  If he thought getting to know Bianca wasn’t worth the fight with his ex, could she really blame him? In her work, she’d seen what happened to kids when their parents went through an acrimonious split. How many times had she been told not to give any information to the noncustodial parent? How many times had she been asked to call the police if the other parent so much as showed his or her face?

  And that didn’t even include the more routine situations: the arguments in the waiting room; the difficulties scheduling appointments around shifting visitation schedules; the disputes over what course of treatment the various parties wanted Bianca to pursue for their children.

  If Bianca were in that situation, she would want to do whatever she could to shield her child from the negative effects. If that meant walking away from a relationship in its fragile early days, wouldn’t she do it? Wouldn’t she at least consider it?

  When she added in the fact that he’d downplayed what was going on between them—practically dismissing it when he’d talked to Penny—well, that didn’t make Bianca optimistic about her future with TJ.

  She didn’t call, and she didn’t text. Her pride prevented it, as well as her sensitivity to all TJ had going on with Owen.

  But that didn’t mean she’d stopped thinking—or brooding.

  The brooding hadn’t escaped her sisters’ notice, and they were starting to get annoyed.

  “For God’s sake, just call him,” Benny said.

  The four of them were sitting around a table at a restaurant in San Luis Obispo, where Benny had insisted they go a week later on Saturday night to get Bianca out of the house—somewhere other than work. Sofia had left Patrick at home watching a movie with his friend Ramon, and everyone but Bianca was in a festive mood. Cocktails had been ordered, and most of them—except for Martina, in her Birkenstocks—had hauled out their cute shoes for the occasion.

  The restaurant, a trendy Japanese fusion place downtown, was packed with locals, college students, and tourists, and Benny had to raise her voice to be heard over the din.

  “I mean, seriously,” Benny went on. “You’re adults. Just talk to the man.”

  “No.” Bianca was slumped in her seat, staring at the brightly colored drink in front of her. “He’s got a lot going on. Plus, he said it was nothing. So, what would I even talk to him about, if this whole thing is just … nothing?”

  Sofia rolled her eyes. “You know he just said that to placate Penny. He’d have said anything to calm her down.”

  “Yeah, well … what he said was that this thing between us is insignificant. And he’s right. We haven’t slept together. We’ve only seen each other twice. We’ve barely kissed.”

  “Then why have you been moping for the past week?” Martina asked. “It wasn’t nothing to you, or you wouldn’t look so … so sad.”

  “She looks exactly the way she did in high school after TJ started dating Penny,” Benny told Martina. “She’s got that same miserable expression. Except then, she used to lock herself in her room for hours on end, crying.”

  “I’m not moping, and I’m not miserable,” Bianca protested. She took a long drink of her fruity cocktail to demonstrate her willingness to have fun—or at least to get a little drunk. Now that she considered it, plunging into an alcoholic haze seemed like a viable plan.

  “Speaking of miserable,” Sofia put in, “I’m supposed to FaceTime Patrick’s mother tomorrow to talk about the wedding.”

  “I thought you liked Patrick’s mom,” Martina said.

  “I do,” Sofia said. “I really do. It’s just … She doesn’t get the thing about us having the wedding Mom planned. Or, she says she does, but she still keeps suggesting changes. Why can’t we just tweak this? Or modify that?” Sofia slumped into her seat. “She wants to put her mark on the wedding, which I get. But I want it to be the way Mom imagined it. I know she imagined it for you, Bianca, not me, but …”

  Bianca, who was sitting next to Sofia, reached out and took her sister’s hand. “She’d be thrilled that you’re using her plan. No matter who she made it for.”

  Sofia swallowed hard. “I just don’t want Patrick’s mom changing everything. But then I feel bad about that, because of course she wants to contribute. Of course she wants to be a part of it. He’s her son.”

  “Well,” Martina said, “traditionally, the mother of the bride plans the wedding and the mother of the groom plans the rehearsal dinner. So, that’s something she can do that won’t cut into Mom’s plan.”

  “We weren’t going to have a rehearsal dinner,” Sofia said.

  “Oh, you have to,” Benny said. “Martina’s right. It’s the only thing the mother of the groom gets to do. You can’t take it away from her. It’s your ticket out of mother-in-law jail.”

  Thinking about weddings made Bianca think about TJ’s wedding to Penny—which made her jealous as hell. That wasn’t fair, but there it was.

  Benny was looking at her, noticing the incoming storm in Bianca’s expression. “You know, you should flirt,” she said. “After this, we should go to Ted’s or someplace, and you should flirt with some guys who aren’t TJ. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “I don’t want to flirt,” Bianca said.

  “Shocker,” Sofia said dryly. “But you have to loosen up sometime. You can’t be super-controlling, super-together Bianca all the time.”

  Was that really how they saw her? Because Bianca didn’t feel super together. And most of the time, her efforts to control the things in her life fell disastrously flat. The idea that her sisters viewed her that way—and saw it as something to criticize her for—made her want to show them how wrong they were.

  “Okay, I’ll flirt,” she said. “But not at Ted’s. That place is a craphole.”

  They settled on a trendy club on Higuera Street in San Luis Obispo, a place with exposed brick and heavy wood beams, somewhere that attracted the vegan, hemp-wearing crowd as well as students and tourists.

  The four of them found a table near a back corner of the room, far enough away from the speaker system that they could hear each other talk, but close enough to the action that Sofia, Benny, and Martina could peruse the flirting potential for Bianca.

  Bianca was going to order a club soda—she’d had a strong drink at the restaurant—but the others urged her to try the cocktail that was on special that night, something called a SLO-tini that was made with gin, pineapple juice, and a variety of other ingredients whose flavors and purposes were a mystery to Bianca.

  Martina, the most health-conscious among them and, therefore, the least likely to enjoy a SLO-tini, had stopped after a single drink more than an hour ago and had agreed to drive everyone home, so there was no reason Bianca couldn’t indulge.

  “All right. Give me one of those SLO-tini things,” Bianca told the waitress.

  The club was dim and the crowd was lively. The noise level was loud enough to be festive but not so loud as to be deafening. Bianca tried to get into the spirit of things, but she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about TJ.

  “This is dumb,” she told her sisters. “So what if I’m thinking about TJ? So what? Why does that mean I have to”—she gestured vaguely toward the crowd—“act stupid and rub my boobs against strange men?”

  “Who said anything about rubbing your boobs against people?” Benny wanted to know. “I said you should flirt. Boob-rubbing is a whole other level.”

  “And I don’t think acting stupid is required,” Martina observed.

  “Look,” Sofia put in. “We’re just saying you should have some fun, think about other things for a while. That’s all. But, jeez, you’re really hung up on TJ, aren’t you?” She rubbed Bianca’s arm in sympathy.

  That was what did it. Bianca couldn’t have her sisters thinking she was heartbroken again, the way she’d been in high school. She didn’t want to seem pathetic now, the way she had then. If flirting with other men was what it was going to take to convince her sisters she wasn’t pining over TJ, then flirting would happe
n.

  The waitress brought the drinks, and Bianca took a fortifying gulp of her SLO-tini, which was stronger than she’d anticipated. She gasped a little as she put down the drink.

  “No,” she said. “I am not hung up on TJ. And I’m not sad about Peter. I’m not … anything. I’m just here, trying to have a good time with my sisters. Is that so damned wrong?” She was aware that she sounded slightly hysterical.

  “Um … no. It’s not wrong,” Martina said. “But maybe slow down on the SLO-tini.”

  Bianca took another slug of her drink just to be defiant, then got up from her seat and went into the crowd to find someone to flirt with.

  It didn’t take long.

  If Bianca had stayed at her table, men would have come to them. She knew this from experience. But the men in question would have gravitated straight toward Sofia—she knew that from experience, too.

  Sofia had the kind of ostentatious good looks that got men in trouble with their girlfriends when they saw her and couldn’t help doing a double-take. Next to her, Bianca looked like somebody’s mild-mannered English teacher.

  Away from Sofia, Bianca thought she’d do pretty well—or maybe not. She reassessed what she’d worn that night and thought the English teacher thing wasn’t far off. White shirt buttoned almost to the throat, cardigan sweater, jeans and boots, hair in a loose bun.

  She went back to the table and looked at her sisters helplessly. “Why didn’t anyone tell me I look like a librarian?”

  “You look like a nice librarian,” Benny said helpfully. “The kind who always helps people find obscure facts. Or used to, before the Internet.”

  “Lose the cardigan, and unbutton that top a little,” Sofia instructed her. “And for God’s sake, let your hair down. Nothing says librarian like a bun.”

  Feeling stupid, Bianca nonetheless did as she was told.

  “Here, take these.” Martina slipped a line of gold bangle bracelets off her wrist and handed them to Bianca, who put them on.

  “And this.” Sofia handed her a tube of lipstick in a raspberry color that complemented Sofia’s coloring beautifully—so it likely would do the same for Bianca’s. She put it on using the camera function on her phone.

  “There. How do I look?”

  Benny appraised her. “Hmm. Now you’re a hot librarian.”

  Bianca moved out into the room scouting for interesting prospects. The crowd here was different from the usual ones in Cambria: younger and more hip, with a good sprinkling of students from the college.

  The youth of the crowd in comparison to Bianca’s comparative maturity discouraged her at first, until she saw a likely candidate standing at the bar. He had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face, but from the rear, things looked promising. Good quality clothing, nice haircut, a body that looked trim and fit. And something about the way he held himself said he was at least in his thirties, maybe forties. She gave herself a mental pep talk and moved in.

  She slid onto the barstool next to the guy and turned to him to say, “Is this seat taken?” But she only got as far as “Is this seat” before he turned to look at her, and she froze.

  “Bianca?”

  “Peter.”

  Was there any graceful way to back away? Probably not. The only polite thing to do was engage in a minimal amount of small talk before excusing herself.

  “How are you?” she tried.

  Peter scowled. “I suppose you’re here with Owen Davenport’s father. So, where is he?”

  “I’m not, actually. I’m here with my sisters.”

  “Terrific. I picked the wrong place to come for a drink. I suppose the four of you talk about what an uptight pain in the ass I am. Don’t deny it—I know you do. And, hell, maybe I am.” His shoulders fell, and he stared into his drink. Now that she thought of it, she was surprised to see him holding a highball glass with a finger of amber liquid inside it—usually he drank nothing harder than wine.

  “Peter? Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

  Bianca felt a twinge of guilt, knowing she’d hurt Peter. At the time of their breakup, she’d figured he would be fine. It wasn’t that she thought he was insensitive to pain—of course he wasn’t—but he’d always approached their relationship with such matter-of-fact pragmatism that it had never occurred to her that he was emotionally invested.

  Now, she knew she’d miscalculated.

  “Peter, about us. I never meant to—”

  “What do you mean, ‘us’? There is no us. Not anymore.” He took a healthy slug of his drink, then winced as it went down.

  “I know you’re upset about me ending things,” she said. “But drinking isn’t going to solve anything.”

  His eyebrows rose. “What, this?” He held up his drink. “You think I’m drinking to forget about you?” He shook his head. “No. I’ve had a crappy day, that’s all. Got some tests back from the lab and had to tell a father that his son is dying. Puts a bad relationship into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  Bianca suddenly felt ice cold, and a hard knot of dread gathered in her stomach. “Oh, God. Not Owen Davenport? Please tell me he—”

  “No.” He shook his head again. “Not Owen Davenport. In fact, your boyfriend’s kid is going to be okay.”

  She blinked a few times. “What?”

  He shot her a look. “No harm in telling you, since you’re his primary care physician. We’re going to send the results to your office on Monday anyway. The kid has Wilson’s disease.”

  “Wilson’s disease?”

  “Yeah. The grandmother, too, I imagine. The liver damage in the boy isn’t too extensive—we’ll probably be able to reverse it with dietary changes and the right meds.” He shrugged. “He’ll have to keep on top of it, but … it could have been a lot worse.”

  “Oh, Peter. That’s wonderful. Does TJ know?”

  “Not yet. I left a message on his phone saying I had the results, but he hadn’t called back by close of business. I’ll tell him on Monday.”

  “It can’t wait until Monday. He’s terrified. So is Owen. I can tell him for you.”

  Peter waved a hand. “Be my guest.”

  Not only was Owen going to escape the painful fate his grandmother was suffering, it was likely that the news could help Penny’s mother, as well.

  Bianca was so relieved, so giddy with happiness, that she impulsively reached out and threw her arms around Peter. At first, he didn’t return the hug. Then, tentatively, he patted her back in a little tap-tap-tap rhythm.

  “Oh, God, Peter. Thank you.” She pulled back from him, her eyes shimmering with tears.

  “Yeah, well.” She could see that he was trying to suppress a smile, but it leaked out anyway.

  “You care about this guy. This Davenport guy,” Peter said.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Suddenly, something seemed to occur to him. “Then what’s with the ‘Is this seat taken’ business? You were going to hit on me before you realized I was me.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “That’s crap. Yes, you were.” He waited expectantly for an answer.

  What could she say? How could she explain that she was hurt by TJ’s denial that she meant anything to him? That she was insecure about what—if any—future they might have? How could she tell him that she had needed to reassure herself that she could move on if she needed to? That she’d needed a distraction so she wouldn’t hear in her head, over and over, TJ telling his ex that she and he were nothing?

  Peter was the last person who would want to hear anything about her man troubles—and it would be unfair tell him, in any event.

  She put a hand on his forearm. “I just came over to say hello. Thank you for telling me about Owen.” She gave the arm a light squeeze and then went back to her sisters.

  19

  Bianca went to her table, grabbed her cell phone from her purse, told her sisters she’d be right back, and went outside to call TJ. Looking at
the screen, she saw that he’d tried to call her four times in the last half hour. When she hadn’t answered, he’d texted her, saying the biopsy results were in but that he hadn’t been able to reach Dr. DeVries before he’d left for the day. Could she call him and find out what was or was not wrong with Owen?

  She tried calling TJ, but it went straight to voice mail. She tried texting, but her iPhone indicated the message had not been delivered. Was his phone’s battery dead? Surely he hadn’t turned it off, given the fact he was waiting to hear from her.

  She headed back into the bar and to the table where her sisters were sitting, and said, “I have to go.”

  “What? Where?” Sofia asked.

  “I have to talk to TJ. I just saw Peter, and I have Owen’s diagnosis, and I tried to call, but he’s not answering, so I’m just going to go over there. I know we just got here, and you have your drinks, and … you looked like you were having fun. You can stay. I’ll just … get an Uber or something.”

  She was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She was so happy to be able to deliver good news—or, comparatively good, at least—her mind was racing and she was having a hard time keeping up with it.

  “Oh, jeez. Is he going to be okay?” Martina asked. Then, holding up a hand: “Wait, I take that back. I know you can’t tell me. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. Forget I asked.”

  “He is,” Benny said. “I can see it on her face. All right. Somebody grab the waitress so we can pay the check and get out of here.”

  “Really, you don’t need to—”

  “You’re not taking an Uber. Don’t be stupid. There are only about three in this whole area. You’ll be waiting an hour.” Benny finished what was left of the drink in her glass. “Let’s hit it.”

  “You don’t mind?” Bianca looked at the three of them, who were gathering up their coats and purses.