Yvonne leaned in to receive a kiss on the cheek and slid into a cushioned seat.
Quincy was very handsome and not at all what Caroline expected. Somehow, she’d imagined a stumpy, balding man like George Costanza on Seinfeld, but Quincy was nothing close to that barrel-chested, bespectacled character. Not nearly quite as tall as William, maybe six feet, Quincy was lean, fit, his smile mischievous.
‘Ah, the new neighbor Care-o-line,’ Quincy moved to meet her, his hand extended. ‘I finally get to meet John Reginaldi’s niece. Our boy Murph here was pretty worried when your uncle moved out. He thought he was going to get some bat-faced, toothless hag with cats. How’s your uncle doing these days anyway?’ His long fingers closed around hers.
Fine, she’d done fine in the preliminary round with Erika, but here it was. The big test: the dreaded introductory small talk and evaluation.
Evaluation? Why had she thought of that word?
Caroline wanted to be careful, to keep the ground she’d gained since coming back to the city, leave that lack of confidence behind her and embrace the self-reliance she’d finally found again. She’d had moments of screaming doubt—like half an hour ago—but those moments were waning, and she’d made a friend. All right, so William had been easy. He’d made it easy, accepting her as she was. The point was, she’d made one friend, and had been handed this opportunity to make more, but first impressions counted. Clothes made the man, and so did manners.
In a position where she was dressing people, being professional and knowledgeable, she exuded confidence. In social situations with more than two people, she was still out of her element. She wanted to try to be less of an introvert. She wanted to tell Quincy she thought he’d look like Costanza instead of Paul Newman with brown eyes. She wanted to thank him for the sailing invitation. Only trying to be the extrovert she’d never been seemed to turn her into an hourglass and social acumen drained away.
Despite the awkwardness and anxiety, she tried to grab life by the balls—and whatever grains of sociability she could—took a breath, and glued a smile into place. She shook Quincy’s hand. Hot all over, she looked from Quincy to Erika and Yvonne, then to Will, and back to Quincy, trying hard to be social, to be friendly, normal. ‘It’s nice to meet you and Erika. Thank you for the sailing invitation. My uncle is well. I didn’t realize you knew him. He says the weather has been perfect for his game. Not warm enough during the afternoon to break a sweat and not so cold in the morning that the greens and fairways are frosty.’
The weather. Great. She’d talked about the weather, but at least she’d talked, at least she’d engaged, at least she’d reached for the damn balls.
Quincy ignored her lack of verbal grace and patted her shoulder. ‘I’ve golfed with Reg a few times and he’s given me lots of tips on my swing, whether I wanted them or not, but he’s the professional and I have to admit it has helped me improve my game. I’m glad you’re all finally here. I’m ravenous, so I went ahead and ordered something to nibble. I hope everyone likes hummus!’
Caroline sat beside William. The evening progressed through the hummus and breads. With her repertoire of small talk depleted, the easiest thing to do was listen and watch. She listened and smiled along in amusement as Yvonne dramatized the hassle of losing her baggage on one leg of her Alaskan excursion. She watched as they ordered their main meals and began taking bets on how long the couple at the next table had been dating. She listened and smiled and laughed when it was appropriate, and began to loosen into something that resembled relaxed—or not exactly tense. By the time dinner arrived, Will’s old friends were well into reminiscing about their own early dating experiences, comparing what they recalled about their first kiss.
Quincy passed around a platter of delicately spiced food to share. ‘The best first kiss story doesn’t have to chip in for dinner!’
‘Who made you the judge?’ Yvonne asked, eyebrows arched.
‘Yes, Quinny, why should you be the judge?’
‘I’m not the judge, I simply offer the prize.’
Will rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. ‘May I suggest that all five of us sit in judgment after we’ve heard all the sordid stories?’
Judge and judgment. Caroline hated those words.
‘Shall we go clockwise and start with Erika?’ Will glanced around at the faces at the table and found everyone in agreement to his proposal.
This competitive storytelling was straight out of the movie Notting Hill, where the prize had been a brownie instead of a free meal, but Caroline said nothing. She simply listened.
Erika began to tell her tale. ‘When I wass fourteen, there wass thiss older boy at school all the girlss had a crush shon. One day in the schoolyard, on a dare, he came over and kissed me. I thought I died and went to heaven. Thoss girlss were so jealous!’
‘Mine’s not nearly as sweet.’ Quincy wiped his mouth and took a deep breath. ‘Well, wait a second, are we talking proper first kiss or the first girl I ever kissed? Whatever. We were playing spin the bottle at a party and there I was, all acned-up with Brylcream in my hair at the tender age of fourteen, and Sally Kellerman—no Murph,’ he shook his head, ‘not the husky-voiced Sally Hot Lips from M*A*S*H Kellerman, but the Sally with the really big …’ he gestured, hands spread, ‘blue eyes and father who owned the largest dairy on the east coast Kellerman—well, she spun that bottle and it pointed to me, and let me tell you I’d seen enough Gable and Bogart to know what to do. So I grabbed her and planted one … a little too enthusiastically because we fell over. I mean down we went with her dress flying up and my hands flailing all over her and the next thing I know I’m getting clobbered by her older brother who thought I was being too friendly.’
Once Quincy had stopped laughing at his own story, he looked to his left, brows arched in an expression that said, ‘beat that.’
‘Well,’ Yvonne said ‘this may not exactly be fair because Willie and I share the same story. So how is this going to work?’
Quincy waved his hand. ‘Just tell your version, Yvonne, and know you’re wasting your time. You’re all going to pay for my dinner. I feel it in my waters.’
‘Your waters?’ Will said, head shaking.
Yvonne snorted. ‘Willie can elaborate on anything I miss, and then you can be the judge of who tells the better version. I was just sixteen when I went to the movies to see Bonnie and Clyde. I dropped my change purse on the floor, by the candy bar, and this tall, old man with white hair picked it up for me, except he wasn’t old at all. He was only sixteen too.’
‘Your waters?’ Will said again.
‘Yes, Murph, my waters.’
‘Anyhow,’ Yvonne said, loudly. ‘It was a full show. The only two seats left were way up at the front, so this young man had to sit next to me. Everything was huge that close up, and by end of picture, when Bonnie and Clyde got shot to pieces, I was so shocked I grabbed his hand. He turned to look at me, took off his glasses, and kissed me just like that. I forgot all about seeing people being gunned down. Did I miss anything, Willie?’ Yvonne turned and looked at her ex-husband.
Will’s gaze was on Caroline. He said, ‘No, that’s what happened, but I’m going to have to jump my place in line here and go before Caroline to set the record straight on something. Is that all right, Caroline?’
She nodded.
Perplexed, Yvonne said, ‘I thought you said I didn’t leave anything out?’
‘You didn’t, but you weren’t my first kiss.’
‘I wasn’t?’ Yvonne pressed her lips together.
‘No. Does that surprise you, Vonnie?’ Will lifted an eyebrow.
‘All these years,’ Yvonne shook her head, ‘I thought I was your … first … everything.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘So who was?’ Quincy prompted.
Will wiped his mouth and placed his napkin on his knee. ‘Sherry, my brother Tim’s wife, was visiting my mother with their first child. Sherry brought her sister Natalie with her as a
kind of nanny. Natalie was as dark as Italian espresso roast, my complete polar opposite, and she was, well, as fascinated by the opposition as I was. We stayed up late, comparing notes if you will, of what it was like to walk into a room full of people so unlike ourselves and be the focus of so much staring. Then we got around to being curious about the other more interesting, simple differences between men and women. She tasted like strawberry shortcake.’ He smiled softly. ‘And that brings us to Caroline.’
At once, all eyes were on her.
Expectantly.
Her palms went clammy. Caroline looked down at her damp hands and began. ‘Charlie Mason and I were standing at the threshold of the house next door to mine, where I was babysitting. He had come to deliver groceries. We were both feeling sort of awkward because we’d been in the same grade and had called each other names, but after the summer vacation suddenly things looked very different, we looked different, and we saw something new in one another that had us both feeling confused and fascinated. Trouble was, my mother saw this too and she told me in no uncertain terms was I old enough to have a boyfriend.’ Caroline folded her fingers together tightly. Her knuckles went white. ‘Being a fearfully obedient daughter, I stood in the doorway of the house next door, taking the paper bag from his shaking hand, and told Charlie, with his beautiful rosy cheeks and green as springtime eyes, I wasn’t allowed to see him. I thought we would both die right then and there. His eyes welled up, but he put his warm, callused hand on my cheek and kissed me with such grace. So my first kiss became my last kiss with the first boyfriend I never had, and Charlie never spoke to me again.’
No one said a word when she finished. She looked up from her fingers. William, Erika, Quincy, and Yvonne, all of them just gazed at her, judging, Yvonne most intently. Caroline felt lava flow up her neck. ‘Was I supposed to say something else?’
‘That’s got to be the most heartbreaking first kiss story I’ve ever heard,’ Quincy pronounced. ‘You win, Care-o-line.’
‘Wait!’ Yvonne stretched her hand forward like Diana Ross and the Supremes doing ‘Stop in the Name of Love.’ ‘We all vote.’
‘Come on, Yvonne, do we really need to?’ Quincy said. ‘You were going to vote for Caroline’s story. I know you were.’
Yvonne rolled her eyes. ‘I think, to be fair, we need to follow what we agreed to do.’
‘All right, all right,’ Quincy said. ‘Hands up, those in favor of Caroline dining gratis …’ He tallied the votes. ‘Erika, Murph, me … come on, Yvonne?’
Yvonne ran fingers through her hair. ‘I vote for you, Quincy. Humor wins me over every time.’
‘I’m touched, Yvonne, but the majority has spoken. Congratulations, Care-o-line, dinner’s on us.’
‘I don’t know why we played this game when everyone’s dinner’s always on you, Quincy,’ Yvonne chuckled.
Will glanced at his ex-wife, at his oldest friend, and his newest friend. Since the ride to the restaurant, Caroline had withdrawn. She was different here, in this small gathering of his old friends. She listened quietly and intently to the ebb and flow of conversation at the table, commenting here and there. Yet, aside from the kiss story, she never offered any further stories of herself, never began a conversation, or disagreed with a point someone else made.
Her pensive mood made him think about the role he played at work, where he typically took the silent, observational role, learning all he could. He only spoke when it was necessary, to make a point about the boundaries of the law, explain legalese jargon, or finagle some legal loophole. He wondered if Caroline was listening to learn as much as possible about his friends, or if she were uncomfortable, although he couldn’t imagine why she would be. There was an entire generation, ten years difference or more between her and all of them, yet the night’s conversations could have belonged to anyone over thirty, single, married, or divorced. Topics were innocuous and mundane. They ranged from planting tulip bulbs, fuel prices, to the spice used most in Mediterranean cooking.
Will watched Caroline listening to Quincy describe his sailboat. She sat at the table with her hands cupped together, face up, one palm nesting into the other, as if she hoped to catch something to fill up the space. He dropped the back of his hand into her open palm.
Her fingertips curled around his thumb.
***
Alex stumbled as he dug the car keys from his pocket, dropping them. They landed in a puddle.
Swearing, Alex set the bottle of Mountain Dew and bag of French fries on the roof of the Mustang. He wiped his fingers on his shirt and got down on one knee to retrieve the keys, feeling around in the dark into a mucky mix of wet leaves and road grit before he found the rubber key-fob. He rose, shaking the gunk from the keys and his hands, spattering bits of leaf and dirt across the driver’s side window. He rubbed the window with his sleeve, and made a gunky smear across the glass. He unlocked the door, grabbed the handle to pull it open, and got a sticky handful of the gumdrop he’d spat out the window earlier. Disgusted, he reached for the bag of fries on the roof and the napkin inside the brown paper and froze. His revulsion swelled as he surveyed the state of his car.
‘Fuuuck,’ he muttered.
Was a time he’d taken pride in his Mustang. He kept the cactus green paint waxed, polished the chrome, rubbed protectorant into the original white upholstery, and cleaned the windows until they sparkled. He changed the oil and spark plugs, only used premium fuel, and made sure the whitewall tires stayed a true white. The classic automotive fairy tale was over now.
Orange-glowing streetlights and passing headlights illuminated the sorry state. Even in the dimness it was plain the exterior was dusty, dotted with tree sap and splattered by pigeon poop. Dead leaves had collected in the sill beneath the window and wipers.
‘Fuck,’ he said again, grabbing his bag of fries, yanking open the sticky door and slamming it when he plopped behind the wheel. He tossed the fries and soda pop on the passenger seat, forgetting he’d already loosened the lid to have a drink. Seal cracked, the bottle began to hiss and spray out its contents across the glove box and door handle. Alex grabbed the bottle, spraying himself in the face, carbonated drink shooting across the windscreen. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ he shouted and shoved the door open to throw the bottle out, but by then the geyser had subsided.
Face dripping, Alex sat in his car cursing, and realized the inside of the Mustang was in an even sorrier state than the outside. The interior was littered with empty beverage cups, balled-up used tissues, newspapers, soda bottles, food scraps and dozens of wrapping and bags from fast food places. Worst of all was the collection of bottles in the back seat, the bottles he’d taken to pissing into. The car’s interior was a gamey combination of sweat, urine, Mountain Dew and French fries, which added a distinctive greasy top note to the layers of smells. The smell. Jesus, the smell.
What the hell am I doing?
His dribbling forehead sank against the steering wheel. What the hell am I doing? He sat that way for a minute or two before he turned to rest on his temple and gaze out the window on the passenger side, and then he laughed because that window was the cleanest thing in the car. He looked out that window, to the restaurant across the street, where a group of well-dressed people who looked like they had a lot of money were simply eating dinner.
They were having dinner, a normal everyday thing. It was only dinner.
‘What the hell am I doing here?’ he said out loud.
He stared out through the glass and watched them dine. They were an animated bunch of middle-aged folks—except for Caroline.
And that’s what he was doing here. Caroline. He was here because of her. His car was a pigsty because of her. He pissed in bottles because of her.
He climbed out of the car, rubbing the citrus-scented stickiness from chin with his filthy, gummy hands.
Jesus Christ, what the fuck’s the matter with me?
He looked over the roof of the car at the Turkish place again. She sat there as she usually d
id in a group, all clammed-up, reserved, quietly uncomfortable. He wondered what the hell she was doing having dinner with a bunch of strangers. Earlier, at the front of her apartment, she’d climbed into a new model Volkswagen with darkly tinted windows. The driver had been her ‘friend’ who’d spooked him on the sidewalk, the big pasty white guy. Alex had figured she and her ‘friend’ were going out alone. Knowing her preference for very small groups, he was surprised when the pair met others.
She was only having dinner.
Go home, Alex. Get in your goddamn filthy car and go the hell home.
Alex listened to that voice in his head. He saw the reason, the rationale. He climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door, put the key in the ignition. He started the engine and cast one more glance back inside Istanbul. The ghostly guardian angel sitting beside Caroline put his hand on hers.
And Alex stalled the car.
***
Caroline pulled the VW into the garage space beside her car. Will unlatched his seatbelt and let it slide away. ‘You were very quiet tonight,’ he said.
Caroline left her hands on the steering wheel. ‘I know. I’ve never been very good at being social in new situations. It’s interesting to see how you all interact, how you’ve known each other for so long and have a history where you can make private jokes and … I miss that sort of thing.’
‘Did we make you uncomfortable?’
‘No.’
‘You seem sad.’
‘I’m not sad, exactly.’ She released her seatbelt. It whizzed as it zipped into place.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Detached. I think. I’ve forgotten how to do this, how to make friends in a new place.’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘I think so.’
‘You did pretty well making friends with me.’
‘You were easy.’ She dropped her head back against the padded rest. ‘I do much better one on one. I think watching you interact … well, seeing that … it’s different at work, you know. I can do that superficial, polite, professional flirty thing. It’s easy to be friendly and chatty and talk about slingbacks, pique fabric, and things I know, but making a connection … well that’s much, much harder. I get a little anxious. I worry I’ll say or do the wrong thing. Four people and I’m good. Five people … is pushing it. So I listen.’
Next To You Page 12
