Thirty Days: Part Two (A SwipeDate Novella)

by BT Urruela

  Nibbling her sandwich, Grandma’s eyes meet mine and she asks, “Why?”

  “Well, um…” My voice trails off as I look toward Sami for direction.

  “I get everyone I first meet a gift, Grace. It’s just a family tradition of mine. I hope you’ll accept it.”

  “I’m sure she’d love to,” I say, and look back toward Grandma. “Right, Grace?”

  Grandma sits in thought for a moment, her eyes going from me to Sami and back, before she shrugs and says, “I don’t turn down presents,” as she reaches out with ‘gimmie’ hands.

  Sami giggles and slides the bag forward, just in front of Grandma, who scoops it up in response.

  “It looks a bit heavy,” I say, standing and stabilizing the large bag, which earns me a comical little side-eye from Grandma. She’s been a bit of her old spitfire self today and I kind of love it.

  I riffle through the bag and pull the bulkiest item out first; what turns out to be a mini record player still in the box. Remaining in the bag are three vinyls I pull out one by one. B.B. King, which Grandma doesn’t recognize, as I thought she might not, but the next two, she does almost immediately. She covers her mouth and lets out a light gasp.

  “Duke Ellington and Louie Armstrong. Oh my! My mother’s favorites,” Grandma says, excitement in her voice and her wrinkled hands still guarding her mouth. Beaming, she reaches one hand out and snatches up the Duke Ellington vinyl, scanning over every inch of the square packaging.

  This girl is something else. She saw what the visit to Frankie’s did for Grandma, and took it upon herself to try and keep that feeling going. I try to keep my enamor in check as I smile. “Thanks, Sami. These are really thoughtful gifts,” and Grandma nods in agreement.

  “Oh please, my pleasure. I just hope she doesn’t have one already.”

  “She doesn’t, actually. They technically aren’t allowed to have personal access to them; a disturbance factor, I guess, but we will keep this one in the closet and play it every time I visit. Won’t we, Grace?”

  “I want to listen now,” she says, tossing the vinyl down and reaching for the record player box.

  “Let’s set it all up in your room, Grace. That way we won’t lose any parts, alright?”

  She folds her arms, frowning as I put the record player and vinyls back in the gift bag and set it beside my seat.

  “How about this. I’ll go ask if they can put some jazz on the radio.” I point to the dusty little speaker set in the corner of the ceiling.

  She nods, the frown still present. “That would be fine.”

  I plead with one of the workers for a moment to change the radio station. After pressing the issue a bit, and playing on the man’s sympathy by pointing out my wheelchair-bound grandma, he finally obliges. Brass instruments begin their arrangements through the little speakers now and Grandma’s frown shifts to a slanted smile as she rocks to and fro in her chair. I give the waiter a look of appreciation, and mouth ‘thank you’.

  Our food arrives a few moments after I take my seat, and I nudge Grandma’s Ziploc container and mostly uneaten sandwich forward to hopefully encourage her to eat a bit more, before loading up a piece of naan with enough curried lamb to feed a family of four.

  There are a few comfortable moments of silence between us as we shove food in our faces. I admire the fact that she can get down with a meal without being all shy about it. We’re humans. We should totally be able to scarf freely in a public setting.

  Grandma begins nibbling away again at the edges of her sandwich, which relieves me a little. When she’s doing poorly, the first thing that goes is her appetite.

  “Is there a time limit or anything for when she’s out?” Sami asks, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Why, you thinking about stealing us for longer?”

  “I wish! I’d rather go to the DMV or ER than back to that school,” she says with a chuckle and a roll of her eyes. “Listen to me, always going on about how crappy my job is.”

  “Oh please, if you could listen in on my career bitching, you’d see yours is just child’s play.”

  “What is it about the writing that’s giving you so much trouble?”

  “It’s a number of things, really. It’s a fickle market. And a crowded market. I’m lucky…immensely lucky to have found the success I did with my first book. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen often in the literary world. But with success comes stress and expectations. Expectations we, as authors, put on ourselves. Which leads to a lot of self-induced inner turmoil. And then you’ve got writer’s block. Don’t even get me started on that.”

  “Well, now you’ve got me intrigued,” she says playfully, stuffing a bit of lamb and naan in her mouth.

  “It’s just relentless, and comes at the worst possible moments. The point where you desperately need to write is when it pokes its head in.”

  “How do you push past it?”

  “Most just continue writing. Stephen King is one of them, if you remember in On Writing, he talks about writing every day, no matter what.”

  She nods her head.

  “So, that doesn’t work for me. I know he’s the king and all, but I just can’t. I’ll sit down for my obligatory writing session for the day and…nothing. My fingers just won’t move.”

  “Well, I feel honored I was able to change that a little bit.”

  “A lot, actually. A whole lot.”

  “I still don’t get how, though,” she says, shaking her head and pushing her plate away.

  “You’re my muse,” I say bluntly. “I mean…what I mean to say is…you’re the type of girl we romance authors write books about.”

  She cracks up laughing and I immediately feel a burn creep up the back of my neck.

  “You stop!” she exclaims, waving me off with an eyeroll. “How many girls have you used that line on, Mr. Romance Author,” she jokes, brushing her hand against mine.

  “Hey now, I’ve never used it, ever. Not once, thank you very much,” I respond defensively, pretending to be upset as I cross my arms and dart my eyes away from her.

  “Yeah freaking right. I don’t buy it.”

  “You’re going to have to, lady, because it’s the truth.”

  “Well, I don’t imagine you’d say any differently,” she chides as I finish off the last of the naan and curried lamb in one fell swoop.

  Fighting the food into smaller bites and eventually working it down my throat, which I can only imagine was a complete turn on for her, I finally say, “Probably not, but this is also a rarity.”

  “What is?”

  “The elusive fourth date.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “So, how long’s it been since your last fourth date?”

  “The better part of five years,” I respond, killing the last of my beer and picking up my water.

  “Hmmm.” She dabs a pointer against her chin, eyeing me suspiciously before she finally shrugs and lets out a hmpf. “Well, tell me then, why or how have I become your muse?”

  “Promise not to read too far into it?” I ask and she nods. “If I were asked to draw up the perfect woman…my perfect woman…she’d be you.”

  She rolls her eyes and scoffs loudly. “Oh, now I really know you’re messing with me. You stop it right now!”

  “I’m not kidding! I’m not trying to give you an ego or talk you up. I have no reason to. It’s the truth. You’re pretty damn awesome.”

  “You’re pretty damn awesome yourself,” she says, and it brings a wide smile to my face.

  “Even if you think I’m lying?” I ask.

  “Even if I know you’re lying,” she teases, followed by a giggle.

  My eyes meet the ceiling as I exhale loudly. “You’re a shit.”

  “Aw, you’re such a gentleman,” she jokes, rolling her eyes.

  “The most gentlemanly gentleman, thank you very much.” I nod with a mischievous smirk on my face as I notice her gaze drift out toward the ha
ppenings behind me.

  I glance back for a second before asking, “What? Am I missing something?”

  “No,” she responds, exhaling loudly and a look of annoyance crosses her face. She points behind me to an old-school clock on the wall. “I have to get back in a few minutes and I feel like we just sat down.” She scrunches her lips together, her eyes tracing the grain pattern in the table.

  “Well, damn. It’s okay, though. There’s no time limit at Brookdale, but I did tell her it would only be an hour.”

  “Yeah, I have the future criminals of the world to attend to,” she jests, and quickly puts her hands to her face. “Oh my, I’m terrible.” She drops her hands and a look of shame washes over her face. “Some of them really are good kids, most of them I feel absolutely awful for. It’s the families. Some of them…most of them, just don’t care.”

  My gaze shifts as my thoughts tug at me. “Mom” and “Dad” popping up in my brain, reminding me I’m not much different than the kids she teaches.

  I nod.

  “You know.” My eyes work their way back to her. “I can totally understand that. I lived it. And I can appreciate you at least being aware of it…with regard to your kids, I mean.” I pass a smug look her way, albeit, a playful one. “I stand by my previous statement, though. I think you really are making a difference on these kids, and whether they let you know, or they show it, or you see it, I fully believe it’s happening. It’s in your personality. It’s in your vibe. No matter what’s going on in that little brain of yours, you always project a sense of positivity. It’s comforting, you know? And I know your kids, the good ones, they see it too. And they’ll remember it.”

  She looks away, nervously handling her water as her face turns several shades of red.

  “Well, thank you,” she mutters. “I hope so.”

  “I know so,” I reply and my words linger, a broad smile on my face. She smiles back, her eyes locking onto mine. Without words, we communicate, and my heart flutters as we do.

  “You’re beautiful, you know,” I say without thinking, my eyes locked onto her shimmering orbs so full of life, and innocence, and mystery. She loses our staring contest, her eyes trailing to the table top, but a smile tugs at her lips.

  “You’re quite handsome yourself,” she says quietly, the smile in full effect now. “I hate that I have to go. I’d just love to spend the afternoon with you both.”

  “I so wish you could. It would make my week. But soon, hopefully?” I ask as the waiter approaches with our check, the busboy feverishly retrieving dishes right behind him.

  “How about Thursday evening? My school has off on Friday.”

  “Deal,” I reply, my eyes lighting up. “I’ll make the plans this time.”

  Dropping two twenties onto the table top and thanking the wait staff, my eyes remain on hers. If we were anywhere else, or at least out of Grandma’s view, I would grab her up into my arms and kiss those sumptuous lips right this second. I smile as we both stand, and I take control of Grandma’s wheelchair, guiding her behind Sami toward the front door. As she holds it open for us, I pull a blanket from the backpack and wrap it around Grandma’s shoulders before heading out into the cold.

  Sami eyes her watch and then sighs, letting the door close behind us.

  “Ugh, I have to get going. Thursday night, though?”

  “Thursday night it is.” I smile as her eyes flit to the passing cars.

  Pushing Grandma to where we’re out of her line of sight, I place one hand on Sami’s cheek, pulling her in and my lips crash against hers, hungry for her taste again, as I have been since I kissed her last. I reluctantly pull away, admiring her face in the gleaming sunshine as her eyes remain closed just a moment. They seem to do that after every kiss and I feel fortunate for the time I get to just stare…to take her beauty in fully.

  “I can’t wait,” she says, opening her eyes and smiling, before turning on her heel. She walks hurriedly down the sidewalk and I yearn for her to come back and spend the afternoon with us…or maybe just me, a movie, and a whole lot more kissing.

  A few hours after lunch with Sami and getting Grandma settled back in at Brookdale, I can’t get our last date out of my head. I reluctantly cab it up to midtown to meet Megan for our dinner date. It’s a swanky little spot called Charley’s, which I’ve never been to before, but if the smells permeating through the front door are any indication, my stomach’s about to be very happy.

  Megan has beaten me, as usual, and I spot her at the back of the restaurant, seated at the bar. I admire the fact that she’s alright with sitting at the bar on a date, as it’s my usual go-to spot at any restaurant. You get your food faster, your server is trapped in a four-foot by eight-foot bar top prison, and as impatient as I am, that’s a definite plus.

  Tapping her on the shoulder, she turns with a broad smile, her hair curled and flowing freely.

  “Hey,” she says. “Glad you could make it.” She winks, giving me a half-hug before I take a seat beside her.

  “You’re early. That’s not on me.”

  “Excuses. Excuses.” She smiles, handling a cold beer. “How have you been, by the way. I feel like it’s been forever.”

  “Yeah, it has. I’ve been really good. Working here and there, and just trying to make it through this winter. I’m thinking a Florida move is in order.”

  “Really?”

  I wave her off. “No. I couldn’t ever leave New York, but you’ll have to ask me again come January. That’s usually when I’m really cursing this place.”

  “I could use a little sunshine and beachside reading in my life myself. This job is going to be the death of me.”

  “Busy week?” I ask, motioning to Megan’s beer as the bartender approaches and he nods, grabbing a pint glass and filling it.

  “A fucking madhouse! Hence my early arrival. A beer was much needed after the night I had at work. We lost two babies last night.” She shakes her head, sipping her beer as the bartender returns with my filled pint glass.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Definitely could not do what you do. I can’t imagine the toll it takes.”

  “You have no idea. I never imagined it would. To be perfectly frank, it makes me not want to ever have kids, really. Those parents, the pain in their eyes when you tell them their baby is gone. Even the parents of the ones who do survive, but spent countless hours, days, and weeks in ICU, watching their child go through things no adult ever should.”

  “Fuck. So damn sad.”

  “It is…” Her words trail as her gaze fixes on nothing in particular, a wrinkle in her brow. After a few moments, she gives her body a quick shake, and her eyes fall on mine. “I’m sorry,” she says, forcing a faint smile. “Not trying to be so morose.”

  “Hey, no need to apologize. It’s a part of who you are, and honestly, it’s something I never really thought much of, so I appreciate the insight. Or the reality check, I should say.”

  As she peruses a food menu, I spot her bomber jacket draped over her knees—her grandfather’s jacket— I’m overcome with the same warm sensation I felt when we first met, and things seemed to click. The slight rasp to her voice, the thick, rocker-ish hair, and tint of olive to her skin…it’s hard not to notice, and respond in the same way I have each time we’ve hung out. And I realize I’m in fucking trouble.

  “What are you looking at?” she asks, bringing my eyes from the jacket to hers and she smiles.

  “Oh, admiring the jacket again.” I say the first thing that comes to mind, not wanting to admit she gets my blood pumping. And it’s not good. It’s not good at all. Not when tonight, I was going to get some distance.

  “You sure that’s all?” she purrs, a sultry look in her eye. I laugh nervously, my eyes flitting to the bar top.

  “And just, you look great tonight. Again, nothing but respect for the dress in cold weather. I should’ve probably said something earlier.”

  “Better late than never.” She winks. “So, you have to try the fl
atbread here. It’s a requirement.”

  “Flatbread? You don’t gotta twist my arm.” I grab the menu and scan for the flatbread section.

  “Caramelized onion, feta, and chicken is my fave, but they’re all delightful.” She shuts her menu and pushes it aside.

  “Is that what you’re getting?”

  She nods her head affirmatively.

  “I’m going with the Italian sausage, cremini mushroom, and garlic oil. Sounds fucking incredible,” I say, my taste buds buzzing with anticipation as I toss my menu on top of hers.

  After ordering food and another round, I catch Megan looking at me, her head tilted, curiosity in her eyes.

  “What?” I ask, already knowing where her head is at, and shit, I can’t say part of mine isn’t too. But I think about Sami, and the way she is with my grandma. How sweet and kind she is. The way it feels to have her lips against mine.

  And then there’s this other side of me, the bad side, the side led by the almighty shaft, which makes it hard to remain focused.

  “Just thinking about the last time we were together,” she replies with a giggle, and I hide my face, embarrassed.

  “Please don’t remind me. What a fucking mess I am.” I laugh, shaking my head.

  “You’re alright. I’ve had far worse. Our experience was child’s play, comparatively.”

  I look at her curiously, and with a little bit of doubt.

  “No way.”

  “Yes way, honey.”

  “Tell me.”

  She laughs, her eyes roaming to the ceiling as if she’s recalling the memory. A smile stretches wide across her face.

  She turns to me and says, “A guy sharted while I was going down on him once.”

  My mouth gapes and my eyes go wide, feeling utter humiliation for this complete stranger. “No fucking way.”

  “I swear. It was only a little bit, but yeah. It happened.”

  I burst out laughing, hardly believing what I’m hearing.

  “I seriously can’t even imagine,” I say between laughs, trying to catch my breath at the same time.

  “I had to take a second to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.”