I pulled the crumpled card out of my coat pocket and twirled it between my fingers. “Escort, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s actually not as crazy as it seems. This is a big city full of people and everyone is connected technologically, but nobody seems to truly connect with all those other human beings around them living in this fast paced world. People are lonely. I think mostly they just want to talk to another person.” He brought his head closer to mine. “It’s not really about the sex.”
I blushed. “So, you don’t have sex with…”
Jim interrupted. “Sometimes there’s sex involved. Just not all the time.”
Curious, I leaned on my hand. “I always wondered about this. Is it like billionaire widowed old ladies, or more like hot young thangs that want to be intellectually stimulated?” I elbowed him as I added, “If you know what I mean. Wink, wink.”
Now it was Jim’s turn to blush. “Oh crap, Elizabeth. You don’t know?”
Confused, I stared at Jim. His brow was creased and the lines around his eyes appeared serious. “Know what?”
God, please don’t tell me he was having sex with my mother or something bizarre like that. I don’t think I can handle any more surprises.
Jim grabbed my hand, sending chills up my spine. Practically married woman, practically married woman, practically married woman, I repeated over and over.
“Elizabeth, I thought your brothers told you. I’m gay. I’m a gay escort. That’s why I don’t talk to Sonny and Pete anymore. We had a bit of a falling out when I finally came out two years ago. It was right after you got divorced.”
I could almost feel my jaw hit the table. Jim was gay? This hot hunk of man meat was gay? Why is every hot guy gay? I wanted to cry at the injustice of it all until I realized, I wasn’t exactly available either. It shouldn’t even matter to me.
“I had no idea,” I stammered in response to Jim’s momentous revelation. “I thought you were actually…”
Chuckling, Jim chimed in. “Hitting on you?”
Once again, I turned a Crayola box full of reds. “No!”
“Hey, it’s okay. If I was a hottie like you, I’d think every guy was hitting on me, too.” Jim winked at me. I’m a hottie? The boy I swooned after for most of my childhood thinks I’m a hottie? I would have blushed if I wasn’t already several shades of red.
I waved my diamond underneath his nose. “I’ll have you know, I’m almost a married woman. I don’t need anyone hitting on me.”
Jim grabbed my outstretched hand and pulled it close to his face. “Look at that rock,” he purred as he stroked my fingers. “Is it a princess cut? I absolutely love the clarity on this!”
Jim rubbed his hands together. “Ooo, tell me you have pictures.” Then he leaned in close to me. “Unless, you’re nervous I’ll try to steal him.” Okay, seriously. You didn’t realize he was gay, Elizabeth? What is wrong with you? He’s like the poster boy for a stereotype.
I swatted him playfully. “No way. Austin is a straight as the day is long.” I pulled out my phone and flashed my screen saver at Jim. It was a picture of Austin right after a game. He had his hat off and his hair was sweaty and messily sticking up all over the place. Leaning on the railing to the dugout, he had a far off, dreamy look in his eyes. I snapped the picture when he was talking to his coach and he wasn’t aware that I was watching. It was my favorite picture of him, but Austin hated it. He complained it made him look juvenile. Maybe that’s the reason it was my favorite.
“Mmm, he is delish. If you get tired of him like you did that Brit, send him my way.” I shoved his arm as he continued, “Or you could just give me that Brit’s number now that you’re done with him.”
I wrinkled up my nose and made a gagging motion. “Sore subject. Believe it or not, that Brit is actually staying at my apartment.”
Jim sank into his left hand as he swirled his coffee cup with his right. “Do tell. Sounds very cozy. Does your fiancé sleep over, too?” He winked at me deviously. “Please tell me there’s threesomes.”
I snorted. “Ha! Not as cozy as you think. Simon came barging into my life last week. He had no place to go. He promised it would only be for a few days but it seems as if he’s taken up residence in my apartment.” And in my mind.
“What does lover boy say about all of this?”
I winced. “See, that’s the thing. Austin doesn’t really know.”
Jim pointed his Styrofoam cup at me. “Wait, he doesn’t know Simon’s at your apartment?”
“Well, that and…” I chewed my thumb nail nervously. Jim was going to go all “Nora” on me when I told him, wasn’t he? “Austin doesn’t know I was married.”
The empty cup dropped from Jim’s hand. “Oh. My. Lord.” With his eyes boring into mine, he reiterated, “So, your ex-husband is living with you in your apartment and your fiancé not only doesn’t know he’s there, he doesn’t know you have an ex-husband?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and bobbed my head up and down waiting for Jim to start lecturing me. Instead, he clapped his hands excitedly. “I love it! It’s like a crime caper! How delicious!”
My eyes flew open. “You don’t think it’s a terrible idea?”
“Oh, I know it’s a terrible idea. That’s why it’s so fantastic. I think it could be like a movie!” He leaned his chin into both of his hands. “Girl has boy, girl dumps boy for reason unknown to all of her family and friends, girl gets new boy and doesn’t tell him about old boy, old boy shows up and lives with girl.” He rubbed his hands together. “Hmmm, I wonder what will happen next.”
Groaning, I slumped head first onto the table. “It’s not a movie. It’s my life right now. I almost don’t want to know what will happen next because the cute little caper might turn into a horror movie. Oh and, don’t forget to add, girl loses job because boy screwed with her head. What a mess.”
“But you didn’t like editing anyway. Why don’t you do what you love? Use this opportunity to discover yourself.”
“You sound like Nora,” I mumbled through my hair. I lift my head and look at him. “I’ve been trying. I just don’t feel like what I write is good enough or important. It’s kind of hard to motivate yourself to do something when you’re pretty sure you suck at it and there’s no point.”
Jim held up his hand. “Stop right this minute.” He took my hands into his. They were soft and warm and I think they smelled vaguely of cucumber melon hand lotion. “I will never forget the poems that were in your diary—”
I pulled my hands away. “You actually read my diary?”
Shaking his head, Jim replied, “No, your brothers read it out loud.”
“Ugh.” I slumped forward on the table again. “That has to be one of the most embarrassing things anyone has ever told me.”
“Even more embarrassing than when you got your period in study hall and Nikki Kelly pointed to the big red stain on the back of your white pants?”
“Thanks, Jim. I had blocked that from my memory up until this point in time. You really did read my diary.”
“And look, you lived through both.”
“And you remembered both,” I pointed out.
“I remember your poems because they spoke to me. They were so powerful and inspiring. I still can relate to them.”
“They were about being a socially backwards girl with two rotten older brothers. They were about teenaged angst and pain. Never feeling like I was good enough.” I sat up and stared Jim in the eye. “They were about not fitting in and feeling so alone.”
“Exactly.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jim, you and Pete and Sonny were inseparable. You had friends. Not to mention that you were one the most talented athletes in our high school. And the nicest guy there, too. At least to me. Everyone adored you. You cannot even begin to imagine how I felt.”
“Elizabeth, do you think I woke up gay when I was twenty-five years old?” Jim frowned. “No, I was fighting it my whole life, trying to figure out what was wrong with me, why I didn
’t like girls like the rest of my friends.”
And then he cleared his throat and recited, “He took my hand, I pulled away. This isn’t right, I cannot stay. He pushed my hair back and held me near. I cannot imagine life without you, dear. We cannot be, I yelled once more. Your life is rich and mine is poor. No one will understand our love, even if it is destined from heaven above.”
Nearly speechless, I muttered, “Wow.” I couldn’t believe it. He recited one of the poems I had written, verbatim. At least I think it was verbatim—I hadn’t read anything I wrote in my diary since graduating high school.
Jim nodded. “That poem gave me courage to come out. You gave me courage to come out. Your poems inspired somebody.”
“Wow,” I repeated. “Um, Jim, I hate to tell you, but that poem was about my crush on Elijah Wood.” I snorted, causing tea to come out my nose. Jim stared at me.
“I came out because of Elijah Wood?” Then he dissolved into a fit of laughter. “That’s kind of ironic isn’t it? Elijah Wood?”
Hysterical, I nodded, “Oh my God, Jim, you’re so bad!”
After we wiped the tears of glee from our faces, Jim cleared his throat. “In all seriousness, Elizabeth, I think you have a talent and you have a dream. You owe it to yourself to see it through. I did.” He winked with a playful grin on his face. I didn’t want to know if he was talking about having a talent or a dream with the escort business.
Smiling appreciatively, I scooted closer to Jim and wrapped my arms around my childhood dream boy. “Thanks. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
He kissed my forehead. “I love you, Elizabeth. I always have. You’re my favorite little sister. I want to see you happy.”
“And I want to be happy, Jim.”
As I sipped my tea and chatted aimlessly with my old friend, though, I wasn’t sure if I was headed in the right direction to be happy.
Eight
My apartment was dark when I returned from my coffee date with Jim. We already talked about our next coffee meeting. He wanted me to have written at least fifteen pages of new material for him to peruse. It’s really nice to have a guy to talk to without sex and romantic feelings getting in the way, I mused as I flicked the light on in the living room.
“Hello, love!” Simon popped out from the kitchen.
My phone clattered to the floor as I screamed. “My new phone!” What the hell was with these men scaring the crap out of me lately?
Simon rushed to retrieve my phone from under the chair where it had bounced. He inspected it and held it up for me to see. “It’s fine!”
I snatched it from his hand and held it close to my face. It was fine. It better be because I was too cheap to purchase the insurance for it and if it broke, I was screwed. My monthly budget was planned out to the penny. Except for shoe purchases. Those went on my credit card. I was scared to open that bill when it came every month. I usually just paid off the minimum twenty dollars. At that rate, I will have it paid off when I am a hundred and forty-seven years old. And that’s only if I don’t buy anything new. Which is very unlikely.
I jabbed Simon in the chest with my finger. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.” I glanced around. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
Simon brightened. “I made you dinner!”
Wrinkling my upturned nose (one of my least favorite features of my face), I asked skeptically, “In the dark?”
Simon shook his head. “No.” He grabbed my hand, dragging me in the direction of the kitchen. Two places were set at my miniscule table and a small votive candle was flickering in the center. Simon proudly waved his hands. “Voila! I made your favorite!”
A candlelit meal? Was he trying to seduce me or something? Simon knew I was a sucker for candles and other romantic gestures. Like naked boyfriends in the middle of my living room lounging on rose petals.
Eying him suspiciously, I stepped into the kitchenette. Unless Simon had discovered some culinary gene that had previously been concealed, something was amiss. He went down in history as The. Worst. Cook. Ever. I mean, the guy actually burnt a pot of water that he was boiling. Not the water, the pot. And he caused microwave French toast to catch fire once. I chuckled to myself as I was recalling Simon dousing our apartment with the fire extinguisher.
“What?” Simon demanded. “What in bloody hell is so funny about me cooking a meal?”
“You don’t really have a glowing track record for cooking,” I reminded him as I pointed to the dish. “What is it exactly?”
“I told you it’s your favorite,” Simon answered defensively.
“It doesn’t look like a quesadilla.”
Simon threw the dish towel on the counter. “It’s chicken parmigiana for cripes sake. Since when are quesadillas your favorite?”
“Since I’ve been spending so much time eating at Mexican restaurants with Nora.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t picked up an STD considering all the time you spend with Nora,” Simon scoffed as he pulled a chair out and sat down.
“That’s really rude,” I remarked as I also took a seat.
“Sorry. I’m not exactly a fan of hers.”
Ignoring him, I spread my napkin across my lap. Simon was heaping the chicken parm onto his own plate. Inching closer to the casserole dish, I cautiously took a whiff. The food didn’t smell rancid or burnt. In fact, there wasn’t even the heavy smell of smoke lingering in the air that I had grown accustomed to whenever Simon cooked.
“Would you like me to serve you?” he asked, spatula poised in the air.
“Um, I guess so,” I replied with the enthusiasm of a woman being marched to the guillotine. Using the spatula, Simon lifted a cutlet out of the dish. The stringy mozzarella cheese snapped as he dropped the steaming chicken on my plate.
“Spaghetti?” Simon inquired as he scooped the pasta out of the bowl. I nodded and he dumped a heaping on my plate. He then beamed at me expectantly, like I was supposed to applaud or something.
Cautiously, I cut the chicken and held my plate up at eye level to examine it. In the dim light, I couldn’t tell if it was actually cooked thoroughly or not. That was probably the reason for the candle. Well played, Simon, well played. I glanced across the table at Simon. He was hungrily shoveling forkfuls of the chicken in his mouth. Well, if we die of food poisoning, it’ll be accidental. It’s not like he’s trying to poison me like Wanda poisoned Joe. I stopped as I reminded myself that neither Wanda nor Joe were real people.
Still doubting the meal was edible, I speared a small piece of the chicken with my fork and brought it to my lips. Please don’t let Simon’s cooking kill me. It would be the most humiliating way to die.
I tested the sauce with the tip of my tongue before putting the piece of chicken in my mouth. Hmmm. It wasn’t half bad. I allowed the food past my lips and chewed slowly.
Wait a minute! This was better than “not half bad”. This was downright delectable! This was as good, if not better than any Italian restaurant in my area. I eagerly swallowed another forkful before an idea occurred to me.
“Simon?”
“Mmm huh?” His mouth was completely stuffed with food. I’m surprised he hadn’t choked.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked suspiciously.
“Um, my mum taught me…” Simon chewed rapidly.
“Oh, I see. Was this before or after she got Alzheimer’s?”
Simon appeared to choke on his food. “Well, she uh started teaching me before and then…”
I pointed the fork at him resisting the urge to stab him with it. “Liar! This is Martino’s! I know this chicken parm anywhere!”
“Bullocks,” Simon muttered. “Sorry. But in my defense, I didn’t actually say I cooked it. I just said made.”
Shaking my head, I continued to cut up my chicken. I wasn’t going to let the delicious food go to waste just because Simon had fibbed to me. Plus, now I knew I wasn’t going to die of salmonella poisoning. “It would have been fine if you jus
t told me you got takeout. Why did you lie?”
Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted you to think I had matured a bit in the past two years.”
“By grossly exaggerating your cooking skills?”
“No. Just wanted you to think that I got it together, that’s all.” Simon stared down at his plate and pushed the remainder of his meal around with his fork.
“Simon, need I remind you that you are living in my apartment with me since you lost your job and got kicked out of your own apartment because you didn’t pay your rent. I hardly think that qualifies as being more mature than you were when we got divorced.”
Simon hung his head. “I know. I was just hoping you wouldn’t hate me.”
Sighing, I gazed at the flickering candle, searching for the words that made sense. “I don’t necessarily hate you, Simon.”
“Oh, good of you then.” I could hear the sarcasm in his voice.
“Will you let me finish? I was just so hurt by your choices. I couldn’t believe that you of all people would do something like that to me.”
“Elizabeth, I wish you’d let me explain—”
I held up my hand. “Let me get this out.” With my fork, I started pulling on the strands of mozzarella. I absentmindedly twirled the cheese into the spaghetti that was already on my fork. “You were the first person in my life that I completely trusted. I would have put my life in your hands any day of the week. I was convinced that you loved me almost as much as you loved yourself—”
“More! I loved you more than I loved myself, Lizzie.”
“Shut up. I’m still talking.” Simon folded his hands obediently and nodded. I sighed as I realized I was not chemically enhanced enough for this conversation.
“I need a drink. Something with alcohol in it.” Simon leapt to his feet.
“Wine?” he asked as he reached for one of the many bottles on the counter. The wine glasses were conveniently located next to the bottles. Although, I have been known to drink out of Dixie cups when I couldn’t find the wine glasses, or they were dirty.
“I don’t care. Whatever.” Searching through the utensil drawer, he located the corkscrew. He expertly uncorked the bottle, poured a glass and set it down in front of me. I took a long sip before I continued.
[2013] Note to Self- Change the Locks Page 10
