Page 110 of Lovebug
“Dutch? You speak Dutch?” This man is truly full of surprises.
“No.” He chuckles. “Deutsche. Don’tcha know Deutsche? It’s German for German.”
“Right, right. I know that,” I say, sensing the embarrassment rising up in my cheeks. I can’t help it; I get defensive. “Just so you know, this is not one of those cases where Mabel is ‘book smart but not street smart,’ so you can keep that assessment to yourself. My mind is just a bit all over the place right now. I have to say, though, that I may have discovered the one thing you can’t do. Accents. That sounded more like Minnesota than Munich.”
He stops swinging and stares at me.
I take in his horrified expression and backpedal immediately. “Sorry. That was rude of me. Your dialect work is lovely.”
He shakes his head. “My ‘dialect work’ is shit. Your assessment on that front was accurate. And I spent winters in Minnesota as a kid, so maybe the accent clung on. But what I want to know is… what asshole told you you’re ‘book smart, but not street smart’?”
My Dad, my teachers, my fiancé… the list goes on.
“Um… whodidn’ttell me that?” I say, rather than naming names. “That’s sort of been the refrain throughout my life when people try to explain my… Pollyanna nature? My naivete?”
He looks steamed. “Anyone who calls you a Pollyanna is a punk who wouldn’t know how to be positive if a plus sign lodged itself in his ass,” he blurts, then quickly recovers. “Sorry. That was crass, but you catch my drift. Negative does not equal realistic. Positive does not equal naïve. From what I’ve observed, Mabel, you live your life with a hopeful curiosity. And when we recognize that in a person, we should lift it up. What we should not do is try to belittle it or tear it down.”
“Wow, you’re… really passionate about this,” I say a bit bashfully, seeing how worked up he’s become on my behalf.
“Well, yeah! That’s some small-minded ridiculousness right there.”
“Yeah…” I hesitantly agree but can’t help playing devil’s advocate for the other side. “I get it, though. I think people assume because I’m so ‘nice’ that I can’t possibly understand the magnitude of things. Or the ugly side of things. I know there’s an ugly side to things, but I choose to focus on what’s good. What feels good. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Absolutely nothing’s wrong with that.” He takes a sip of his wine. “So long as you’re not lying to yourself. There’s a big difference between being positive and being willfully ignorant. Or pretending things are better than they are. If you do that, you’re just going to sell yourself short. And you deserve more than that.”
“Do I?”
“Hell yeah, you do. You… you deserve the world, Mabel.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “And not that you need any affirmation from me, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you… I think you’re smart as hell. And fascinating. Inallthe ways someone can be smart and fascinating. Book smart, street smart… heart smart. You, Mabel McGonigle, have all the smarts.”
I don’t say anything. I just turn my head to look up at him. He’s so close. He looks deep into my eyes, and I know he means every word he just said. “You warm enough?” he almost whispers as he rubs my upper arm. But the goose bumps he’s noticing aren’t because I’m cold.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say. “We’ve, uh… we’ve gotten off topic, though, yeah?”
“Yes. Yeah. Sorry. You asked whose suit you were wearing after our assemblage.” He smiles and unwinds his arm from my shoulders, which elicits no small amount of regret from me. He pushes his feet off the ground and gets us swinging again. “My ex-wife. Her name was Jamie.IsJamie. We split a little over two years ago. Divorce was finalized in April. I still had one of her suits—not intentionally, mind you. I found it mixed up in my things when I moved here. Meant to give it to Goodwill or…” He cuts himself off. “In hindsight, I should’ve offered you something of mine when your clothes got messed up. But my things would all be huge on you, and I didn’t want you to be embarrassed when you went back up to your booth, nor did I want there to be very clear evidence of our shower shenanigans. Not that it’s anyone’s business or that we have anything to hide. But there ya have it.”
“You separated two years ago.” I try the words out.
“Two years ago, yes.”
“So you’re notcurrentlywith her.” Can’t blame a girl for double-checking. After all, I am just out of a relationship filled with lies.
“Mabel. No. I’m currently withyou.” He pauses. “Or at least I’d like to be.”
He seems to hold his breath while waiting for my response. It only takes me half a second to say, “I’d like that too.”
“Great.” He exhales in relief and laces his fingers with mine. His calloused hands brush gently against my skin, and I love it.
“Who would ever let you go?” I ask the question before I consider the fact that I should probably hold it back. But I sort of can’t help it. I’ve been stuck on that question ever since he first said the word “ex-wife.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, but plenty of people. I mean, when you think about it, everyone you’ve ever been with ultimately let you go. Otherwise, you’d still be with them. A part of life, yeah? A part of being a grown-up?”
“I suppose that’s true. I just… I don’t have a lot of experience with breakups. Just the one.” I’m not sure why this embarrasses me, but it does. I let my eyes drift out across the water while we continue to swing.
“I see.” He nods and looks like he’s internally debating on what to say next. “Listen. That guy. What’s his name, Ernie?”
“No. Bert.”
“Right. Knew it was one of them. I was going to say Mr. Snuffleupagus, but I didn’t want to betoodisrespectful.” He winks.
