Page 49 of Single-Minded
I look down at the controller, trying to remember what to do.
“Shoot him!!!!!”yells Dane, as I aim my weapon and mash theFIREbutton. A spray of bullets peppers the sky. Two seconds later the bomb goes off and I’m dead.
A string of expletives burns through my headset, and over on the other end of the couch, Dane’s head is in his hands.
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
He looks crestfallen. We sit there in silence for a few seconds, and then he reaches over and pulls the controller from my hands.
“I don’t think this is going to work out,” he says.
40
My best date so far was a fix-up jointly orchestrated by my neighbor Zelda and my grandma Leona, who arranged a night out with Leonardo, the thirty-two-year-old Brazilian grandson of a lady in their scuba diving class. Or maybe it was their country-and-western line dancing class. Or their sensual cookery class.
Anyway, we met for dinner and drinks at a club downtown, followed by samba dancing, and a moonlight stroll down around St. Armands Circle, all the way to Lido Key. We connected immediately, talked about everything under the sun, and laughed like we’d known each other for years. He was smart and funny and romantic, not to mention his broad shoulders and gorgeous brown eyes that reminded me of melted chocolate.
Leonardo’s English was solid, his accent was dreamy, and unlike me, he was a skilled dancer, imbibed with both confidence and natural rhythm. He was also on his way back to Rio in less than twenty-four hours. Naturally, the best date I’d had since this whole mess began was leaving the country with no plans to return to the U.S. anytime in the foreseeable future. We shared stories and laughed all night, watched the sun come up from the beach, and spent every waking minute together we could before it was time for him to go to the airport. He looked deep into my eyes as he swept me into his arms at theDEPARTUREScurb, gently brushing my lips with the most slobbery, frothy, drooling kiss I’ve ever experienced. Even counting toddlers. And Saint Bernards.
And then he was gone.
It’s funny how going out with someone who is so close to what you’re searching for, butnot quite right,makes you yearn for something meaningful.
41
Nate hasn’t called. I haven’t called. It got weird.
I’ve avoided the psych job site and Nate the tool-belt supermodel drywaller for eight days. The job is practically finished, and if I don’t show up soon, Joe and the rest of my crew are going to think I’ve joined a cult or something.
I didn’t want to go to the job site until Nate called me. And he never did.
Eventually, I just had to suck up my pride and do my job.
The key, I’ve decided, is to be totally professional. Get in, get out, just focus on the work. And at all costs, avoid looking Nate in the eyes. His animal magnetism is Medusa-like—if I gaze upon him even once, I’ll be a goner.
I pull in to the job site and I’m thrilled to see that Nicky has already completed the landscaping outside. It’s gorgeous, just what I hoped for—peaceful and tropical, like the grounds of an elegant hotel. Checking my face in the mirror one last time before I go inside, I smooth my hair and add a dot of lip stain. Stalling a bit longer, I smile wide at myself in the rearview mirror: nothing stuck in my teeth. All predictable embarrassments avoided, I grab my bag, step out of the car, and go inside.
“Hey, Doc, it’s looking good, right?” Joe says to me as I enter the lobby.
“It’s looking great,” I say. The entryway is finished and the furniture has been delivered, covered in plastic wrap and stacked in a precarious-looking tower, out of the way on the far side of the room. I can’t wait to put the room together today—it’s always one of my favorite parts of any job. It’s also the last part. Joe escorts me through the rest of the offices. The ceiling height has been corrected, and the therapy offices are cozy and inviting. We head back to the therapy gardens and I begin to wonder why I haven’t seen Nate yet. Not that I’m going to ask. There’s a big part of me that hopes I won’t see him at all, avoiding the potential for utter humiliation in front of my favorite contractor and his entire crew.
But there’s another part of me, albeit a tiny one, that’s hoping to accidentally run into Nate. The fact that he hasn’t called me after we had sex is too humiliating for words. Maybe he’ll see me and suddenly realize he wants to be with me. Not that I have a burning desire to be with him or anything—it would just be nice if he called, you know? It’s probably best to avoid him.
Nicky is in the outdoor therapy rooms, finishing up the last of the plantings. Like the landscaping out front, it’s stunning and serene, the perfect place to spill the contents of your heart. Nicky has installed an extensive drip system for the plants, moderated for the particular needs of each plant so that the areas would require less intrusion for maintenance of the foliage. It was Joe’s idea, and I think it’s brilliant.
Joe leads me through the rest of the therapy rooms and work areas. I’m almost all the way through the building when I see him, standing on a stepladder, prepping the last bit of plaster for paint.
“Looking good, Nate,” says Joe. Nate turns at the sound of Joe’s voice, and grins when he sees me.
“How’s it going?” Nate says to me, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously. I feel my skin flush, and stare straight ahead, hoping Joe hasn’t caught the scent of my humiliation. Oh God, this is the worst. Nate might as well have just boisterously announced to the entire crew that we screwed around. Really, it couldn’t have been more obvious unless he’d beaten on his chest from high atop the ladder, and then squirted spermicide in my hair.
“Just doing a walk-through,” says Joe. “Looks good.”
“Really good,” I mumble. My skin burns scarlet in disgrace.Just a few more hours, and I’ll never have to see Nate again.
Joe confirms with me that all the painting at the rear of the building will be completed in an hour or so, and dry enough to move in the furniture in a couple of hours. The rest of the rooms are now done. I head back up to the lobby to oversee the staging of the office. Handing out extra copies of my floor plans to the crew, I direct them to set up furniture in the individual offices.
As I’m arranging the seating groupings in the lobby, I mentally lecture myself to never have a one-night stand again. Sure, there are women who are totally cool with it, own their own sexuality and all that—and more power to them. It just isn’t me. Obviously, I need some kind of emotional connection to go along with the physical one. I’m still far too vulnerable for no-strings sex. I’ve just gotten out of a no-strings marriage.
