Page 67 of Single-Minded
“I think you know it already,” I say. “What do you want to know?”
He looks deep in thought for a moment, and then he breaks into a smile. “About you,cher,I want to know everything. Where did you grow up?”
“I grew up here. Some people can’t wait to get out of a small town, I couldn’t wait to come back after college. I love it here. Not just the beaches, which are the most beautiful in the country. I love how creative and artistic this town is. I love its weird little circus history. I love the fact that it never gets cold.”
“That’s what I love about it too. Do you still have family here?” he asks.
“My grandma Leona is here,” I say. “She’s a riot. She’s the most positive person I’ve ever known. My mom and dad are back in San Diego. They moved away once I went to college. I’m an only child. Well, sort of, I guess. I had a brother who died when he was two, leukemia. I was six when it happened. It was so rough on my parents, I felt like I had to be this perfect kid who never gave them any trouble because they’d already been through such a brutal, heartbreaking few years.” I pause. “Weird, I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a six-year old,” Daniel says kindly.
“I met Michael that year, two weeks after my brother died. He was a life raft for me. He was funny and sweet and protective. And his family wasn’t sad all the time. They were happy, and fun. And they played Scrabble and ate pepperoni pizza every Friday night. I practically lived there in elementary school. And then, a few years later, Michael’s mom died. And Michael felt like the only person in the whole world who could understand what that felt like was me. It bonded us together on such a deep and profound level. We were inseparable.”
“You were lucky to have each other to lean on,” says Daniel. “I’m so sorry about your brother.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It was a really long time ago. Does that sound callous? I always feel that I should be sadder than I am. But the truth is, I was very young when he died. We never played together, because at first he was just a baby, and then he was too sick. I barely remember him, and most of those memories were in the hospital. They seem more like a dream now, or a movie you saw a really long time ago, but can’t quite remember what it was about. The thing I remember most is not the loss of my brother so much—it was the loss of my parents after he died. It changed them, they were never quite the same. They were brokenhearted, hollow, disconnected. They stopped mourning after four or five years, but I have this whole lifetime of memories of sad Christmases, sad Thanksgivings, sad Fourth of Julys. Like ever enjoying anything again was strictly verboten for my parents and me, because my brother, William, wasn’t there to enjoy it too. Do you know what I mean?”
“That must have been rough,” says Daniel, reaching across the table to gently pat my shoulder.
“I shouldn’t complain,” I say. “I’ve had a great life. My family loves me. I’ve had amazing opportunities. I’m educated, I have friends who care about me, a business I’m inspired by.” I smile at Daniel. “I’m well fed.”
Daniel raises his glass, “To being well fed.”
I raise my glass to his. “To being well fed.”
As if on cue, our waiter appears with several of our selections: the goat cheese spread and the beef tenderloin. He also brings a small plate ofjaleaprepared for us by Chef Jose—a breaded seafood with marinated vegetables. Daniel and I sample the various dishes, which are absolutely delicious.
“Try this,” says Daniel, raising a forkful ofjalea. I take a bite, and even though I usually hate when anyone tries to feed me, it feels natural and comfortable, sharing with him.
“It’s good!” I say. “Spicy.”
“You’re spicy,” he says, his eyes flirtatious. I can’t help but be charmed.
“How do you get away with saying stuff like that?” I ask. “Do you think it’s the dreamy Southern accent?”
In a comically on-the-nose Scarlett O’Hara falsetto he says, “I declare, Miss Wiggins, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” We start laughing and suddenly we can’t stop ourselves at cracking up over every little thing; we’re laughing so hard our eyes start watering.
Our waiter swings by to drop off a few more plates, and pick up the ones we’re finished with.
“I think we need to sample more food,” says Daniel.
“We should try the empanadas,” I suggest.
“Sounds good. Do you like scallops?” he asks, and I nod yes. “And maybe the butternut squash?”
I start laughing over nothing, Daniel starts laughing, and seconds later the two of us are roaring away at the table with no earthly idea what set us off again. I think it was the wordsquash,which is hilarious if you have a glass or two of rosado and say it over and over again like a punch line.Squash.
“What’s your story?” I ask.
“What do you want to know about?” he asks. “I’ve already told you too much about my family, I think.”
“Yes, let me see if I can get this straight,” I tease. “Gabriel shops for your clothes. Who does your hair?”
We laugh and talk for hours and suddenly I notice that the staff are starting to prep the restaurant for close.
“Please tell me if this is too personal,” Daniel says. He’s still smiling but his face is serious.
“Okay,” I say. “But you already know most of my low points, and you did attend my divorce party, so…”
