The Last Place She'd Look Page 12

  “Pretty much,” she said. “All that happiness and good cheer could put someone in a diabetic coma—unless I could get it to rub off on me, like a lipstick kiss.”

  I lingered on those last two words, hearing them ever so slowly and wishfully. Our tea arrived. I took a sip immediately. Too hot. Calm down, I told myself and put the cup down.

  Ignoring her tea, both eyes on me, she continued. “I'm all for happiness, and celebrating other people's joys. I just wish I had more of my own.”

  I pinched at the corner of my brownie. “Me too,” I said, popping the bite into my mouth. The chocolate was moist and melted easily on my tongue, like a taste of happiness. I quickly had another bite; mouth happy, gazing at Jessica. “Mmm, this is good,” meaning more than just the brownie.

  She tried a taste now. “This IS good,” she answered. “But I try to stay away from sweets. I'm all about balance in my life, moderation, you know.”

  Jessica acknowledged that she wanted stability and steadiness in her life—instead of insanity. Her outlook was refreshing and sorely needed for me.

  I said, “I talk about balance. My goal is to live in moderation. Doesn't always work that way. I want to taste everything. But no heaping portions. Get lots of sleep…”

  “Wake up early,” she added.

  “Are you a morning person? Me too.” I took a sip of tea. It was now the right temperature. As I swallowed, it soothed my throat.

  “I love the promise of a new day. Anything is possible. See the sunrise, exercise, all good things.” Jessica punctuated her statements with graceful hand gestures, as if conducting an orchestra. She sipped her tea genteelly. I noticed her eyes grazing my shoulders and arms. Then the corners of her mouth turned up, as if pleased by the sight. “Do you think you're a passionate person?”

  “I have my interests; I guess they're my passions.”

  “I have my passions,” she explained. “I know I need to be touched and receive a lot of affection. Otherwise, I need to get a lot of massages.”

  I was surprised by her statement. “I get a lot of massages,” I lied.

  Reaching for my hand, her fingers intertwined with mine, as if eager to begin a dance of intimacy, digits and hands instead of legs and bodies. Her eyes studied me.

  “You are a woman who is brimming with passion,” she began. “Whoever gets to be with you is quite lucky—especially when you let them unleash your inner zeal.”

  I breathed deeply, afraid that if I touched her and held her close, I'd never want to let go. She kept stroking my arm, sensuously and intently, as if she wanted me badly and knew exactly what I needed.

  “Do you call this balance?” I asked eager to know her intentions.

  “I call it a bright beginning.”

  We spent the evening talking and laughing. I became aware of myself relaxing, and exhaling. I felt safe and accepted. Conversation flowed, like the endless cups of tea we were drinking. We stayed at the restaurant until the waiters put the last chairs up on the tables and mopped the floors. The night ended with a lingering hug goodbye.

  The following morning I woke up, got online, and checked my email. There was one from Jessica:

  Dear Sara:

  I had a very interesting encounter because I was not able to peg you in the first five minutes. You continue to elude me. Most people think I have tremendous gifts and talent and are amazed in my presence. I feel like I am not that special. Now I encounter YOU. You are in a different league —the league I wish I had been playing in all this time, instead of just being the big fish.

  I want to LEARN and not get old and stale.

  You are the second person in my life to touch me and create this feeling inside that makes me want to devote the next 12,000 hours to just touching you in every way possible that I might give you pleasure. Not as a sexual thing as much as "What can I do to bring you to physical nirvana?" For most encounters in my life, the physical thing becomes just that, there was no spiritual connection. The only other person was a woman in college who, when we met years later, still had that aura about her. It was as if we had never been apart and any physical interaction was cosmic, not animal.

  After reading Jessica's email, I exhaled with delight. Is this what I'd been hoping for—someone to bare their soul to me? She's asked me to go deeper—deeper than recent relationships, taking me back to the exhilaration of first dates as a teen—the baggage-free trust of opening yourself to another person. I saw myself diving into a pool of emotional intimacy, rather than just dunking my feet and skipping away like my usual self. She'd unburdened her soul to me, not mere small talk. If I didn't want to fuck this up, I needed to be emotionally present. Wait a minute. How do I know this isn't someone too good to be true who would drown me in their insanity and neediness?

  This feels too fast, too good, too soon. It smells wrong. I should be cautious. Jessica is a silky-haired mirage. I labored over what to write back, nothing seemed right.

  Luckily, pursuing me, she called the next day. “Sara, I have something to tell you. I hope you don't think I'm crazy.”

  “Why would I think you are crazy?” I asked, incredulous that we'd be having a conversation that began like this.

  “Because I can't see you for a month or two. My aunt Doreen in Michigan just broke her hip. I'm flying today to take care of her. I'd rather go to a museum with you.”

  “We can do that another time,” I said, holding back my disappointment.

  “And I can never get decent cell reception at her house. Calls drop off. Let's email in the meantime. Friend me on Facebook. I'll need something to keep me going.”

  Immediately after hanging up, I signed on to Facebook, searched for, and friended Jessica. I now had 51 friends. Then I noticed correspondence from Derrick:

  I'm planning a trip to the Bay Area next week. I was wondering if you were going to be near San Francisco in the next 10 days, so we might hook up. My schedule is somewhat flexible. I eagerly await your response.

  Derrick was going to be on the West Coast…eager to see me? A married man with a secure job, wife, and kids…worlds away from my life. He was interested in a fling with a fantasy from his youth? Flattered by the flirtation, this seemed like a bad idea.

  I wrote back: Thanks for thinking of me. I live in Los Angeles, a plane ride away from the Bay Area with no plans to be near there. Enjoy your trip.

  An hour later Derrick wrote back: What if I made a stop in L.A.? Would you meet me for dinner?

  One meal with a college flirtation, decades later? That would be harmless, right? I'd write about it. My Facebook flirtation. Maybe Cosmo would be interested. They pay well. I wrote back: Don't make a special trip just for me. But if you are in L.A., dinner would be nice. I didn't want to say great—that would sound eager and interested.

  That next Saturday I drove to the airport to pick up Derrick. He was a virtual stranger to me. I hardly knew him now and barely knew him 30 years ago. We were in a pottery class together at college, spending Tuesday and Thursday nights together in independent study, sharing studio time—just us, the clay, and the potter's wheel. This was years before the movie Ghost where feeling the clay through your fingers and throwing a pot became immortalized as an erotic experience. Then, clay was just messy. Our clothes and hands were always dirty. That's why I primped with extra care today, making sure my hands and nails were perfect. In college his hair was shoulder length, same as mine. Now, in his profile picture there's only a wreath of peach fuzz like a newborn chick that nestles from ear to ear.

  I wore my skinniest size-eight jeans to help erase the memory of my big girl size 18 college self. In school, Derrick was so skinny he wore thickly knitted fisherman's sweaters to look like there was some meat on his bones. His slim frame seemed breakable anywhere near my insecure big girl girth. So I never thought of him amorously, and always kept our relationship at arm's length. That's not going to change. Tonight is just dinner, I told myself, then looked in the rear-view mirror to check my hair and lips. />
  Would we recognize each other? I searched my bag for a piece of paper to fashion a sign. I found a printout of an email from Jessica:

  Every afternoon having tea with my aunt, I wish I was with you. Hoping to see you soon.

  I reread the note, smiled, then wrote Derrick Sanderson on the back in large letters, parked the car, and strode to the gate while straightening my clothes.

  The plane from Chicago was on time. People from that flight were walking off the escalator towards baggage. No one looked familiar. I held my sign up and stood so all passengers could see me.

  A bald man (with even less hair than the profile photo) in a loosely fitting Italian sweater was at the top of the stairs. His smile increased as he rushed down the escalator. Was this Derrick? He leapt off the escalator and strode towards me with outstretched arms that he then wrapped around me.

  “Sara! You are more beautiful than I could have possibly imagined,” he whispered, lips to my ear, in that soothing voice, the one thing that remained unchanged. Surprisingly, this was quite an intoxicating moment. I leaned in and hugged him back. Not sure how long we'd lingered, both breaking from the embrace and back to reality, we took a few steps towards the exit, both eager to be out of there, and in somewhere else.

  “Baggage claim?” I said, now walking in that direction.

  “No. All I need is my knapsack, right here, same as always. Let's go.”

  We drove straight to a little Italian restaurant on Lincoln Boulevard, not far from the airport. As soon as we were seated, Derrick studied the wine list.

  “Bottle of red to celebrate?”

  “Sure,” I said, nervous, anxious, and reminding myself that I wasn't on a date. There was a tingling amorous connection here. But I was mindfully aware it was just a nostalgic college dinner with another woman's husband.

  “Osso buco for two,” he suggested. “Expense account.”

  “I thought you were a vegetarian?” I offered, remembering.

  “That was in the '70s. Now I'm a special occasion carnivore. And this is a very special occasion.”

  As I was reaching for the bread basket, he reached for my hand. Too startled to recoil, I was curious for him to reveal his agenda. Email communicates only so much.

  “I feel as giddy as a school girl,” he blushed. “You know I had the biggest crush on you in college. But was too shy and virginal to approach you.”

  “You were a virgin?”

  “I wanted you to remedy that. I was in math club. We were all virgins.”

  We both sipped wine—to help us swallow Derrick's statement. I was flattered but uncomfortable. A giant salad arrived. He cheerfully and dutifully put salad on a small plate and gave it to me, just like a good dad.

  “How are your daughters?”

  “I like being a parent. I'm a good dad for daughters. They think I'm sensitive, easy to confide in.”

  “Yes, that's one of your best qualities. I remember whenever we talked, I never felt like a fat girl.”

  “I never saw you as fat. You had gorgeous skin and were luscious—with long hair and a warm smile,“ he said reflectively, like it was last week.

  I wanted to make a joke, but thankfully stepped on my own line. As I took a bite of salad, Derrick studied me. “It's good to see that you are even lovelier than I'd remembered. I've thought about you a lot over the years, always wondering what it would be like to be with you.”

  I stopped chewing. I had a feeling he'd open his heart to me, so why was I taken aback that it was happing? Did I think he'd rather wait till after the main course rather than before? The idiot and the mathematician. Change the subject.

  “So you like your job?” I said, trying to cool down the moment.

  “I like you, always have,” he said, gently turning the heat back on.

  “Well, it's nice having dinner with you. I know you are probably tired and have a busy day tomorrow with your conference.

  “Slept on the plane. More wine?” he said, beaming, looking at me adoringly.

  Here was a kind, loving man, pouring out his feelings— and more wine to me. I should have paid better attention to him in college. If I did, maybe I would have had a good husband, not the crummy one I chose. Good husband. That's an oxymoron for my life. He's someone else's good husband. Don't even think of him like the other men you have dinner with—I reprimanded myself. The main course arrived. I wanted the meal to move quickly now. I thought if I could gently deflect the conversation, I could change the mood and calm his agenda.

  Taking a bite, he said, “Everything tonight is great, better than I could have imagined.” He looked up to smile at me.

  I nodded, but continued eating, thinking that the quicker I ate, the sooner I'd be home in bed, alone.

  Derrick talked about cheering the girls on at swim meets, coaching their baseball teams, and hiking with them on Sundays. He was a devoted dad who adored his daughters and never mentioned his wife. So the reporter in me dove in.

  “You haven't said a word about your wife.”

  “Rita? We've become dear friends, confidantes, not so much lovers anymore. I miss that.”

  “You know, the articles I write help women have better relationships.”

  “So you have all the answers? You must have great relationships —tell me,” his voice lowered.

  “No. There's no one. Those who can, are in relationships. Those who can't, talk about them. Those who really can't, write for women's magazines,” I joked. Neither of us laughed. In this moment I felt sad for myself. I was face-to-face with a great, stable guy—who was yearning for me—worlds away from the men I knew. But he was untouchable—off limits to me.

  After he signed for the check, Derrick touched my hand, and said, “I thought you were a great prize. I was sure someone would sweep you off your feet, love, and cherish you…I always thought about how I'd wished you'd have given me a chance. You never seemed to notice me then. But it's not the '70s anymore. Are you ready to go?”

  Back in my car, I drove robotically, searching for his hotel, eager to cool the inner heat and end the evening. As I drove into the circular drive, my heart raced with uncertainty. “Thank you for dinner,” I said officiously, as if speaking to one of the blind dates I knew would never have a sequel.

  Derrick turned and leaned in. He kissed my cheek and lingered, saying, “I wish you'd come upstairs with me, just for a drink.” His voice was soft and inviting like outstretched arms hungering for a heated caress.

  I took a deep breath and whispered back, “We both know I should go.” I felt pleased that I'd said something mature and kind. Derrick kissed my cheek again and then moved towards my mouth. Another sweet peck, and then he got out of the car.

  I watched him walk through the hotel's glass doors before driving away. After turning on the radio, I tried to cool down my overheated self.

  As soon as I arrived home, I had to wash my face. While toweling off I thought, this is the closest I've gotten to an emotional connection with a man in two years. It doesn't even feel like anything. So why am I still thinking about him—wondering what his naked chest looks like? Wondering what it would be like to have his hands on me – I closed my eyes and realized my nipples were getting harder. I touched my breasts as my mind raced to what a kiss might feel like. Just as my hand wandered into my panties, Julia called.

  “I think you just interrupted a sexual experience,” I said.

  “You're not sure?”

  “It was self-pleasure, following a Facebook date.” I remarked.

  “Was any of this in the real world, or are you living in cyberspace?”

  “Real person. But he's married, from out-of-town, the loathsome double don't. I was going to diddle myself so no one would get hurt.”

  “Good plan of action.”

  “Glad you think so. And you?”

  I did that earlier today, to break in and celebrate a new vibrator I bought yesterday, after dinner with twin lesbians yesterday. Tonight, cocktails with my neighbor Di
ego.

  “Doesn't he have the mirror on his bedroom ceiling?”

  “Yup, it's so disco era. But he's a great cook with a giant cock!”

  “Have you given up on love in your life?” I asked, uncertain.

  “While love is elusive, I don't want to be sex-starved,” Julia said proudly.

  “I look up to you…and not with a mirror on the ceiling.”

  The following morning I called my editor at Today's Woman magazine and pitched an article: Facebook Flirtations, 10 Women Share. My editor said she'd have to think about it. Then I pitched the idea of a quiz: Are You Bisexual?

  She said, “Write it up. We'll use it as filler.”

  Chapter 20

  Are You Bisexual?

  After drinking a pot of strong coffee, I prepared to compose the quiz. What I loved most about writing self-help articles was getting paid to do my own personal problem-solving.

  When you're at a party, who do you look at first, men or women?

  men

  women

  I look for the bar or the food

  How do you feel about touching men's bodies?

  great

  fine if they're there

  no thank you

  How do you feel about touching women's bodies?

  I don't touch any woman's body but my own

  fine if it's there

  great

  The phone rang. I turned away from my quiz.

  “Sara, I'm going to a party tonight. I thought you and April might want to join me,” Beth said, gleefully.

  “We just broke up,” I said. “I left her after what seemed like an argument that could never be resolved.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. I thought she had possibilities.”

  “Me too. But she's a gorgeous bundle of needy.”

  “Oh, so you'll be looking for new women,” Beth exclaimed. “You seem so happy when you're in touch with your female-on-female self.”

  “Well, my girl-on-girl side met someone promising,” I added. “But I've recently had an Internet encounter with a guy from college.”

  “You've been busy, hopefully just having a good time.”

  “The two helped me take my mind off of April. I thought I was starting to fall in love with her, until I felt strangled by her. I recoiled in self-preservation. Does that make me a bad person?”