CHAPTER FOUR
When I finally pull up to the house, I’m still a little dazed from my conversation with Kyle, but not so out of it that I don’t notice the light in Dad’s window. Knowing he sometimes nods off with the TV on, I tap his door lightly with my knuckles instead of just walking in.
“That you, Sarahbelle?” comes the hoarse rasp.
Breathing the usual sigh of relief when I know he’s still with us, I enter. Ralph’s propped up in bed, looking thin and weak. But he’s smiling, fingers dancing over his iPad screen as he deals out cards for a hand of solitaire. “You’re getting in late. How’d everything go?”
“Well, Dad, I…” I sit down on the edge of the mattress next to him, so I can see the cards he’s setting up, one by one. “I agreed to Kyle’s terms.”
Ralph nods slowly.
“Okay. So he gave you the whole sales pitch, huh?”
“What? You knew he was going to ask me for three months?”
“Sure. He had the whole thing worked out in his head. He even paid for the treatment while we were on the phone.” Dad puts down a five of hearts, then realizes he’s blocked himself from laying out any other cards this round. “Ahh, dammit…”
I straighten my shoulders indignantly.
“Dad. Answer me honestly. Did you sell me to this guy for your surgery?”
Dad lets the iPad drop into his lap. He turns to me, his eyes watery but hard and serious. “Sarah, come on. If I needed a head transplant, I wouldn’t do that to you. Kyle brought up the idea, and before I could say anything, he’d logged onto the hospital website. He was gonna do this either way.” He looks me up and down, notes the thoughtful frown lines in my forehead. “What did you think of him, Sarahbelle?”
I decide not to say anything about Kyle’s deep blue eyes and how they cut straight through to my soul and made me tingle inside. “Well, he certainly seems to think highly of himself.”
Dad chuckles, a dry crackle, like clattering bones. “Yeah, he’s a confident S.O.B., all right.” The laugh devolves into a cough, one that starts out small, but soon has Dad’s chest and lungs rattling so hard it feels like he’s vibrating to pieces. I put a bracing hand on his back, keep him as upright as possible until he catches his breath. It’s a regular part of our routine together, one that’s getting more frequent as the weeks and months go by.
“I’m telling you,” he finally manages to sigh out, “he’s a good guy. Now I just gotta make it three months until he can get me admitted. Make sure the man gets his money’s worth.”
I smile gently, helping Ralph lie down before getting ready for bed myself. And that night, under the covers, I keep trying to puzzle out the psyche of a guy who would make the “deal” Kyle brokered with me this evening. The kind of man who’d pay for a potentially life-saving surgery for a man he’s never met face to face. The sheer, no-fear bravado to even suggest something as insane as the arrangement he’s whipped up between the two of us.
And then I remember. Since he was a teenager, Kyle has been designing technology that saves people’s lives. With that kind of power at your command from a young age, of course you’re going to start thinking you can pretty much conquer the world. For people like Kyle, life follows a very simple rule: You ask for what you want, and the universe delivers. And as someone who’s wanted nothing more for the last two years now than just to see my father well again, to find a man with that kind of power, who wants to use it to give you the thing you want…
I think about Kyle’s eyes. The way they locked in on me, the blue dazzling even in the dark of night. The way his bulk loomed, huge and massive, yet oddly familiar too.
I find my fingers creeping towards the waistband of my panties, then think better of it.
No. I said I wasn’t going to sleep with him tonight, and I meant it. Not even in my dreams.
Besides, I find myself thinking as I slip off to sleep, you’ve got three months to decide if you really want to.
* * * * *
My first real date with Kyle comes three days later. When he texts to say he’ll pick me up at noon, he doesn’t tell me what he’s got planned. He just says: Wear clean socks. So at least I know for this date, the little black dress isn’t the way to go. I opt for a fluffy but breathable white sweater and jeans with just the right amount of snug. Lili saw them once, when I came into Perch on a day off to pick up a book I’d left in the break room. She called them my “bootylicious jeans.” Either way, I feel good when I wear them, so even if I have a bad time today, at least I’ll feel nice about myself.
I’m up in Dad’s room, presenting him with his freshly charged iPad and some homemade beef vegetable soup, when I hear the car horn outside. Without even looking, I know it’s Kyle. Somehow, the horn of his car even sounds expensive.
“Is that him?” Dad asks, tucking a napkin into the collar of his T-shirt.
I look out the window, and it’s not a sports car. Instead, he’s driving a vintage Triumph Spitfire, gunmetal gray, top down like he’s got nothing to worry about in the world. And sure enough, the man flashes me a white smile, making me go soft inside.
Oh god, the date hasn’t even started yet, and I already want him.
“So it’s not him, then?”
Dad has misinterpreted my involuntary shiver. “No, it’s him.” I catch Kyle looking up at the window through his sunglasses and give him a quick “just a minute” wave. I turn to Dad and take a deep breath that catches about halfway down to my lungs. “So how do I look?”
“Sweetie,” he says, “you look nervous as hell.”
I blush a little when I realize he’s right. It strikes me as funny that I would feel nervous at all. I mean, I’m just going out with this fellow because of what he did for Dad and because I owe him. It’s the right thing to do. That’s the only reason.
Isn’t it?
“I know, I just, this is all still kind of strange.”
“Well, just remember. You’re going out to have a good time. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Thanks Ralph,” I say softly, nodding to the iPad. “And don’t set me up with any more men while I’m out.”
“I won’t,” he says, letting a mischievous grin creep over his face. “Unless I find one who’s free three months from now.”
I laugh a little at Dad’s joke, give him a goodbye peck on the forehead and head down and out the door.
“Some ride,” I laugh lightly, slipping on my own shades as I climb in. “What’s next? You show up in the Batmobile?”
Kyle smiles off-handedly at this.
“Naw, I only have the two cars. I just thought it’s a nice day for February, figure we’d get some sun along the way.” He makes sure I’m settled in, my door closed, before he takes off. As he eases the car down my block, he glances at my feet and sees my “good” tennis shoes. “You wear clean socks like I told you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know why you’re so worried about my socks. Are my shoes okay? Should I have worn deck shoes or -”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you don’t get stared at when you change shoes.”
Change shoes? What is he…
That’s when I notice the leather bag nestled next to his hip on the seat by the driver’s side door. You only ever find one thing in a bag that size and shape.
“We’re going bowling?”
“Something wrong?”
I laugh lightly.
“No. You just seem like a serious guy. Bowling is all about old people having fun. Didn’t know it was you.”
Those blue eyes gleam.
“You don’t know a lot about me Sarah. You’ll see.”
I laugh again because finding out more about this mysterious man is right up my alley, and I can’t wait.
As we hit a red light, Kyle tilts his shades down, the better to fix me with those penetrating blue eyes.
“Something you’ll learn these next three months, Sarah: Having money doesn’t mean that you have to live a certain way. It doesn’t mean I have to eat at fancy places, or wear expensive clothes, or any of that stuff. In fact, things doesn’t matter at all.” He smiles. “I eat at taco trucks because it tastes good. And now, today, I think bowling sounds fun.” The light turns green, and his eyes are back on the road. “Do you like bowling?”
I quickly realize that there’s a lot more to this man than fancy things. He seems to understand that the best things in life are free, even if all around him are the trappings of incredible wealth.
I nod shyly.
“Sure, bowling’s okay.”
Truth is, I’d probably like bowling a lot better if I was even slightly good at it. When we get to Lucky Strike, where Kyle’s reserved a lane for the afternoon, he doesn’t make a fuss when I ask the manager if we can have one with bumpers. Even so, I send almost as many shots around the pins as through them. Kyle shells out an extra few dollars so he can use the bumperless lane to the right of ours to bowl his own frames. I should have known what to expect the minute I saw that gold “280” stick pin on his bag. He’s a brilliant bowler, dropping the ball to the lane with supreme precision, picking up strikes and spares seemingly at will. Even so, he does leave an occasional pin or two hanging. Just like that little “280” suggests, the man’s not perfect. But he’s the next best thing to it.
After our games, we order a couple of beers and a plate of chicken nachos. I pick around the edges of the platter, trying to avoid the fattening melted nacho cheese and sour cream. Kyle has no such worries, washing down each hearty mouthful with a sip of beer. He’s not a sloppy eater, but a very enthusiastic one. Just like the high school kid he was when he set on the road to billion-hood.
“I have to ask,” I say, clearly envious, “how can you eat like that and stay in such good shape?”
“I work out for an hour, first thing every morning. Lats, delts, Soloflex, bench press. Run five miles on the treadmill every other day. Plus, I’ve got metabolism like a hummingbird. Just blessed with it, I guess.”
I heave a deep sigh. “Boy, that must be nice. Feels like everything I eat, I carry for the next ten years. And I really don’t even eat that much. I’ve just always been, you know…” I search for the nicest way I can think of to call myself fat. I settle for “...on the thicker side.”
Kyle’s eyes again glide down over my full hips, the curve of my backside against the vinyl-covered booth seat. “So you’re blessed, too, then.”
My cheeks flush hot, an involuntary reaction to what was clearly a compliment about my body. If Kyle notices, he doesn’t comment. He peers in his beer bottle. “You want another one, or are you good?”
“Sure, I’ll take another.”
“Still drinking Diet Coke?”
I think about what Kyle just said to me. About my blessings. “Make it a regular Coke.”
Kyle smiles. “Just for the taste of it.”
I giggle at the familiar tagline, and look on as Kyle flags down our waitress. He’s clearly not really flirting, but there’s something about the way he gently touches her elbow, the ripples of laughter he pulls from her without visible effort. Maybe it’s because he’s dedicated his life to easing people’s pain, but it’s like he can’t turn it off. He makes people feel special, and it seems to work.
Plus, I have to confess. I like the way Kyle looks at me, the way he sizes up my body and seems genuinely excited by what he sees. When he looks me over, it’s not with contempt or in a critical, appraising way. He seems to want to absorb my every cell. Some girls might feel uncomfortable if a guy looked at them like that, but not me.
I watch Kyle take up a nacho, flick a stray piece of cheese-cloaked chicken onto his tongue before he digs in.
Kyle likes his meat. And I, for one, am just fine with that.