If the look on her face was any indictor, my mother was as shocked as we were when she saw that receipt. The squeak she made was a dead giveaway that she never expected to get me a five-hundred-dollar visit to the salon for my birthday.
But then she looked back over at me and caught me staring at myself in the mirror again. Very quickly she forgot about the cost and said it was the best birthday present she had ever gotten me.
Well, she didn’t totally forget about the cost. She said it’s also the best Christmas present, because she’ll still be paying this gift off around the holidays so I’m not getting anything else.
It’s still totally worth it. Especially as I walk up the sidewalk to Greg’s condo.
I feel all jittery and nervous, smoothing down my skirt and running my hands over my hair. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me in yoga pants and a messy bun before. Why am I anxious?
Because I like this guy. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why he likes me, but I really, really want to be attractive to him. Not in a she-has-such-a-great-personality way, but in a I’m-really-hot-for-her way. Is it too much to ask for your date to be turned on by you? I think not.
One more smooth down of my skirt. One more fluff of the hair. One more rub of my finger over my teeth to make sure my lipstick doesn’t make me look like I’ve been punched in the mouth when I smile. And I push the doorbell.
He opens the door and stops. And then he stares. And he stares some more.
“What?” I’m not sure why he’s looking intently at me. “Shit, do I have a stain on my shirt?” I pull at the soft fabric, trying to find the spot which is probably on my shoulder. “I told Max not to lay her head down on me after eating peanut butter. Is it bad?”
“No. There’s nothing on your shoulder. Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare…” he opens the door a little wider. “Come in.”
Stepping inside, the first thing I notice is how bright and airy his apartment is. There’s quite a few windows and the blinds are all open, letting the natural light in. The second thing I notice is the aroma.
“Wow, it smells great in here.” Dropping my purse on the couch, I look around at his pictures. They’re everywhere. Some are artsy landscape looking pictures. Some are snapshots of family and friends. But most of them are Peyton over the last two years.
“I’m making pasta primavera,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks toward the back of the room, where I’m assuming the kitchen is. “I hope you don’t mind lots of sauce.”
I laugh and gesture to myself. “I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m not a picky eater. The more sauce the better.”
“Good.” I can see him over the counter, tossing a salad. “Nothing irritates me more than heating up leftovers and the pasta’s too dry because there’s not enough sauce. So I always overdo it.”
“You also need a few more calories than the average person for your job.” I situate myself on the bar stool and watch him work. How in the world does he make chopping lettuce sexy? I need to make an appointment with my ob/gyn. Clearly, I need some sort of hormone therapy. Mine are out of whack. “I still feel terrible that I didn’t know you were a coach.”
“Why?” He throws the salad into a big white bowl and starts chopping up hard boiled eggs.
“I don’t know. I feel like you know so much about me and Callie, and we haven’t made enough effort to know you. Makes me feel like we haven’t really been good friends to you.”
“I kind of like that you didn’t know about my job right away.” A few eggs get added into the bowl along with some dried cranberries. “I like that we can hold fun conversations without bringing work into the discussion. I talk about work all day long. It’s much more fun to talk about things like what a perv Callie’s mother really was before she had Calixta.” He emphasizes her given name, referring to the character she was named after, which makes me laugh. Callie’s mom really is kind of kooky.
“Shoot! I forgot the wine.” He turns toward the fridge and grabs a bottle of something pink.
“You got us wine?” A slow smile crosses my face.
He looks surprised I would even ask. “Of course I did. What kind of date would this be if I didn’t splurge at least a little?”
It’s been a long time since anyone has made that kind of effort for me, and I can’t help but wonder, of all the people in the world he could have asked out, why me? I’m nothing special. No that’s not right. I’m special to my family and friends. I’m just nothing overly remarkable. I’m kind of… average. Average height, average weight, average number of kids. He’s got a good job, is a loving father, and is pretty much the prettiest man I’ve ever met in person. I can’t quite see how we’d be on equal footing if this went any further than one date.
Well, that’s depressing.
Putting those thoughts out of my head again, I concentrate on having a fun evening.
“How did Fiona like her first class anyway?” He pulls the cork out of the bottle with ease and pours two glasses.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about work,” I chide, taking a sip of the crisp Moscato. It’s good. Sweet and not too dry.
“I don’t. But I’d like to get to know you better and part of that means getting to know your kids.”
I hold his stare and see nothing but sincerity in his gaze. It’s a little frightening when he says things like this. It makes me feel good, but also makes me nervous. What if I say or do something wrong? Will he stop liking me? And why the hell do I sound like an overly dramatic high schooler? Did Jordan’s immaturity rub off on me while I was at the salon?
I’m disappointed in myself for always going back to my insecurities. I’m a nice woman. I have a lot going for me and I have a lot to give. If someone can’t see that, even Mr. Perfect here, that’s not my problem.
“She had a great time. She’s been wanting to take classes for a while now, but I kept dropping the ball.”
He tsks playfully at me. “How could you keep forgetting?”
“I know, I know. I’m the world’s worst mom. You would think being a former gymnast myself, I would’ve gotten her in there the minute she showed an interest.”
“I knew you were a gymnast the minute I set eyes on you.” He moves around the kitchen when the timer buzzes, finishing up our dinner. For as tall as he is, he’s not lanky. He doesn’t slink around the room. He’s way more graceful.
“How could you tell?”
“Every former gymnast looks the same when they see the equipment,” he says, waving away the steam as he drains the pasta. “It’s like they’re trying not to run over to the bars and climb on. Even if they’re little bars like Peyton and Max use.”
“Guilty.” I raise my hand in the air. “I had to hold myself back from running out on the mat with Fiona the other day. It looked like a lot of fun.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost thrown my back out demonstrating a move. Getting old is kind of shitty sometimes.”
“Were you a gymnast growing up?” My mouth starts watering as I watch him mix the sauce into the pasta and dish out our servings. It smells really good, and I have a soft spot for carbs, as my waist line reminds me on a daily basis.
“I wasn’t. Is this enough?” He holds up the plate full of steamy goodness. I nod and take it from him, following him to the small table off the kitchen. He refills our wine glasses and makes sure we have everything we need before digging in.
“If you weren’t a gymnast…” I ask around a bite of my food. Good lord, this is good. “How did you get into coaching?”
He chews and swallows his bite before answering. “My sister, Joie, was a gymnast.” He gestures to a picture on his wall. I’m pretty sure it’s his family, but none of them look anything alike. The older couple, I’m assuming are his parents, both have an olive complexion and dark hair. They’re average height. The woman, I guess is his sister, is short and looks to be Hispanic. She’s standing next to a dark haired teenage boy. He’s a good-looking kid. And then there’s Greg, holding Peyton. He’s taller than anyone else by at least a few inches, and blond with blue eyes. “I spent a lot of time at the gym during her practices when I was young, so the coaches knew my family pretty well. By the time I was in high school, I was over six feet, and when they needed to hire some big, strong guys to learn how to spot, they called me.”
“Wait… did your sister train here?”
He shakes his head and wipes his mouth. “No. Most of my family is in San Antonio. I moved here when I was in college and my boss happened to be friends with Dave, the owner here. They needed a coach. I needed a job. I’ve been there ever since.”
“That’s really cool. It’s almost like you fell into your calling.”
“Yep. I realized pretty quickly how much I loved it. But I also knew there isn’t much room for advancement as a coach, so I got a business degree. Now, I run most of the operations.”
“That’s really awesome.”
“I think so.” He stacks our plates and leans back in his chair, sipping his wine and flashing that flirty smile. “What about you? Did you get a scholarship to a Big 10 university?”
“Hardly,” I say, playing with my hair. This is literally the only flirty move I know, and since my new ‘do makes me feel pretty confident, I go for it. “I got to Level 9. I have no idea what that means anymore since they changed the levelling system.”
“It’s still almost elite level. You were pretty good.”
“Yeah, I held my own. I just couldn’t get past that mental block.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes hold so much interest in what I’m saying. I don’t remember anyone ever really hearing me talk about my gymnastics days. It’s either something that interests you or it doesn’t. I don’t know if he’s interested because it’s his career or because he’s interested in me.
“Um... it’s like the harder the skills got, the more fear I started feeling. It’s hard to explain, but I started visualizing crashing and burning my release moves.”
“And you couldn’t do them anymore?”
“Exactly. I did everything I could think of to visualize sticking my landings and completing the moves, but I hit a wall.”
What I don’t tell him is that I still struggle with this part of myself. It doesn’t affect my normal day-to-day life, but if I start to feel anxiety about a situation, if I don’t get a grip on it quickly, it can become debilitating. Like people who run from a four-centimeter spider, or women who refuse to have their picture taken. It doesn’t really affect anything externally, but internally the struggle is real.
“It happens to the best of them,” he responds. “I can’t tell you the number of athletes we’ve had to get into hypnosis or some other therapy to help get past that. Want something else to drink?” He stands and gathers our plates, taking them to the sink.
“I think I’ll stick with water now. Two glasses of wine is my limit these days.”
He begins cleaning the kitchen and I jump in to help. It’s nice working side by side with him as we talk. I got used to doing all the clean up by myself over the years, having an adult conversation while getting something accomplished almost makes doing the dishes, dare I say, fun.
I definitely need to stick to water the rest of the night.
We talk more about the gym, and I’m shocked by how much political drama happens behind the scenes. From stage moms to employee hook-ups, it makes me glad I’ve never tried to run a business.
I tell him about my job as a flight attendant before having kids and the favorite places I’ve traveled.
We laugh about Christopher’s antics and “aww” over the stories of our kids’ accomplishments. It’s all so… easy. The conversation is entertaining and doesn’t feel forced. I can feel myself relaxing, and not wondering if I’m going to say the wrong thing. It’s different than I remember past relationships being. Even my marriage.
Is this what it should have been like all along?
That thought alone is eye opening. This is the kind of relationship I want for the rest of my life. Easy, free, fun. I have no idea if Greg is going to be the one to give it to me, but at least I’m learning what to strive for. I’ll call that a win.
Once everything is clean and put away, we move to the couch with our water and continue to enjoy each other’s company.
“How long have you been divorced?” Greg’s entire body is turned towards me, all his attention on me.
“I guess it’s been official for about nine months.”
“Isn’t he already married though?” Leave it to Greg to be confused by how little integrity my ex has. That speaks volumes for his character that he can’t even wrap his brain around it.
“Yeah, they got married a couple months after I said, ‘I don’t.’” I smile, because I think it’s humorous. For as much as James wants people to think he’s important, he seems to have no problem with people figuring out why he left his wife of fifteen years. Greg doesn’t seem to think it’s funny at all. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget that not every man thinks marriage means forever like I do.”
“And yet, you’re divorced.”
“Touché,” he says around his drink of water. “You make a good point, but that wasn’t my decision. Libby left me.”
This shocks me. I don’t know Greg well, but from everything I know, he’s practically perfect. Sure, he could be a total sociopath, but kids are usually pretty good judges of character and they gravitate towards him. That counts for something, right?
“Why in the world would she leave someone like you?”
“Someone like me, huh?” He grins like a stoner at 4:20 on April 20th.
“You know what I mean. Your house is clean. You can cook. You’re kind and funny and fantastic with Peyton. Do you have a secret fetish or something?”
He chuckles and absentmindedly begins playing with a lock of my hair. “No, but I think she might. She’s a little… high maintenance. One day she decided she hates my guts—I still don’t know what that’s about—and she left.”
“That’s terrible!”
He shrugs. “It is and it’s not. I realized pretty quickly how relieved I was that she was gone. Don’t get me wrong, it was awful losing Peyton that way. She was just a baby, and I had to fight like hell to get her a few hours a week. But besides that, it’s like I could breathe when Libby left. She took all her crazy with her. I like not having to deal with that every day.”
I can relate. I remember feeling that way when my divorce was finally complete. I was sad that it was over, but relieved as well.
Our eyes lock and he bites his lip. Suddenly, the vibe in the room changes. It becomes almost electric.
“I really like your hair,” he whispers, as he begins to lean in closer, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it down before.”
“That’s because I got it done the other day,” I whisper back.
Ohmygod what is happening? Is he going to kiss me? I hope he doesn’t kiss me. Oh, but I hope he does. What do I do? All of these thoughts are scrambling my brain, but all I can focus on is his lips moving closer to mine.
“I really like it,” he whispers one last time and his lips almost make it to his target, when I pull away and ruin it all.
“Why me?” I blurt out.
He stops and takes a breath. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled he was holding it in preparation for a little lip lock. But then he turns the tables on my question. “Why not you?”
“I…well…” He just said he didn’t want any more crazy. That’s all I seem to be these days. A hot mess of neuroses about every facet of my life. Deciding honesty is the best policy, I lay it all on the line. “Look at you. You’re tall and handsome and have abs for days, and yes I caught a glimpse at the gym accidentally.” I nudge his hand with my shoulder playfully making him blush a bit. “Women flock to you because you’re kind and great with kids. Me? I have wrinkles and a leftover baby gut. When I drop the girls off at school and wave goodbye, the skin under my arm is still waving ten minutes later. I’m a terrible dresser and I’m slightly neurotic. We,” I wave back and forth between us, “are not all that equally matched.”
He thinks for a second and now I’m having second thoughts about my honesty. The whole point of a first date is to hide all your imperfections, not point them out for him to focus on. I’m gonna have to get a subscription to Teen Magazine to get some dating tips. They worked back in high school. Surely nothing has changed that much.
“Let me ask you a question,” Greg finally says. “What are some of the things you like about yourself?”
“What?” This was not how I was expecting the conversation to turn.
“What do you like? For instance, you have some killer one-liners. I never know what you’re going to say, and I like that.”
“Really?”
“Really. Your turn.”
I take a breath and think for a second. There have to be some things I like about myself. I never thought hard about them before. It takes me a few seconds to come up with something.
“Well, I kind of like how I parent.” He nods encouragingly. “I watch too many moms become helicopter parents and I want my girls to experience life, and that’s going to include disappointments and boo-boos. Sure, my job is to protect them from serious things, but I want them to be strong and independent and not be shocked when they don’t always get what they want.”
“I like that about you, too. What else?”
“That’s not enough?”
“Humor me,” he says with a smile.
“Ok.” I clear my throat. “I like that I’m able to set aside my annoyance with my ex, enough to have family events with the girls so they can still have some sense of normalcy. Um… I like that I try really hard not to judge people, especially if I don’t know them. I like my humor, I guess. I don’t know. This is hard.”
He shifts in his seat, grabs my hand, and starts playing with my fingers. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You’re fun and funny. You’re kind and laid back. You love your friends and family fiercely and put them before yourself. I love the way you handle having a broken family. I wish Libby and I could get along that well. Those are the things I see. I don’t see wrinkles or gray hairs or flab. I see you. And I like what I see.”
“You do?” I whisper, totally and completely mesmerized by his words.
“I do.”
“But I want you to think I’m pretty.”
There. I said it. The crux of all my hesitation.
“I don’t think you’re pretty.” My heart drops a bit. “I think you’re stunningly beautiful. Even when you pull your hair up.” Forget the drop. Now my heart soars as he leans in closer and this time, I lean back. “Can I kiss you now?”
“Please.”
Instantly, his lips are on mine. They’re soft and warm and feel so good as they move. He pulls back briefly, only to lock eyes with me, then to come right back. Only this time, his lips open and mine follow. His tongue is in my mouth, and he tastes like wine and pasta. And I love it.
I can’t figure out where to put my hands. I want to run them through his hair and grab onto his shoulders and pull him to me, but I can’t do it all at once, so I settle for wrapping them around his neck.
His kiss gets deeper and soon we’re laying on the couch, him on top of me. Me enjoying the feel of him. We explore each other’s lips and mouths and soon he’s kissing down my neck and my body is ready to take this further. I want to feel his touch on my skin. I want my touch on his. I want to make this the start of something special.
Rubbing his hands up and down my back as we kiss, I know I’m going to feel it for days. There’s no way I’ll forget the feel of his touch.
His hands move up and over, grazing over part of my stomach…
And then I hit that visual wall. The one that makes me tense up and expect the worst.
I know where his hand is headed. “I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt out right before he touches my boob.
He freezes. Slowly, he puts his hand back down and pulls us to a sitting position. I cringe. I blew it. The crazy he’s not looking for just reared its ugly head and he’s never going to want to see me again.
“I wasn’t planning on having sex with you tonight.”
“Oh.” Well, now I feel foolish.
He pulls me forward and gives me a gentle peck on the lips. “It’s not because I don’t want to sleep with you. It’s because I don’t want to jump the gun. You’re still skittish and I don’t want to push you before you’re ready. Before I’m ready.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “Oh.”
He cocks a half-grin. “And Elena, we may never get to that point. Who knows. We may be better as friends. But I hope you’ll try this with me. I like you. I’d like to see where this can go.”
I bite my lip, trying really hard not to smile like that girl whose picture turned into all those crazy stalker memes. “I’d like that, too.”
“Good. Now, would you like to watch a movie?”
There’s nothing I’d like more except…. “I think I need to head home. Kissing you is kind of, well, frankly it turns me on…”
He barks a laugh. One-liners for the win!
“… and if I don’t leave, I may change my mind, which sounds great. But then, by tomorrow, you’ll see how neurotic I can be, so I’m going to shut up now because I sound like a crazy woman.”
Continuing to chuckle, he grabs my hand and pulls me to a stand. “You don’t sound crazy. You make me feel good about myself.” He kisses me again. I really could do this all night. “Let me walk you to your car.”
We spend another several minutes making out against my car, until someone honks while driving by and reminds us we’re outside. I feel smitten, which is something I haven’t felt in a while.
The entire drive home is a blur. I lock every single moment of our date into my memory. Even if it doesn’t work out, I’ll have these memories. Memories of the way I feel. Memories of the way I should be treated. Memories of what I want. And I won’t settle for less anymore.
My phone buzzes as I pull into my driveway. I know who it is right away.
Callie: Well??? How was your date?
Normally, I’d answer but this time, I ignore her. For the first time in a while, I’m going to be selfish and keep these memories all to myself.