5
Delaney
Nicole was right.
Trevor is a hottie.
And a smartypants.
And he’s interesting to talk to.
After work on Wednesday evening, we meet outside Central Park, grab some kabobs at a food truck called Skewered just inside the park entrance, then stroll and chat.
Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about beer, mostly the craft kind. He travels around the country, visits different breweries, and taste tests the beer.
“Toughest part of the job?” I ask.
He takes a bite of a chicken kabab then answers. “The spitting. Honestly, I’d have to say it’s the constant spitting after the tasting.”
I laugh. “Do you have to carry a bucket with you? Or do you prefer an old-fashioned spittoon?”
He holds up a finger. “Actually, I’m quite advanced. I have a custom mug that says ‘When in doubt, spit it out.’” His smile lights up his handsome face and his light blue eyes.
I arch an eyebrow. “Do you really have a mug?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. The truth is far less glamorous. I just spit into a glass.”
“Ever wish you could swallow?” I ask, then nibble on the grilled eggplant on a stick that I ordered.
He cracks up. “I can say with confidence that I do not want to swallow. Or spit. If you know what I mean,” he says, and I nod playfully, letting him know I sure do. “When the brew is delicious, I’ve been known to go into mourning over not being able to consume it. But I can’t spend every day drunk, so spitting it is.” He finishes his chicken and tosses the stick into a trashcan. “What about you, Delaney? What do you like most about your work in massage?”
He meets my eyes, and everything about Trevor seems earnest, upfront, and truthful. I can honestly say this is one of the better dates I’ve been on in a long time. Usually, I can pick up in the first hour the warning signs that the guy will lie, sleep around, or bug the ever-loving hell out of me. Trevor seems like . . . the real deal. And he’s easy on the eyes, too, with his dark blond hair, his lean frame, and his baby blues.
Which means he’s got to be hiding one hell of a skeleton in his closet. Surely something will go wrong any second. I’ve never had a date this comfortable.
“What I like most is that I can effect change, often immediately. Someone comes into the massage room, puts their stress, or pain, or discomfort in my hands, and I’m able to help heal them.”
He nods. “I like that answer. You’re something of a fix-it woman.”
“Maybe in some ways I am,” I say as we reach the edge of the path.
Then we both stop at the same moment and bend down at the same time. We’ve got the same damn target in our crosshairs. “You want to call dibs on the plastic bag pickup or should I?”
His smile spreads across his face. “I’ll do it. You get the next one. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, and Trevor doubles back to toss the plastic bag in the trash can.
A burst of excitement spreads inside me. Nicole called it at the café. She said we had a lot in common, and I rarely meet guys who pick up trash in the park, like I do. It’s a little thing, but it’s part of my contribution to the planet.
We wander through the paths some more, enjoying the warm summer air, chatting about work and friends, and when we leave the oasis in the middle of Manhattan, Trevor tells me he wants to see me again.
“I’d love to see you, too,” I say.
He strokes his chin. “The thing is,” he says, and I tense, figuring this is when I learn he has a secret meth lab in his apartment or an estranged wife who’s hunting him down. “I have to go out of town for a week. I’m leaving Sunday.”
And the answer is none of the above. Which means Trevor might live a skeleton-free existence.
I shrug happily. “Just let me know when you want to get together again. Text me when you return?” I’m all about no pressure at this stage of the game.
He taps his finger to his lips. “I’d love to see you before I go. I have a business dinner on Friday. Any chance you’re free tomorrow or Saturday?”
Well, we’ve got an eager beaver here. “I work late on Thursday, and Saturday night is Girls’ Night Out.”
“Girls’ Night Out is a holy day,” he says, and I smile since he totally gets it.
“It’s sacred. It’s protected in the Constitutional Girl Code.” I don’t miss Girls’ Night Out for anyone. My friends are my rock, my family away from home.
“Then let’s get together when I return from the beer festival. I’m the emcee and a judge.”
“Sounds like fun. Just don’t make the contestants cry with your withering commentary,” I tease.
“I promise to be the non-dickhead judge.” He returns to the issue of scheduling. “How about the Monday night after I return next Sunday?”
Wow. This guy is raring to go. What a nice treat. “Sounds perfect, Trevor.”
He pumps a fist happily. “Excellent. I had such a great time with you, Delaney.” His smile grows big and wide. “I truly can’t wait to see you again. Can I give you a good-bye kiss?” he asks with a cute quirk of his lips.
And he’s polite, too, as well as adorable, even though he’s more gung-ho than I’m used to. But it’s a welcome change not to play games.
“Sure,” I say, pressing my lips together in anticipation. I hope he’s a good kisser. I hope he gives me one of those trip-the-light-fantastic kisses. The kind that’s barely there, just a promise of what’s to come. The kind that sets off sparklers in your chest as you long for more.
I rise up on tiptoe the slightest bit. Ready for a kiss. As early evening traffic whips by on Central Park West, he lowers his face to me, and I wait.
Then he presses his lips to my forehead.
Okkkkaaaaaay.
Nothing wrong with a little forehead action, I suppose.
“Until the next time,” he whispers.
As we head our separate directions, I wait for the butterflies to take flight.
My belly is pretty much butterfly-free, but I’m sure that’s because it was a forehead kiss.
Besides, you can’t really tell about chemistry on the first date.
Surely sizzles and sparks are a second or third date phenomenon.
As I walk home, I send myself a note. Ask Nicole and Penny when butterflies make their damn appearance.
That’ll be a good topic for our night out.
As I get ready for bed, I crank up the music on my phone, blasting my favorite band, Guns N’ Roses. As Axl croons about eyes of the bluest sky, I replay parts of my date. Scrubbing off my makeup, I flash back to the ease of the conversation, to Trevor’s interest in my work, to that little moment with the plastic bag.
I weigh what those might mean and if they harbor any insight into what the next date will be like.
But as I sink into bed, the day washed off, I spot an email and my mind switches to a whole new topic. In a split second, I turn off the music. I can’t listen to the hair bands I love while I read this note. I straighten, my nerves snapping tight as I slide open the message in silence.
Dear Ms. Stewart,
Hope you’re having a good week. I expect to have some information for you soon on the whereabouts of your father. Hang tight.
Best,
Joe Thomas, PI
My stomach roils as I read the note. It’s been more than eight years since I’ve talked to my father—courtesy of that pivotal “congratulations on law school” phone call—and sixteen years since I’ve seen him. The last time I set eyes on the man was the afternoon he shut the door behind him.
He kept in touch—if you can even call it that—with emails on holidays and birthdays. So thoughtful, I know. But that contact dwindled after college. The last I heard, he’d moved to Oregon and shacked up with a new woman. Then he married her and didn’t invite us to his wedding. I would have been the worst flower girl anyway, considering I’m no fan of the groom, so that wasn’t a huge loss in the scheme of things.
The loss, though, was the end of contact with my father.
I don’t know if he’s in Oregon, or if he and his new bride decided to, say, set sail across the seven seas. Move to Peru to build homes. Escape to Canada.
I’ve no clue.
But since I’m turning thirty in a few more weeks, I decided now was as good a time as any to find out what had become of the man who gave me his last name. Watching someone who’s supposed to love you to the moon and back slam the door on his family can give you a warped sense of, well, of everything. My recent dating woes surely cast their lines back to the day that I heard the screech of his tires backing out of the driveway.
I don’t wonder if he’s dead or alive. If he’d died, news would have traveled back to me.
That’s not why I’m on the hunt.
I’m searching now because I want to know what happened to the man who left. Maybe then I can better understand what to make of the moment with the plastic bag and Trevor.
Not to mention the salad and the lilacs from Tyler.