CHAPTER TWENTY-4
There he was. Playing pool as usual. Except for some reason, he didn't seem as intimidating as usual. Probably because Diana was wearing a size fourteen. Granted, it was a little snug, but not Somebody-stepped-on-my-oxygen snug. And she knew it was all right to admit to herself the snugness of things because she was already in a smaller size. It was acceptable snugness, snugness she understood to be temporary. However, if during her 178-days, her sixteens had felt a little snug, she would have convinced herself that she was either premenstrual (Well, I am due in twelve days.) or in need of a new washing machine (That damn piece of crap shrinks everything I own!). And this was because she would never have allowed herself to graduate to an eighteen. Of course, that was how she'd felt about sixteens before she'd graduated to those. But that was going way back—Diana hadn't been a fourteen since the first Bush administration. So, sitting here now, in a long, somewhat fitted, but not unflatteringly tight, black, V-neck, size-fourteen dress—cleavage popping, hair fluffy, and lips pouty—she couldn't feel more accomplished. Well, actually, she could. But bedding Mr. Wonderful would have to wait until after last call, or at least until he stopped playing pool long enough to approach the bar for a drink. For Diana had decided on no more pool compliments. She was not about to risk utter humiliation for another "Yeah, thanks."
So she waited. And her thoughts turned to her reunion with Barry in Mrs. Bartle's living room. She couldn't believe that for all these years he never knew she was only seventeen that night in his pickup. But now that he knew, his image of the girl he nailed during his premarital, pre-entrepreneurial stud days—and actually remembered—might be way sexier (once he was over that whole robbing-the-cradle thing). For wasn't seventeen the quintessential age of innocence and eroticism—ripe physical maturity combined with childlike mystique, evenly blended and equally obvious? Wasn't that what made seventeen the age of all those legendary teen queens immortalized in pop songs? "(She's) Sexy + 17," the Stray Cats. "I Saw Her Standing There," the Beatles. "Seventeen," Winger. Yes, Diana could not hide from the truth. Despite the fact that for fifteen years, whenever she'd think about Barry, which was often, she'd always picture herself as a fumbling fatty—unsexiness oozing out by the truckload—and assume that was how he remembered her also, it was now quite apparent that she was a bit of a sex goddess back then and that, in light of the whole seventeen revelation, Barry was likely to become even more smitten with her memory.
"Excuse me." A voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts, causing Diana to lean away, afraid that if her upper body had been blocking some man's road to intoxication, she might not be as svelte as she thought. "Whoa! I didn't think I smelled that bad," the man said with a friendly laugh.
"What?" Diana asked, a little caught off guard, only to look up and be a lot caught off guard: it was him! Mr. Wonderful had been having a conversation with her, and she hadn't even known it. And here he stood now—facing her—with his right elbow on the bar, just centimeters from her own. His eyes were hazel.
"You moved kind of far away there," he said. And then he smiled. Wow.
"Sorry," Diana said, smiling back without even pausing to analyze whether or not smiling back was a good idea. Her heart was pounding. But it wasn't nerves. It was as if she'd been waiting her entire adult life for this moment, for this prelude to another one-night stand. And here she was, feeling that moment unfold—watching it, almost like it wasn't even happening to her. And she wanted to savor every thousandth of a millisecond. She wanted to memorize it—every blink, every smile, every heartbeat. But at the same time, she couldn't wait to see what would happen next. And after keeping a lid on her lust for so long, she wanted next to be now.
"It's okay," he said. He was staring at her. He had five o'clock shadow and a piece of white fuzz on his eyebrow. Diana thought about how corny it would be if she reached to remove it—like in a PG-13 romance when one soon-to-be-lover reaches over with her thumb to wipe mustard or a bread crumb off the mouth of the other and their eyes lock poignantly before moving in for the kiss. Besides, she didn't know him well enough to touch his eyebrow yet, which was kind of funny considering that she planned on seeing him naked before the sun came up. "I didn't need you to move at all, though," he continued. "I actually just wanted to give you this." What was it? His phone number? His high school ring? His first baby tooth?. . . Her sweater. It had fallen off the back of her seat. Not as exciting an offering as she'd hoped, but a chivalrous gesture nonetheless. Maybe this guy would actually stick around for tea and crumpets after the wad of tissues disappeared.
"Thanks," Diana said.
"No problem," he said, turning to face the bartender as he raised his beer bottle. "Hey, can I get another one of these?"
Was that it? Was that the end of the mating ritual? Did this guy really think her great expectations would be met with a sweater return and a "No problem"? All right, Mr. No Problem, Diana thought, let's see what you do when I turn away from you.
"What are you drinking?" Oh, so you did notice! You noticed and now you want me back . . . Okay, done.
"Um . . ." Shit. What was she drinking?
"Had a few too many?" he joked.
"Lager," Diana suddenly remembered, proudly adding, "draft," in hopes that the specification would detract from her brief moment of idiocy and make her appear knowledgeable. For even though this guy could clearly see on his own that she'd been drinking from the taps, due primarily to the fact that she had a glass in front of her instead of a bottle, overcompensation—in this case, providing excess information in response to an inquiry so as not to appear completely drunk and foolish—was still a more functional way of handling embarrassment than bolting red-faced from the room, knocking over chairs and people along the way. And being functional was Diana's new thing.
"And one lager draft for the lady . . .whose name is . . .?"
"Diana."
"Diana," he repeated, making her name sound sexier than sex. And then there was silence. Not the awkward kind of silence in which one can't think of a single appropriate word to say, but rather the savory sort of silence in which two strangers want to get it on so badly that words are a waste of energy. It was one of those meaningful and sweaty kinds of silences that usually precede graphic sex scenes in the movies.
"Travis." But it was short lived.
"Excuse me?" Diana asked. In the smoldering haze of seduction, she'd forgotten her senses, and it took her a moment to realize that "Travis" was most likely short for My name is Travis. "Oh hi," she giggled, making the connection before he could answer, and banking on cuteness to spare her from looking like a two-time idiot.
"Hi," he said, smiling as his eyes grazed over her chest. He didn't look like a Travis. He could have passed for a Jason, a Dylan, a Todd. Maybe even a Tyler. But not a Travis. Although he was more of a Travis than a Bob, Billy or Jack. "But don't ever call me that."
"What do you mean?" Diana asked.
"I mean 'Travis,'" he answered, suddenly looking quite serious. "Don't ever call me that." What was this? He'd told her his name but never wanted to hear her say it? Had it all been too good to be true? Had starting this conversation with her been nothing more than some ridiculously inverted way of saying I'm not interested, so stop pining for me? Was she about to be humiliated? "Call me TJ instead," he continued. "The only person who ever calls me Travis is my grandmother."
"Your grandmother?" Diana was so relieved, she had to consciously refrain from falling to her knees in the middle of the bar to thank God.
"Yeah. And you wouldn't want to be like her. She's really moody and has no teeth." He paused, inspecting her suspiciously until she smiled. "Well, now, I can see you've got teeth. But as for the moody part, I'd have to get to know you better." Was that an invitation?
"I'd like that," Diana said. What was she doing? The bold words dripped from her Malibu Pink lips before she could even think to calculate their potential to backfire.
"So would I." And, obviously, there was no need for calculations! Now this was not supposed to happen to women like Diana. Wait. Yes, it was. It was. It was. It was. She had to keep reminding herself that she deserved Travis-but-don't-ever-call-me-that's attention. TJ. What a name. What a guy. She couldn't believe how close she was to getting him into bed.
"TJ!" a disruptive male voice suddenly called from behind them. "You comin' back or what?" Who was this schmuck—this rash intruder who thought he had the right to steal such a magical moment away from her? He approached the two of them like what they were sharing was trivial compared to pool, ignoring Diana like she was merely a piece of barroom kitsch that had distracted TJ from the art of the game. "Come on, dude! Will said he could kick my ass. You play winner." Well, obviously, you couldn't play "winner," Diana silently snapped, because you are a total LOSER who thinks it's completely acceptable to step on other people's most critical and forever-awaited moments, you stupid bastard. Come on, TJ, she begged, get rid of him.
"All right, let's go," TJ said, moving away from the bar. "See ya, Diana." And he and the stupid-loser-bastard were both gone.
See ya Diana? That was it? After all they'd been through, that was all she was worth? They'd almost had SEX, for Lord's sake, and all she'd gotten was a "see ya"? Did she not have the words "Good Time" practically scrawled across her cleavage in pre-intimate perspiration? Had she not been pushing sex appeal all night? Sex appeal that TJ had seemed to clearly pick up on? What had happened to make him drop her so suddenly like a fat, smelly shoe? At least Barry had feigned concern for her well-being after they'd done it by telling her to get inside before she caught a chill. But TJ didn't seem to care how cold he had left her. What a prick.
"Hey." The prick was back. "Don't you go anywhere," he said. And there was something forceful and unmistakably erotic in his command. Diana watched him join his friends at the pool table and used the alone time to spend a few minutes thanking God that she'd shaved her legs and bikini line. Warm spasms of anticipation erupted in her stomach. There was no going back now—Diana was about to get lucky.