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“Excuse me?” he asks, which is a perfectly logical question considering I’m not sure what I just said. Or what I was even trying to say.
“Hi.” One syllable at a time. No problem. “Yeah.” There, I’ve said two words to Jonathan Gradinger. I now have something to tell my grandchildren.
“Did you go to Stapley High?” he asks.
More? Oh, my—he wants to have a conversation.
“Yeah.” I nod. I’m doing it! I’m conversing!
“Were you in my grade?” He’s running his hand through his gorgeous, thick hair—thin hair now, actually. What happened to his gorgeous, thick hair?
“Actually I was a few grades behind you.” If I don’t think and just say all my words in one motion, gosh darnit, I think I can do this.
“Wait a second,” he says and smiles his still very foxy smile. “I remember you. Weren’t you that girl who used to follow me around? Jackie something?”
Oh. My. God. He knows my name. Danny Zukoe knows my name.
I nod. I can’t speak. My tongue has been sewn to the roof of my mouth.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
Jonathan Gradinger is offering to buy me a drink. I nod again. Actually, I don’t think I actually stopped nodding. It’s not that I expect myself to suddenly sound like a loquaciously articulate Dawson’s Creek character, but this is getting old.
“It appears,” he looks at the floor, “that you like Sex on the Beach.”
“Especially if it’s with you,” I say. Just kidding, I didn’t really say that. I continue nodding.
“So, how are you liking Boston?”
“Now that I’m talking to you, I’m liking it a lot.” Wait—this time I really did say that. That so wasn’t supposed to be out loud. But what’s this? He’s laughing! He thinks I’m being funny. He thinks I’m flirting with him. I am flirting with him. I’m flirting with Jonathan Gradinger.
“Actually, I do like it here,” I say seriously. “What about you?” Okay maybe not a witty or sexy response, but two full sentences, one that requires a response. Give me a break here.
“I’ve been here awhile already. I like it. I’m used to it.”
“When did you move here?” That makes two questions. I’m on a roll.
“About eight years ago.”
“You’re practically a Brahmin by now.” Another joke!
He laughs. Yay! “Not quite. I haven’t moved up to Beacon Hill just yet.”
Pause. One-second lapse. Two-second lapse. Uh-oh. What do I do now? Wait, I’ve got an idea. “So, what are you doing in Boston?” The ultimate crowd pleaser—giving men the opportunity to talk about themselves.
“I’m a doctor.”
Reee-lly.
“What kind of doctor?” A pediatrician? An E.R. resident? A heart surgeon?
“A podiatrist.”
“A what?”
“A foot doctor.”
I know that. I’m an editor. Someone who cares for and treats the human foot. “That must be…interesting.” C’mon, what else was I supposed to say? How about that athlete’s foot? At least I have nice feet—they’re a size 6 1/2 and very cute, if I do say so myself. My pedicurist even says they’re a pleasure to work with, although she’s probably just buttering me up for an extra tip, which is ridiculous because she owns her own place. You’re not supposed to tip the owner, everyone knows that, but I once saw a fake-nailed snob leave a four-dollar tip for a twenty-dollar manicure and then I had to leave four dollars, too, and now every time I go I have to leave twenty-four dollars instead of twenty. As far as I’m concerned, she should say, “Don’t be silly! Take your four dollars! You’re insulting me! I’m the owner,” but instead she just takes it. It’s all so absurd.
Anyway.
“So I guess you went to med school here?”
“Tufts. What about you?”
“I’m an editor.”
“Really? Where?”
“Cupid’s”
“Cupid’s?”
“We publish romance novels.”
“Oh, my mom reads those! Do you know Fabio?”
I giggle my oh-that’s-so-clever-and-original flirty-laugh (I’ve been friends with Nat for long enough) and pat him on the shoulder. “Unfortunately not. Do you?”
“He’s actually a patient of mine. He has really nice feet.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“Right. But you know what they say about people with nice feet.”
“What?”
“Nice shoes.”
Can I handle feet jokes? I do the laugh again.
“You have quite a pair of shoes on,” he says, looking down.
“Thanks. Fresh purchase. Single-girl boots.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they’re notice-me boots.”
“I’m noticing.”
He’s noticing?
“Good.” I smile demurely.
“You’ve certainly grown up.”
“You haven’t seen me since I had pink braces and crimped hair.”
“You look great, Jackie.”
“Thanks. So do you.” You’re a hottie. A total hottie with a little less hair and a little more love handles…but still very, very hot.
“So you’re not dating anyone?” he asks.
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. “No. What about you?”
“Single as charged.” His hand is suddenly on my shoulder. Hello there.
“Jackie! Jackie!” Nat is yelling in the background. I’m not sure how I hear her over the thumping boom, boom, getting laid, boom boom, but I do. And it’s very distracting. Her arms are flying over her head now.
“Can I have your number?” At last. The magic words have escaped his lips.
“Sure.” I feel a bit like Cinderella, although my fresh-purchase single-girl shoes are definitely a lot funkier than glass slippers. Although I have always wanted a pair of those, too. I ask Ms. Cleavage for matches, and reach into my purse for a pen. She gives me the evil eye but no matches.
He takes the pen from my hand, and little tingles kind of like little ants, the black kind not the poisonous red ones, scramble up my arm. “Shoot.”
I recite my number, and good God, he writes it across his hand.
“Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!”
“I have to go,” I say, motioning to Natalie. He sees her. This is good. It looks as if I have friends.
“Great,” he says. “I’ll call you.”
Please do.
I spend the rest of the evening being introduced to anyone who’s anyone, but mostly posing so that Jonathan Gradinger can see how sexy I am. I’m also watching him carefully to see that he doesn’t smudge my number up against any potential rivals. Mind you, I’m being very discreet; no more overt stalking for me.
Will he call? It’s Friday, so maybe he’ll call tomorrow. Maybe tonight? Maybe he’ll call me the second he gets home. Maybe he’ll say he can’t sleep until he hears the soft, inviting lilt in my voice.
“Having fun?” Natalie whispers, as much as one can whisper over the music. We sit at a table with the Armani guy and three of his friends. One of them keeps talking to me with a thick French accent. I keep nodding, not really understanding anything he says. The only words I can make out are, “More drink, yes?”
Definitely yes. What a wonderful night. I am going to have the most perfect boyfriend in the whole world. He’ll want to get married, and because he’s a doctor I probably won’t have to start with the No dear, that’s not the clitoris thing, and he’ll want to get married, and he’s brilliant and the rest of my high school class is going to kill themselves with envy, and he’ll want to get married. I particularly like the envy part of this whole fantasy. Hmm…snotty Sherri Burns thought she was so cool. Oh, look at me, I’m the only freshman cool enough to get cast as a pink lady; oh, look at me, I’m so cute; oh, look at me, I’m going to wear my pink lady jacket every single day.
I can’t wait ’til she hears about us. I’m sure she had a thing for my Jonathan, but what does it matter now? I can be big about the whole thing. Maybe I’ll call her tonight and let her know about my engagement, although I don’t even know where she lives. Maybe I should plan a reunion; it’s been at least eight years since we graduated. I’ll just let it slip out: “I’ll be coming with my fiancé. You might remember him, Jonathan Gradinger?” Maybe I’ll wear pink.
Or I could send a picture of us to the Stapley alumni Internet site. I’ll just have to remember to bring a camera on our date.
I like that idea better.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to hit The G-Spot, ’kay?” Natalie says, grabbing my hand. I assume she’s talking about a bar.
“Sounds good.” I answer, wondering if I can get away with wearing this outfit again.
4
Why Bother Getting Up?
MY FIRST THOUGHT THIS MORNING is about Jonathan Gradinger. It is not about
.
Therefore I am officially over him.
Actually, my first real thought is djjfhskakd—why, oh, why, is my phone ringing at 9:15 on a Saturday morning? Someone had better be on fire. Secretly, it’s only six minutes past nine. I set my huge clock (oversize so that I can see it without my contacts in) nine minutes fast in the hope that somehow this deception will make me on time.
“Hellooo?” I say.
“Fern!” It’s my dad. “Are you still in bed?”
“No.” I always say I’m awake when I’m asleep. Don’t know why.
“But you’re wasting the day!”
“I’m awake.” Eyes…heavy. Mouth…can’t open.
“Good. What’s new?”
Uh. “I forget.”
“Do you want to call us back when you wake up?”
“No, now’s good. Nothing’s new.” Okay, okay. I’m sitting up. I’m awake. I’m going to have dark circles under my eyes and I’m practically out of concealer and no man will fall in love with me and it’ll all be your fault.
“If nothing’s new, why have you been too busy to call us back?”
Whoops. It’s not that I ignore them on purpose. I am just constantly forgetting that they exist and that I should call them. “I’ve been busy at work.”
“Work is good. What have you been editing?”
“A book.”
“A book about what?”
Did he wake me up to learn more about Millionaire Cowboy Dad? How come he’s not a millionaire daddy? “A romance, Dad. Same story as every other story.”
“What’s that?”
