If You Only Knew
Page 53
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“Jenny.”
“What?” I snap out of my reverie.
Mrs. James is gone, and Leo stands in front of me. The fact that I’m on my knees makes things a wee bit awkward, since I’m staring right at his groin, so I clamber up.
“You almost done?” he asks. “I have to go out.”
“Me, too, actually. And yes. All done.” His eyes look gray today rather than blue. A reflection of the sky, probably.
“You have that date,” he says.
“I do. Yep.” He doesn’t say anything. “My sister fixed me up with a friend of theirs. We’re going to St. Arpad’s in Ossining.” It was Jimmy’s suggestion; he lives there, though his ex-wife and kids live here in COH.
“St. Arpad’s?” Leo asks.
“Yeah. It’s Hungarian.”
“I know. That’s where I’m going, too.”
“Really! Do you have a date, Mr. Recreation Only? I thought you were more of the booty-call type. A date!” Yeah, yeah, I’m jealous. “Great! I can check her out. Or we can double, how’s that? Want to drive together? Maybe we should have a code word if things go south.” I may be trying a little too hard here.
Leo is not amused. “It’s not a date. Just someone I used to know.” He’s not looking at me. “Listen, do me a favor, okay? Don’t talk to me at the restaurant. And don’t wave, okay?”
My head jerks back. “Wow. Nice, Leo.”
“She’s kind of...difficult. If you could pretend not to know me, that’d be great.”
“Sure. I won’t make direct eye contact, either. And I’ll back out of the room, bowing. And maybe I can scrub your toilet for you, since the dog ramp is already built.”
“It’s complicated. I just don’t want you to meet her.”
“Oh, shut up.” I drop the hammer on the flagstone and stomp up my stairs. Slam the door to emphasize my point.
Don’t talk to me. Why would he say that, huh? I’m a tenant in the building he manages—badly, I might add. He hasn’t fixed a damn thing here, and the water in my shower is still either scalding or ice-cold. I thought, given the number of times he’s dropped in, the number of times we’ve talked this past month, that we were kinda sorta friends.
I guess not. Not if I’m not allowed to wave.
* * *
St. Arpad’s is dark and muted and old-world, with stooped, white-haired waiters in three-piece suits muttering in Hungarian (I assume), shuffling silently past with fragrant trays of food. Jimmy and I are already in a banquette booth, and he kissed me on the cheek in the foyer. He’s quite good-looking, which I already knew, thanks to Twitter, Facebook and Google. But in person, he’s even better. Brown hair, blue eyes, medium height. He smells nice, too. Armani, I think. His hands are clean.
That being said, I’m not sure I could pick him out of a lineup, because five tables away is Leo, deep in conversation with a woman whose hair is beautiful and straight and blond. She’s quite pretty, I noted as I walked past, and she’s wearing red. Someone I used to know, my ass. Red is such a date color. Otherwise, I can’t see much, thanks to the fat guy with the shiny bald head who blocks my view of her, but not of Leo, who is facing me—but not making eye contact, of course. That might intimate that I matter.
He looks wretched. Even when he smiles, he looks like his dog just died. And even though I’ve been forbidden to acknowledge him, that stupid sad beautiful face does something to me.
The tiny waiter, who looks to be about ninety-seven years old, comes over and wheezes through what I assume are the specials. Szabolcs, his nametag says. I can’t understand a word he says. He may be telling me that his great-great-grandchildren are in the kitchen being gnawed on by a pack of wolves. I nod and smile. “I’ll have the chicken,” I say. Szabolcs asks something that has a lot of sht and tsz and ejht sounds in it. “Sounds good,” I tell him. This is how people end up eating cats, I believe.
“Goulash for me,” Jimmy says.
Szabolcs creeps away. I’d offer to carry him, but I don’t want to make a scene.
“So you’re divorced,” Jimmy says.
“Yes. Yep. About a year and a half now.”
“Sucks.” He pours himself more wine; I’ve barely touched mine. We ordered a bottle. It was cheaper, Jimmy said.
“No, it was all very civilized. But thank you.” I smile awkwardly.
Jimmy reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Something incredibly sympathetic and sensitive yet masculine,” he says—forgive me, my imagination isn’t really having its best night. The touch of his hand sends a tingle down my arm. “I feel the exact same way,” I answer, and for the rest of the night, we can’t look away from each other, and we laugh and he walks me home and says he can’t believe we hit it off like this, and—
Nope. It’s not working. Not with Leo sitting across the way.
All of a sudden, I miss Owen so much it’s like a knife wound. Somehow, I haven’t thought of him in a day or two, not consciously, and I ache for him, his funny, boyish hair, his sweet smile. Yearning for my old life reaches up and slaps me hard.
I wonder what he and Ana-Sofia are doing right now. Owen was—is—a great cook. He’s probably making dinner while his wife nurses Natalia, who undoubtedly hasn’t cried once since her birth and is in fact mastering her third language. Because Ana-Sofia is from a country less constipated than my own, she’ll accept a glass of wine—so funny that these provincial Americans think everything is bad for you!—and Owen will kiss her gently upon the lips.
“What?” I snap out of my reverie.
Mrs. James is gone, and Leo stands in front of me. The fact that I’m on my knees makes things a wee bit awkward, since I’m staring right at his groin, so I clamber up.
“You almost done?” he asks. “I have to go out.”
“Me, too, actually. And yes. All done.” His eyes look gray today rather than blue. A reflection of the sky, probably.
“You have that date,” he says.
“I do. Yep.” He doesn’t say anything. “My sister fixed me up with a friend of theirs. We’re going to St. Arpad’s in Ossining.” It was Jimmy’s suggestion; he lives there, though his ex-wife and kids live here in COH.
“St. Arpad’s?” Leo asks.
“Yeah. It’s Hungarian.”
“I know. That’s where I’m going, too.”
“Really! Do you have a date, Mr. Recreation Only? I thought you were more of the booty-call type. A date!” Yeah, yeah, I’m jealous. “Great! I can check her out. Or we can double, how’s that? Want to drive together? Maybe we should have a code word if things go south.” I may be trying a little too hard here.
Leo is not amused. “It’s not a date. Just someone I used to know.” He’s not looking at me. “Listen, do me a favor, okay? Don’t talk to me at the restaurant. And don’t wave, okay?”
My head jerks back. “Wow. Nice, Leo.”
“She’s kind of...difficult. If you could pretend not to know me, that’d be great.”
“Sure. I won’t make direct eye contact, either. And I’ll back out of the room, bowing. And maybe I can scrub your toilet for you, since the dog ramp is already built.”
“It’s complicated. I just don’t want you to meet her.”
“Oh, shut up.” I drop the hammer on the flagstone and stomp up my stairs. Slam the door to emphasize my point.
Don’t talk to me. Why would he say that, huh? I’m a tenant in the building he manages—badly, I might add. He hasn’t fixed a damn thing here, and the water in my shower is still either scalding or ice-cold. I thought, given the number of times he’s dropped in, the number of times we’ve talked this past month, that we were kinda sorta friends.
I guess not. Not if I’m not allowed to wave.
* * *
St. Arpad’s is dark and muted and old-world, with stooped, white-haired waiters in three-piece suits muttering in Hungarian (I assume), shuffling silently past with fragrant trays of food. Jimmy and I are already in a banquette booth, and he kissed me on the cheek in the foyer. He’s quite good-looking, which I already knew, thanks to Twitter, Facebook and Google. But in person, he’s even better. Brown hair, blue eyes, medium height. He smells nice, too. Armani, I think. His hands are clean.
That being said, I’m not sure I could pick him out of a lineup, because five tables away is Leo, deep in conversation with a woman whose hair is beautiful and straight and blond. She’s quite pretty, I noted as I walked past, and she’s wearing red. Someone I used to know, my ass. Red is such a date color. Otherwise, I can’t see much, thanks to the fat guy with the shiny bald head who blocks my view of her, but not of Leo, who is facing me—but not making eye contact, of course. That might intimate that I matter.
He looks wretched. Even when he smiles, he looks like his dog just died. And even though I’ve been forbidden to acknowledge him, that stupid sad beautiful face does something to me.
The tiny waiter, who looks to be about ninety-seven years old, comes over and wheezes through what I assume are the specials. Szabolcs, his nametag says. I can’t understand a word he says. He may be telling me that his great-great-grandchildren are in the kitchen being gnawed on by a pack of wolves. I nod and smile. “I’ll have the chicken,” I say. Szabolcs asks something that has a lot of sht and tsz and ejht sounds in it. “Sounds good,” I tell him. This is how people end up eating cats, I believe.
“Goulash for me,” Jimmy says.
Szabolcs creeps away. I’d offer to carry him, but I don’t want to make a scene.
“So you’re divorced,” Jimmy says.
“Yes. Yep. About a year and a half now.”
“Sucks.” He pours himself more wine; I’ve barely touched mine. We ordered a bottle. It was cheaper, Jimmy said.
“No, it was all very civilized. But thank you.” I smile awkwardly.
Jimmy reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Something incredibly sympathetic and sensitive yet masculine,” he says—forgive me, my imagination isn’t really having its best night. The touch of his hand sends a tingle down my arm. “I feel the exact same way,” I answer, and for the rest of the night, we can’t look away from each other, and we laugh and he walks me home and says he can’t believe we hit it off like this, and—
Nope. It’s not working. Not with Leo sitting across the way.
All of a sudden, I miss Owen so much it’s like a knife wound. Somehow, I haven’t thought of him in a day or two, not consciously, and I ache for him, his funny, boyish hair, his sweet smile. Yearning for my old life reaches up and slaps me hard.
I wonder what he and Ana-Sofia are doing right now. Owen was—is—a great cook. He’s probably making dinner while his wife nurses Natalia, who undoubtedly hasn’t cried once since her birth and is in fact mastering her third language. Because Ana-Sofia is from a country less constipated than my own, she’ll accept a glass of wine—so funny that these provincial Americans think everything is bad for you!—and Owen will kiss her gently upon the lips.
