Authors: Tara McTiernan
"I don't buy it."
"Well, you don't have to. And if you're going to keep up with this, I'm not sure I'll come tonight after all."
"Oh, yes, you will!" Chelsea sang. "You had fun last time. You even said so."
"Well," Sharon said and then rolled her eyes and smiled.
And she had. Which surprised her as the reason she'd stayed on after Chelsea and Lucie left was that she had a strange feeling about Bianca and Kate, a feeling that Bianca intended to hurt Kate somehow. But Bianca couldn't have been nicer to Kate. And Kate, nervous and insecure at first, simply blossomed that night, particularly once Sharon relaxed her vigilance and let herself have fun. Dean had left, so she didn't have to deal with him, and she wanted to just forget things for a little bit, let loose for a change - particularly after the bad news at work. Bianca turned out to be very funny and cool, and Kate was one-hundred-percent sweetheart.
When Sharon got home later, she surprised herself by picking up Fred when he ran to greet her at the door, kissing his soft furry forehead, and saying, "Fred, my sweet. I had fun tonight. Real honest-to-goodness fun. I might just have to do that again sometime." Fred had looked at her and purred.
Now it was three weeks later. When Chelsea invited her this time, Sharon didn't hesitate. Yes, please, may I have another? The pleasant memories from the last extended cocktail hour combined with an excitement she'd been feeling lately, a part of her enjoying the flowers that filled her house and the boxes of chocolates piled up on her hallway table, all left on her doorstep daily.
But it
was
getting ridiculous: his early-morning tiptoeing across her dew-covered lawn, her ducking and hiding from him inside her house. That morning she’d found the peonies on her back doorstep with another note, this one reading, “Forgive me yet?”
“Yes, enough already!” she’d exclaimed. And then she realized. She’d never said it to him.
So she went back into the house, sat at her small study’s roll-top desk, written him a note and then deposited it in his mailbox:
Dear Dean,
Please stop dropping off all the flowers and chocolates. I forgave the whole thing the minute it grew quiet on your side of the fence and I was able to sleep through the night again.
Your consideration is very much appreciated.
Regards,
Sharon
She started to write a postscript saying that he was very nice, that the flowers were pretty, and stopped herself. She was too smart for that. In fact, flowers and chocolates were exactly how Jack, her ex, had wooed her when they first met. How she used to dance with delight at every surprise gift, each elaborate bouquet that was delivered at the office, each sweet-nothings-filled note Jack had sent her. She had been completely snowed, acted like an idiotic child, not looking for a second before she leapt. When her parents questioned their swift and short engagement, she’d brushed them off. They were too old, didn’t remember what it was like to fall madly in love. Her friends were jealous, too, with their questions and narrowing eyes. And, it being real life and not a fairy tale, she’d gotten exactly what she deserved.
No, it wasn’t the chocolates and flowers that were making her feel so light on her feet, so soft-hearted. Maybe it was the spring, how it made you feel as if love was in the air along with the scent of growth and blossom. Of course, love wasn't in the air for
her
, her wise decision to shut that door after the divorce was a permanent one. Still, springtime had that effect – and it was fine, a pleasant passing phase that meant nothing.
Bianca and Kate would be there tonight as well as Lucie, and, of course, Chelsea. This time, as it was an unusually warm day for April with highs in the eighties, they were going to have their cocktails and some shared appetizers sitting outside at an Italian restaurant, Cafe Luna, in downtown Stamford. Sharon had seen the place often in passing, noted the romantic couples and its perfection for a date, so she was surprised that Chelsea wanted to go there for a cocktail hour, but Chelsea had said it was Lucie's idea, something about the food being good. Walking out to her car, the warm gentle air enveloping her, Sharon thought that good food was the least of it. You simply
had
to be outside on a beautiful evening like this, particularly after a long cold dreary winter.
She rolled down the windows of her car and drove, trying to shake off her day, but the effect of Bob Crandall’s condescension at the team meeting and again in the hallway would not let go, so she turned on the radio and switched it to a rock station.
“Jailbreak” by Thin Lizzy had just started playing and she turned up the volume.
“That’s right, Bob. Tonight, I’m breaking out,” she said, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.
This evening already felt like getting out of jail, running free from her new boss and her increasingly unpleasant job. She deserved a break. Chelsea had suggested they go next door to a restaurant-slash-dance club afterward for their weekly Latin night that featured free salsa dancing lessons. The idea, which had seemed ridiculous at first – Sharon had to be at work early tomorrow – now seemed like the answer to her unsettled jazzed-up feelings. She was glad she’d decided to dress up a little this time, wearing a navy blue patterned wrap-dress that flattered her figure by narrowing the appearance of her wide hips and drawing attention to her small waist.
When she arrived at the restaurant, she was first again and was seated immediately at a large table on the sidewalk. Her martini delivered promptly, she leaned back in her chair and looked up at the façade of the restaurant with its red awning and rustic painted window-boxes filled with colorful pansies. This wasn’t bad at all. No strivers, peaceful surroundings, a drink in hand. She could get used to this.
Just as she was lifting the glass to her lips, a loud voice startled her, causing her to slop a few drops of vodka on her chest. “There you are!”
She hurriedly wiped at her chest, crystal droplets scattering like beads, and looked up.
It was Dean, standing on the sidewalk next to her and beaming at her like some long-lost buddy.
“Oh. Hi,” she said, putting her drink back down without sipping it. Really? What was he doing here?
“I can’t believe it! What a co-inky-dink! Can I sit?” he said and pulled out the chair next to her, sitting down without waiting for her assent.
“Yes, help yourself. Just sit on down and make yourself at home,” she said, eyebrows arched.
“Ha! You’re funny! So, did you like the flowers? You seem like a flowers kind of girl.”
“Such a rare breed we are, us girls of the bloom.”
He looked confused and then laughed again, a barking nervous sound. Propping his elbows on his knees and leaning towards her, he continued in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, “I got your note. But see? I can’t stop. I’m addicted. Addicted to giving you stuff. It’s a neighborhood addiction. By being your neighbor, it happens.”
She curled her lip at him. “I’m sure there’s help for that.” This cute-act had to stop. “You know, you should try this on that bartender. Sam? She’d love it.”
“Try what?”
“This act of yours.”
“What act? Oh, waiter!” He looked up and started waving wildly at a passing server, who came over. “Can you put this woman’s tab on mine? In fact, I’m going to pay for the entire table’s dinner. Whatever they eat or drink tonight, it’s on me.”
Sharon felt a stinging slap of recognition. Dean really
was
like Jack. Full of shit. The same over-the-top generosity and big romantic gestures and….guaranteed… the same cruel nature underneath, waiting. If Dean thought he was taking her for a little stroll down his own landmine-filled primrose path, he had another thing coming.
She turned to the waiter. “No, we’re paying for our own meals and drinks. Do not take this man’s payment.”
“Aw!” Dean said, “Come on! Even if you don’t like it, your friends will? Who doesn’t want a free meal?”
She made her voice very low. “Please stop it.”
He leapt up from his seat, put his arm around the noticeably flustered waiter and steered him away. “Come on, we’ll take care of it over here, away from the little lady’s tender ears.”
She couldn’t take it. Had he really just called her a "little lady"? A part of her wanted to be polite, just let him buy whatever he wanted to, let him throw his money around and stupidly try to impress her. Just let it go. The other part of her raged, had been raging ever since Alan was let go and Bob had taken his place. And that was the part that won.
“No!” she said. The two men paused, looking back. She stood up, her eyes focused solely on the waiter. “If you take his money, we’re leaving and eating somewhere else. All he’ll be able to pay for is a martini I didn’t even drink. Do you really want to lose the business? That’s five people's drinks and food and who knows how many other meals we might have had here.”
“Ooo, she’s a feisty one! I love that in a woman!” Dean said.
The waiter nodded at her and then shook his head at Dean. “Sorry, sir. But I will honor our guest’s wish,” he said and backed away before turning and fleeing inside to safety.
Dean walked toward her, tilting his head and still smiling. "Come on. It's all in friendship? Neighborly love? Love thy neighbor? May I love thy neighbor? Right now?"
"You know what you can do right now?" Sharon said, feeling as if burning steam was coming out of her ears. Anger was bubbling up that she had stifled for years about the bullshit TMB was famous for and the people she cared about who were damaged by it, like Alan, while others, like Bob, were unfairly rewarded. It combined with old but still-hot fury about her disastrous heartbreaking marriage and her disappointing life, a life she had imagined very differently once.
"What, my little buttercup?"
"You can shove your flowers and your chocolates and your stupid apologies. It's all a game and I'm not playing."
"Whoa, maybe this is more than being feisty? Have I angered thee?" he said, faltering a little while trying to maintain his jovial manner, his smile coming loose and hanging crookedly on his face.
"Get the hell away from me. I don't ever want to see you again. Just leave me alone," she said, and as soon as the words were out, felt remorse bolt through her, electric energy turning into sodden blue heaviness. Was any of this - Bob, Jack, TMB, her imperfect life - this man's fault?
"I was just...," Dean's face grew slack with surprise. He stopped and stood. "It was..."
Exhausted and confused suddenly, she shook her head. "Just go. Please."
"I...fine,” he said, standing up straighter, his relaxed posture of familiarity gone. "You got it."
He looked so bewildered, Sharon wanted to reach out and put her hand on his shoulder, reassure him. But then he turned away and she was too drained to pursue him and apologize. She stood and watched him walk away, Dean pausing and glancing back only once before shaking his head and turning away again.
Sharon sighed, her breath huffing out raggedly. He'd be fine. He was the type you could tell off ten million times and he'd keep coming back for more, impervious to slings and arrows. And, if he really was just like Jack, he could dish out his own slings and arrows forever as well, always finding the tender vulnerable spots and piercing them again and again with glee.
Sitting back down, she reached for her glass and reminded herself that tonight was supposed to be fun. To hell with Dean and his obnoxious manipulative games. Sipping her drink and trying to recapture the ease and lightheartedness she'd felt only moments before, instead she was shaky and numb - as if something important had been lost.
She had almost finished her martini and was starting to wonder if she should go ahead and order an appetizer, her head was getting a little fuzzy from the vodka hitting her empty stomach, when Bianca and Kate arrived together.