“Which one is your nephew?”
“He couldn’t come. He’s got the flu. You’d like him. He’s a funny kid.”
He liked kids. Definitely something for the plus column.
“I better get out there,” he said, pointing to the boys happily kicking dirt at each other. “But I brought some supplies for you.” He went to the trunk of his car and returned with a blanket and a small cooler. Leading me over to the prime bleacher seats, he padded the bench with the blanket, and when I settled in, he opened the cooler with a flourish.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“You can’t go to the ball game without hot dogs and other game staples,” he explained. He pulled out a warm, foil-wrapped hot dog and several small packets with assorted mustards, relishes, and mayonnaise. I stared at him in astonishment.
“The 7-Eleven condiment bar has an amazing variety.” Next, he pulled out a tray of nachos with slightly congealed cheese. “I wouldn’t eat these, but maybe you can sniff them to get the ballpark nacho stand whiff.”
Stale nachos and processed cheese were definitely part of the ballpark experience. Ben wasn’t overlooking anything, except maybe . . .
Oh, nope. He stuck a plastic bag of premade popcorn in my hand, cheddar flavored, even. He topped everything off with a glass bottle of another exotic root beer. “You comfortable?” he asked.
“Totally. This is awesome.”
“Good.” His eyes twinkled. “Let me get this game going, and I’ll be back.” He took off in a jog toward the other side of the field, where the parents sat. Three of the dads came down to meet him and followed him back onto the field. He spent the next several minutes with the boys, reminding them of the rules and giving them direction. He finished with, “Okay, boys. Remember, we’re not keeping score today. We’re playing for fun and learning. Give it your best!”
The dad on the mound threw the first pitch. By the time Ben had made it back to me, the batter had reached first base, looking very proud of himself. Ben took his seat beside me and fished another foil-wrapped hot dog from the cooler then piled on some mustard and bit into it.
I watched in amusement as he tucked into his food with gusto. “This is great,” I told him. “Thanks for giving me baseball in January.”
“No problem.” He shrugged. “It was nothing.”
“I disagree. You thought of everything. Look,” I said, scooting closer. His hot dog stopped halfway to his mouth as he watched me lean in slowly. He stared, transfixed, until I reached over and scooped a dollop of mustard off his shirt with my thumb. “You even spilled first. That’s so sweet,” I said with pretended innocence.
His gaze narrowed as he watched me wipe the mustard off with a 7-Eleven napkin. “I’m not sweet at all,” he said. “I’m . . .” he trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Generous? Kind?”
“Don’t say that! I’m manly and tough,” he said. “By the way, I brought you an extra blanket in case it got too cold today.” And he reached into a duffel bag and pulled one out.
“Yeah, you’re super tough,” I said, accepting the blanket.
“Okay, I’m not. I’m cold. Want to share that blanket?” He waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Not tough,” I amended with a laugh. “You’re smooth.”
“Except for the mustard thing.”
“I thought spilling first was part of being a gentleman.”
“It is. That’s what I meant,” he said.
Just then, Logan came to bat. Although the other boys his age and size had hit from the tee and run like crazy, the redhead looked determined to hit a pitch. He squared up his stance and stared at the pitcher, watching for the throw. I stood and gave a piercing whistle then yelled, “Go, Logan!” He didn’t turn, focusing instead on the ball. When the pitch came, he swung with every ounce of his energy and hit a pop fly straight to second base. Luckily, the second baseman, distracted by the rock at his feet, didn’t notice when the ball landed near him with a thud and rolled to the outfield.
Ben jumped up and hollered, “Run, Logan!”
The little boy looked startled and broke into a mad dash for first base. Ben and I cheered when he beat the throw. Logan turned and waved at me, his arm flapping like a proud flag as he claimed the base as his own. “Look at me, Sister Taylor. I’m a winner!”
“Yes, you are,” I called back. I turned to grin at Ben. “I went to a couple of Mariners games last summer. This is so much better,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “The pros run all their bases in order. Here, half the fun is guessing which base they’ll run to next.”
Each of the boys took their turn at bat, playing three loosely organized innings. Every time Logan was up, he swung his bat with fierce determination and ran all out, doing progressively sillier things with each base he gained. By third base of his last at bat, Ben and I looked forward to Logan’s final performance. As soon as the batter hit his pitch, Logan pelted down the third base line, turning in a respectable, though totally uncontested, slide for the last two feet. He scrambled up out of the dirt and planted his feet firmly on the base then gyrated like a Tickle Me Elmo on too much Mountain Dew.
“Is that the hokey pokey?” Ben asked.
“Nope. I think it’s the Macarena.”
“Either way,” he said climbing to his feet, “I can’t let him dance alone.” And he loped off toward the bouncing redhead to join his celebration.
How utterly random.
And totally cool.
Chapter 12
“
H
OW DID IT GO?”
S
ANDY
asked when I walked in around dusk.
I took a moment to lean back against the door and savor the moment.
“That good, huh?” she prompted me when I didn’t answer.
I shoved myself up and answered, “I don’t owe you ice cream, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She stared at me blankly. “I didn’t think you did,” she said.
I sometimes forgot Sandy didn’t follow the typical LDS girl life arc. “It’s a BYU thing,” I explained. “The first time you kiss a guy, you’re supposed to buy your roommates a carton of ice cream.”
“Huh.” She digested that for a moment. “Why?”
That stumped me. “I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought about it before. Maybe to celebrate?”
“Sounds more like an excuse to get free ice cream.”
“If I were smarter, I’d have instituted the ice cream rule with you. I’d never buy my own Häagen-Dazs again.”
“Funny, Jessie.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “You’re a real comedian.”
“I kinda am,” I agreed.
“You’re also violating one of our real roommate rules. No withholding juicy details after dates.”
“I’m not withholding. I’m digesting.”
“That sounds gross.”
“I mean that I’m soaking up the moment, that’s all.”
“I know what you meant. You’ve soaked for about three minutes now. That’s plenty. I want details!”
I plopped myself down on the sofa next to her. Finally cracking a smile, I said, “It was pretty fantastic.”
“Because . . .” She prompted.
“Because we had a great time. He set up a baseball game between some kids in his ward and brought me all kinds of ballpark food to eat while we watched. He acted like a total gentleman. He opened doors, made sure I stayed warm. He even spilled first.” The look on Sandy’s face was priceless. I had probably circumscribed several of her least favorite things into one afternoon.
“Trust me,” I told her. “It was perfect.”
“Knowing you, it probably was. So when’s the next date?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
She stared at me in surprise. “He didn’t ask you out again?”
“Well, yeah. For tomorrow.”
“A Sunday?”
“His ward’s having a fireside.”
“That makes sense. Except for the part about why you’re not going.”
I shrugged. “It’s all part of the balance and moderation thing I’m doing,” I said.
“Maybe you’d better define those words for me because we clearly don’t think they mean the same thing.”
“I saw him Thursday, I saw him today, and that’s kind of a lot. I think things could use a breather, that’s all.”
Understanding and a hint of impatience dawned in Sandy’s eyes. “You mean
you
could use a breather,” she said. “Why? You don’t work on Sundays, so it’s not like you have that to distract you.”
I opened my mouth to defend my decision, but I realized she had a point. I closed it again and thought for a minute. I didn’t have to try hard to change my own mind. “You’re right,” I said.
“You should never sound surprised when you say that. It’s a statistical probability any time I speak, accountant girl,” she teased me. “So what are you going to do?”
“I guess call him?”
“Ding, ding, ding! Tell her what she’s won, Don Pardo. Why, it’s a fun-filled evening with a hot guy!”
“Oh, I remember now.”
“Remember what now?” Sandy asked.
“I remember why I keep threatening to kick you out.”
“You’ve never threatened to kick me out.”
“I haven’t? I keep meaning to say it out loud.”
“You’ll never do it. What would you do with me gone?”
“I don’t know, maybe get more work done? I’d never have to hunt for my Pottery Barn catalog. And the pantry would stay organized by alphabetical order.” I considered the possibilities and added, “You’d better stay. But you can’t have my magazines until I’m done.”
“Deal. You should call Ben now.”
“I will, but again, I’m only doing this because I want to, not because you told me to.”
“Okay. Call Ben now. That’s me reaffirming your great idea,” she said.
“Uh, what do I say? Inviting myself over for something I already declined is flaky.”
“Did you or did you not have a great day today?” she demanded.
I thought about the afternoon again and the hour we had lingered after the game had ended, slowly packing up our picnic and laughing. I thought too about the quickly hidden surprise and disappointment that had flashed across Ben’s face when I told him I couldn’t make it to the fireside the next day. Our easy rapport stayed intact through the car ride home and his warm hug at the door. But he hadn’t promised to call me about setting something else up either. Which meant he had placed the ball in my court.
I weighed everything out in my mind once more. Stay home all Sunday afternoon by myself and take a break from Ben or hang out with a hot, funny guy who I didn’t want a break from anyway? When I looked at it that way . . .
I leaned over and rummaged through my purse. When I straightened with my cell phone in hand, Sandy murmured, “Good girl.” As I scrolled through my phone book to find Ben’s number, she headed for her room. “I’ll leave you to do your icky twitterpation thing in private.”
When I found his number, I hesitated for a moment. I had never gotten comfortable with calling guys, and my stomach always clenched when I had to do it, but then again, I could only blame myself. If I had accepted Ben’s invitation in the first place, I wouldn’t be risking possible rejection.
Then again, why did I have to call at all? I selected the “text message” option and typed,
I meant to say instead of a fireside, how about dinner at my place?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed send and shoved the phone under the sofa cushion. That way, if Ben didn’t text me back, I could pretend the silence stemmed from its location under the sofa cushions.
I ignored the flaws in my logic and sat down with the Pottery Barn catalog I found underneath the cushion currently smothering my phone. A few minutes later, Sandy walked through the living room, dressed to the nines. She paused when a distant chime sounded from my . . . posterior. I could see her debate whether or not to ask me about it, but she said nothing and turned to do her customary once over in the foyer mirror. I sat for another minute, debating whether or not someone would be so fast to text back a heartless, “No, thanks,” and then my bum chimed again. Unable to withstand the suspense, I jumped up and tore the cushion off. This definitely had Sandy’s attention now.
I took one look at the screen and grabbed my handbag on the way to the door.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“To the store. Apparently, I’m cooking dinner tomorrow!”
Chapter 13
I
FUSSED WITH THE PLACE
settings on the table in the dining nook next to the kitchen. Glass tumblers flanked simple white plates, each place setting framed in a neutral-toned woven placemat. The only touches of color were the green cotton napkins that reflected the accents in the living room. Instead of a centerpiece, I set out a collection of seasonings and sauces for Sandy and Ben to choose from.
Sandy walked in and looked over the table. “It’s cute,” she said. “But it’s a bad idea for me to be here for dinner.”
“Why? It’ll be fun.”
“Like Rob Whitaker fun?” she asked. I flinched at the justified accusation in her tone. I had invited Rob to dinner last year for a second and last date after he spent the meal alternately ogling Sandy and calling her to repentance. Sandy didn’t go to church on Sundays, but she lived the same values I did, so his lecture was not only inappropriate as a dinner guest, but it was also completely misplaced.
“Rob is the moron gold standard. Ben’s totally different. You have to eat with us. I don’t want this to look romantic or anything.”
“Yes, it would clearly be wrong to send him any signals that you like him. Since you like him and all,” she said.
“I’m trying to keep it light,” I said. “Look at this table. It says I put some effort into it, it says I can cook and entertain, and it says there are three places settings, not two, so clearly we’re taking it slow.”
“It says that loudly,” she agreed.
I wasn’t going to change my mind. I had to balance seeing Ben three out of the last four days, and I wanted the classic roommate buffer. Besides, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of entertaining any guy alone in my condo. I knew that was the real reason Sandy agreed to stay for dinner. She might find my rules outdated, but she had my back.
I adjusted one of the placemats again. Sandy grinned. “I want it to be perfect,” I said.
“Sounds like you’re keeping it light, all right.”
When I ignored her, she wandered off toward her room while I fluffed a napkin and gave the hot sauce bottle a half turn in the middle of the table. The doorbell rang and sent my nerves twitching. This amounted to one more date than I’d given anyone in almost two years. The two-date rule had been working fine. I had suffered from neither a broken heart nor a psycho stalker in those two years. In fact, since being in Seattle, I’d gone out with over ten different guys and had never been tempted to say yes to a third date. I either lost interest or got too busy or picked up a strange vibe that made saying no to a third date easy. Was it crazy to break the policy for Ben?
My anxiety spiked even higher until the third place setting snagged my attention again.
Oh yeah. This wasn’t a date. This was Ben coming over for dinner with me and my roommate. Right, I could do this. This was the same Ben I’d had a great time with yesterday without any nervousness at all.
Armed with this reminder and the knowledge that it would be rude to keep him waiting any longer, I went to let him in. I found him smiling uncertainly, with a six pack of root beer under his arm, and the last bit of my stress evaporated.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi back,” I replied. Should I hug him? We weren’t at hello hugs yet. I stared at him for a full five seconds while I tried to figure out what to do next then reddened as his smile wavered again. “Come in,” I said, and stepped aside so he could enter. I invited him to sit on the sofa while I stuck the soda on the kitchen counter. As I walked back into the living room, Sandy made an appearance in the hallway.
“Are you hungry?” I asked Ben.
“Not until I walked in, but whatever I smell has me about three seconds from starving now,” he said.
“Smooth,” mouthed Sandy so Ben couldn’t see.
“Let’s eat, then,” I said and led the way to the dining room table. After Ben and Sandy took their seats, I stepped into my kitchen and grabbed a platter of chips and guacamole. When I placed it on the table, Ben scooped up a bite and sighed.
“I love good guacamole. It’s been hard to find since I left Arizona,” he said.
“Jessie made it,” Sandy informed him. “Her cooking doesn’t stink.”
“I didn’t have to cook anything to make it,” I said, embarrassed. I rarely cooked for myself, but I knew my way around a kitchen. My mother grew up in Georgia and trained my sisters and me to be old school Southern cooks. Living in California had broadened our food vocabulary to include things like tasty chicken enchiladas, since Mexican food was not a thing when my mom was growing up. Thank goodness times change. She had found a killer enchilada recipe, which I had baked for tonight. Even health-crazed Sandy couldn’t resist them.
“Did you know February is the biggest month for avocado sales?” Ben asked.
“Uh, no,” Sandy said.
“It’s true,” Ben said. “It’s because of the Super Bowl; people love to make guacamole for their game parties. Surprising, right?”
“Why would you know that?” Sandy asked.
Ben shrugged. “I have a bad habit of getting random facts caught in my head. If I see it or hear it, it’s in there. I can list ten useless pieces of trivia on demand that you never needed to know. I think it’s a talent to compensate for not being able to play the piano or sing or, you know, something cool.”
“Bad trade,” she said.
“Definitely. But watch
Jeopardy
with me and you’ll think I’m a genius. I own that half hour,” he joked.
“You sound like Jessie,” Sandy said. “Last time she had the flu, she made me read her Trivial Pursuit cards for an hour. She didn’t even want the board out.” She shook her head.
“I wanted to take my mind off my misery,” I defended myself.
“Is that why you cheated?” Sandy asked.
“I can’t cheat if I’m not even playing the real game,” I said.
Sandy explained to Ben. “She not only didn’t play with the pieces, but she skipped half the categories on the card.”
“Only two!” I interrupted her. “I don’t like the geography or science and nature questions. They give me a headache.”
“I think the flu means you can skip categories if you want,” Ben said. “But geography? From someone who loves to travel?”
“I can find a country on a map if I’ve been there or plan to go there, but none of the questions are about pointing to a map, so I skip them.”
“That’s fair,” he said. “I’m pretty comfortable in those two categories anyway, so we’ll play as a team and crush everyone.”
I smiled, and Sandy hooted.
“Nerdiness isn’t catching, is it?” she asked, waving her hands in front of her face as if dispersing nerd germs.
“Behave, Sandy, or I’ll reveal your dirty little secret,” I warned her.
“I’m sorry. I think it’s great you guys are so smart,” she said.
“One, I’m not that smart. I just remember useless stuff more than most people,” Ben said. “And two, you don’t think I can let a secret pass by like that, do you? Jessie, you can’t leave me hanging.”
“No, Jessie, what you can’t do is throw your roommate under the bus. Don’t tell,” Sandy ordered.
I wavered for a moment and then made my choice. Carrying a tray of hot enchiladas from the oven, I set them on the table and leaned down to whisper loudly to Ben, “Sandy’s not telling you that she can wipe the floor with anyone in arts and literature or history.”
“It turns out the brown and yellow questions in Trivial Pursuit are the only real use for my liberal arts degree,” she grumbled.
“That is some secret,” Ben said. “You feel okay now that it’s out there?”
“I’d feel better if we got one of Jessie’s secrets out too,” she answered. I grimaced while she pretended to think.
“Please don’t let it be a fingernail collection,” Ben said.
“It’s worse,” she warned him. “She has all three seasons of
Kung
Fu
on DVD. I think she might even have them all memorized.”
Ben turned to me. “You do kung fu?”
I shook my head at Sandy. “No, but I might start.” She smiled. “I grew up watching that old TV show
Kung Fu
with my dad,” I clarified for Ben. “It’s got this Buddhist monk guy wandering through the old West and schooling people with kung fu.”
“Cowboy karate? How have I missed this? That sounds like the greatest show ever,” he said.
I assumed my most Zen-like expression and said, “I have learned the greatest life lessons from Master Po. Mainly, how to squish Craig the Snitch like a bug.”
“Bummer,” Sandy said. “I thought you were a natural evil genius, but all along your plotting came from some dude who called everyone grasshoppers.”
“How about if I serve these piping hot enchiladas right into your lap?” I asked.
“That’s my girl,” she replied.
Ben grinned. “Dinner and a floor show. Cool.”
“So far only a floor show,” Sandy complained. “Are you going to let us eat those things or keep waving them at us?” She turned to Ben. “I know I probably sound—”
“Rude?” I interjected.
“
Impatient
,” she continued. “But when you eat them, you’ll understand.”
“I can’t wait to try them,” he said. “I’m always down for enchiladas.”
I took a seat and dished out the food. The enchiladas came out of the pan with strings of cheese trailing off them and clouds of steam puffing in the air. Definitely one of my personal favorites. Ben lifted a forkful to his mouth but paused when Sandy said, “Stop! You forgot the salad.”
I jumped up to get it and returned bearing a bowl of romaine lettuce and fresh vegetables in a creamy cilantro vinaigrette. Ben tried to be a good sport and returned his bit of enchilada untasted to his plate while he waited for his salad to be served. Sandy gave him a knowing glance but said nothing, just watched him take his first bite. His eyes widened as he chewed.
“This is awesome!” he said. “What kind of dressing is it?”
“It’s the cilantro. It’s from Café Rio, one of my favorite restaurants back home,” I said.
“They must make a fortune selling this stuff,” he said.
Sandy laughed. “They don’t sell it. Jessie-All-Or-Nothing Taylor here liked it so much she experimented for a month until she figured out how to make it herself.”
Ben’s look bordered on . . . respectful? “I used to have a 1955 Chevy I fixed up with my dad. When I couldn’t find the upholstery I wanted, we had my mom teach us to use the sewing machine, and then we did it ourselves.”
“It’s the best way to get what you want,” I said.
“Really?” Sandy interjected. “I find asking works pretty well.”
“It does when you’re the legendary Sandy Burke,” I said. “The rest of us mere mortals have to apply more elbow grease to get things done.”
Once the salad disappeared, we started in on the enchiladas, which had cooled enough to eat. I waited for Ben’s reaction, fighting for a neutral expression so he wouldn’t notice how much I wanted him to like the dinner.
He took one bite and chewed slowly, his eyes half closing. Suppressing an impatient fidget, I ate a bite off my own plate. Well,
I
thought it tasted good. A bit of crankiness crept in when Ben took his second bite without saying a word. I chewed my own second bite with more vigor. You’d think a guy who had the manners to spill first would know to compliment the cook.
He set his fork down and stared at his plate for a moment, transfixed. Finally, he looked up at me. “I wish you had one of those ‘Kiss the Cook’ aprons on. This is the best enchilada ever.”
I blushed.
The rest of dinner continued in easy conversation and a few dozen more jokes. After Ben reached sheepishly for his third serving and finished it, he jumped up to help me clear the table. I went to the kitchen for the dessert. Ben’s eyes widened when he turned from the sink and saw the large plate heaped with pralines in my hand. Taking it from me and heading for the table again, he called over his shoulder, “These look awesome, but what are you guys going to eat?”
I snapped a kitchen towel in my hand. “Hand over the goods.”
“Yeah, Ben. You must not have sisters, or you’d know how dangerous it is to get between a girl and her dessert,” Sandy said.
“Actually, I do have a sister, but she’s a lot younger, so we didn’t grow up together. But I have three brothers, and it’s kind of the law of the jungle when we eat. If you don’t get it first, you get what’s left.”
“I’m pretty sure I made enough to share,” I said. Sandy snatched up her first praline only a hair less eagerly than Ben did.
“They’re good on ice cream,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“This is crazy good,” Ben said. “I don’t know if they need ice cream.”
I stopped, and Sandy and I both stared.
He cleared his throat. “I mean, they definitely need ice cream. What was I thinking?”
What a great dinner guest. What a great personality.
I fetched a carton of French vanilla and then sat and took a satisfied bite of my own. Ben licked his spoon and asked, “Can I do the dishes for you?”
What a great guy.
At eleven thirty, Ben noticed me yawn and made polite motions about leaving. Even knowing I needed to sleep, I kept drawing out the conversation until somehow another hour slipped past. Sandy had long since gone to bed. The whole evening had been totally unlike me. I rarely ever invited guys into my home, and I had never schemed to prolong their visits. But with Ben, I reached such an easy comfort level that it felt right to sit curled into the corner of my sofa, listening to him tell stories about his mission and college and work.
The realization of how badly I wanted to know more scared me. I yawned and clapped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry! I think my body figured out it’s bed time, but I’m with you right here,” I said, tapping my forehead.
He jumped up. “No, I’m sorry. I should have left an hour ago, the first time you yawned.”
He helped me off the sofa and held onto my hand while I walked him to the door, suddenly nervous about what would happen when we got there. His hand felt good wrapped around mine, but . . . would he kiss me? I had only known him for a week, but this was technically a third date and . . . I
wanted
that kiss.