Why I Love Singlehood: (17 page)

I felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach, a cross between nerves and hunger, with perhaps a pang of longing.

Moreover, I had no idea what I was supposed to do now, or what Minerva or Norman would say if they found out.
If
they found out? Why wouldn’t I tell them? And what about the other Originals and Regulars? Good grief, what had I done?

All these questions clamored for my attention.

Damn Shaun for coming into my shop with the Jeanette, for meeting her and getting engaged, for breaking up with me in the first place. And damn me for still caring.

When Scott reemerged, this time wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, he found me still sitting outside on my back deck, still in the robe, holding the cup of tea and staring out into the horizon.

“Hey,” I said again when I heard the screen door open. He had a nice body, I noticed. His torso was muscular without being ripped; his biceps, well defined; legs, sturdy, well-suited for surfing, parasailing, and jet-skiing, sports I knew he regularly participated in. He was a beach bum and a water rat when he wasn’t working or hanging out at The Grounds, and he sported a year-round tan that was much more attractive than a booth- or sprayed-on clay color.

I stood up, and he took a step toward me, blocking my path to the door. Good God, he’s still horny, I thought. And good God, so was I.

“Eva,” he whispered, and kissed me again, this time slipping his tongue over mine. He smelled clean and fresh and felt moist and supple, and I wanted to see what was underneath that towel. “I want you again,” he said.

“I need a shower,” I said to myself more than him.

“Can I join you?” he asked.

“You just had one.”

“It was a cold one.”

I blushed again. “You’ll shrivel up like a prune.”

“I like prunes.”

“What happened to giving me space?”

“I’ll give you space afterwards.” He pulled me to him, and I knew exactly what was under that towel.

“Damn,” I murmured, my face buried in his shoulder, “you’re intoxicating.”

He chuckled. “Good,” he said.

“No, it’s not good. This is crazy. You—we—
this
,” I stammered, trying to find a way to say what looped obsessively in my head.

He backed away, and his smile disappeared.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re freaked out. I can see that. Do you want me to go?”

Yes. No. Please. Maybe.

“My car is at The Grounds,” I answered.

“Do you want me to take you there so you can get it?”

“I can walk,” I answered. “It’s only about two and a half miles. The exercise will be good for me.”

“OK,” he said, without even a drop of disappointment in his voice.

“Listen,” I said, “thank you for last night.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And thanks for giving me space, too. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

“I understand.”

I took his hand. “I think for now I just want to take it one day at a time. I’m definitely not ready to tell the world what happened.”

“Sure thing. I think Norman’s going to be a little disappointed that he didn’t get to go home with you yesterday. For all we know, it would’ve been him you’d be having this conversation with.”

I looked at him suspiciously. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Norman has a little crush on you.”

My stomach dropped to my feet.

“Oh God. Oh, please don’t tell me that. Not right now.”

He grinned. “Sorry, but I think it’s true.”

“But he’s seeing Speed-dating Samara. And he talks about her all the time. It’s sickening how goo-goo-eyed he gets.”

Scott shrugged. “I mean, he’s never outright said anything, but being friends with him and all, I see the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. I’ve not been your only admirer, Eva. I think we’re ready to start a club.”

Friggin’ great.

With that, he kissed me one last time and bid me good-bye.

As I stood in the shower and let the cool water rain on me, I wondered what to do. It was bad enough that I’d posted my humiliation from the speed dating fiasco for the world to see, but this time I’d fucked up in 3D, with spectators and casualties. I was going to have to go back into my shop with my head held high and resume some semblance of routine, stop this runaway train from completely derailing, if it hadn’t already.

One thing was for sure: singlehood was now a rug that had been pulled out from under me, and I was going to have to somehow regain my footing.

15

Come Back

AFTER SCOTT LEFT,
I called in sick to work.

I viewed Facebook status updates but didn’t change my own.

I made an egg-white veggie omelet for myself and ate half of it.

I straightened and dusted the rooms of my house and did laundry.

I called Olivia and left a message on her voice mail; I hadn’t talked to her in two weeks.

I sat on the deck and tried to read a book, but gave up after reading the same paragraph three times and not remembering what it said.

I wandered from room to room again, as I’d done earlier that morning, like a lost puppy, not knowing what I was looking for or when I was going to get up the nerve to call Minerva.

I looked at my iPhone.

I watched TV, mostly consisting of a
Law & Order
marathon,
The People’s Court
, and
30 Minute Meals
.

I sat outside on my deck.

I went back inside and cleaned off the smudges on the iPhone with the edge of my T-shirt.

I wandered around the house for a third time.

I picked up my phone and called Scott; he had given me his cell phone number before he left.

“Hello?” I heard him say, sounding tired.

“Hey, um, it’s Eva.”

“Hey!” The lilt in his voice reappeared.

“What are you up to right now?” I asked.

“I’m catching up on some programming. Working from home sometimes makes you procrastinate since no one’s looking over your shoulder.”

“Can you bring it over here?” I asked, almost feeling as if I’d stepped out of myself and was watching the whole thing—and thinking about how ridiculous it was.

“You want me to come over?” he asked.

I hesitated for a beat before answering. “Yeah, I do.”

“When?”

“Is now too soon?

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said and hung up without even saying good-bye.

They were the longest fifteen minutes of my life; I thought I might die from the anxiety of waiting.

What am I doing?

When I heard the knock at the door, I opened it to find him standing there with his laptop briefcase in one hand and a can of Maxwell House in the other.

“Just in case you wanna pick up a new bad habit,” he said with a boyish smile.

I smiled back and pulled him by the arm. “Get in here.” He dropped his stuff as I pulled him close to me and kissed him hard. This time we went straight to bed.

I never did pick up my car at The Grounds.

16

The Club

SCOTT LEFT EARLY
the next morning since it was my turn to open The Grounds, and I walked to work, which did me a lot of good as far as giving me time to clear my head. We’d had another night of great sex, and we even sat in bed and talked and joked around a bit. He was four years my junior, so it was strange to consider that when I was starting high school on Long Island, he was still playing Little League baseball in Silver Spring, Maryland. But Scott was low maintenance, and he was letting me be confused or distant if I needed to be, and that was comforting. Besides, he was nice. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Scott before—I had simply never considered us as a potential couple, even after the Lovematch.com incident. I still didn’t, really. We were somewhere between being fuck buddies (although geez, how I hated that term, not to mention the concept) and dating (which, at this point, was just as undesirable as being the dreaded fuck buddies). And it disturbed me even more that I had slept with him twice before finding out that his last name was Vogel.

I don’t know whom I was more nervous to face—Norman, after learning that he had a crush on me, or Minerva, whom I had blown off and had been avoiding ever since. I’d forgotten all about her news about the false alarm and felt guilty for not calling her back and being more available.

Shortly after I served the first two customers of the day, Norman called in sick—his first time in a year.

Mid-late afternoon that same day, Spencer and Tracy and Jan and Dean were sitting at their usual table, although Jan and Dean were sitting more apart than usual and seemed a little on the quiet side.

“So, Eva, what’s up in the world of singlehood?” Tracy asked. “You haven’t written much in your blog lately.” Before I could answer, she said, “You know, you should pitch your blog to HBO as a TV series. Ever since
The Sopranos
and
Sex and the City
went off the air, there’s nothing good on.”

“Not true. What about
Entourage
?” said Dean.

“Isn’t that on Showtime?” I asked.

“You’re a writer,” Tracy persisted. “How hard is it to write a script?”

“Do you even know how to write a screenplay?” asked Dean.

“Teleplay, actually,” I said.

“You don’t just sit down and write a script one day,” said Jan. “It’s a lot of work.”

“Aaron Sorkin wrote most of
A Few Good Men
on cocktail napkins,” I pointed out.

“Aaron Sorkin wrote
A Few Good Men
?” asked Dean.

“Isn’t that the guy who wrote
Wag the Dog
?” asked Jan.

“David Mamet wrote
Wag the Dog
,” said Dean. “Aaron Sorkin wrote
The West Wing
.”

“And
Sports Night
,” added Spencer. “Remember
Sports Night
?”

“You know that Aaron Sorkin wrote
The West Wing
but not
A Few Good Men
?” I asked.

“
Wag the Dog
was a good movie,” said Dean.

“And
A Few Good Men
wasn’t?” said Jan.

“Who writes
Entourage
?” asked Spencer.

Looking away from the table and at the door, I saw Minerva come in, laptop and messenger bag in tow, followed, coincidentally, by Scott, which made my stomach do several backflips in succession. I excused myself and went behind the counter to assist Susanna.

“Hey, Suze, would you mind checking on the cookies in the oven?”

“She’s in the middle of my order,” said Minerva tersely. “You can do it.”

Ouch.

I entered the kitchen and pulled out a tray of pinwheels from the oven while watching Minerva from the window that separated the back counter from the kitchen. I could also see Scott at his usual table, already engrossed in his work, although he looked up once, made eye contact with me, and grinned before looking down again. My heart fluttered—it hadn’t done that in a long time. At least not for someone who was neither Shaun nor Colin Firth.

When I exited the kitchen, Minerva was sitting at a table by the window, hunched over her books, studying.

“Mind if I sit here for a minute?” I asked. I never had to ask that before.

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’m sorry I never called you, Min.”

“S’OK,” she said, not looking up.

“I was upset and needed time to cool off and sort things out. Surely you can understand that.”

“I left a million messages for you,” she said. For the second time in as many days, Minerva sounded young to me. Like a little kid.

“I know.”

“Were you trapped under something heavy?”

I took note of the
When Harry Met Sally
reference, but didn’t laugh.

“Something like that,” I started.

She looked at me. She looked at Scott. Then she looked back at me.

“I knew it!” she said like a lawyer making a dramatic accusation, albeit softly enough so others couldn’t hear.

There was no way I could lie to Minerva, so I leaned in and confessed. “It just sort of happened.”

“My ass it sort of happened. You wanted it to happen. That’s why you let him take you home.”

“So maybe I did. But, Min, be happy for me. He’s really nice—well, not
nice
,” I said, searching for something more qualifying. “I don’t know, he’s fun and he’s been really cool about the whole thing.”

I could tell she was holding back, and suddenly I didn’t want to know what she was thinking.

“I just—I want to be happy for you,” she started, “but I’m not sure what to be happy about. That you finally rebounded over Shaun? That you spent a weekend with a guy whose favorite moniker is
dude
?”

She looked directly at me, apologizing with her eyes while she continued. “Eva, I promise you that the minute I know you’re in a good place, I’ll be happy for you. Until then, I’ll be your biggest supporter—heck, I’m already your biggest fan. But one of us needs to keep our guard up. I mean, come on, the guy doesn’t even like chai!”