“RUSTY’S WELCOME, OF COURSE,” my mom says. “Just like any other dinner. I’ll make macaroni and cheese along with the roast.”
“I think she likes a roast,” I say. “She’s not that picky.”
“Then I’ll make macaroni and cheese because I want to eat it,” my mom says, laughing. “You know, I always did think that mac and cheese was underrated as…”
It’s 5:05 on Monday and I’m not listening to my mom. Right now she could say aliens just landed in our back yard, could you go see if they prefer red or white wine? and I’d agree because one hundred thousand percent of my attention is focused on my five-forty-five-ish rendezvous with Daniel, a rendezvous for which I’m already running five minutes behind schedule.
I even wrote the schedule down, because I feel like a bucket full of ants and I can’t focus for shit. I swear I had to measure a plank five consecutive times today because I couldn’t remember how long it was for more than three seconds.
Daniel’s coming over. Daniel’s coming over. Daniel’s coming over.
Alone.
The schedule is on a post-it that’s currently scrunched in the pocket of my coveralls as I power walk to my car, in the parking lot out back. It reads:
5 p.m. in car
5:15 arrive at apartment
5:20 shower FAST
5:30 dry hair
5:40 BRUSH TEETH, get dressed
At 5:06, I actually get into my car, my mom still on the phone.
“I wanted to ask you something else,” she goes on. “Since Daniel gave you that gorgeous ring, we wanted to get him something as well, but we don’t know what. Sort of a ‘welcome to the family gift,’ even though he’s sort of already family, but I guess it’s official now? He doesn’t really seem like the jewelry type, so unless he secretly wears a lot of ankle bracelets that’s probably out…”
“Yeah, he’s not really into jewelry,” I agree, glancing at my speedometer, going precisely 5 mph over the limit, because that’s probably fast enough not to get pulled over. I mean, don’t cops have something better to do than pull me over for technically going over the speed limit?
“Do you have any other ideas?” my mom is saying. “Your father suggested a nice paperweight for his office, but I don’t know, a paperweight, and then he said a tie, but does Daniel ever wear ties?”
What do I do when he shows up? Should the lights be low? Should I offer him a drink? How do you seduce someone?
What if he decides he just wants to talk after all?
We texted some this morning, but they were totally normal texts: hey, how’s your day, come to dinner at my parents’ house on Wednesday, Rusty says she likes the mermaid book better than the wilderness survival book.
There’s a part of me that’s afraid Daniel’s going to back out. That, after having a chance to think about it, he’ll realize that this friendship is too much to risk, and he’ll want to go back.
There’s a part of me that’s afraid he’d be right. There’s a part of me — a small, quiet part, but a part nonetheless — telling me that this friendship is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and if I lose it, my life will have a hole that’ll take me years to fix.
I’m not listening to that voice. I don’t like that it has some good points.
“Charlotte? A tie?”
“A tie,” I repeat, coming to a stop sign and trying to sound like I’ve been paying attention. “I think he really only wears those to court.”
“Oh,” my mom says, sounding disappointed. “What about—”
My phone beeps. It’s stuck in its holder on my dashboard, and Daniel’s name flashes on the screen.
Please don’t let him be early.
Please don’t let him be canceling. And please don’t let him want to talk about us right now, while I’m driving home too fast and wildly horny.
Oh, God, I just realized I’m horny while I’m on the phone with my mom, which has to be pretty weird. In my defense, I was thinking about other stuff, not listening to her.
“Mom, can I call you back tomorrow?” I say, shoving all those thoughts aside.
“All right,” she says. “You’ll remember, right?”
My phone beeps again, and my heartbeat speeds up.
“Yep!” I say, finger hovering over the button. “Love you!”
“Love you,” she says, and I switch lines.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, Charlie,” says Daniel.
Instantly, I know he’s not coming over. I don’t know how I know, I just know that he doesn’t sound like he’s coming over.
“What’s up?” I ask, hands gripping the steering wheel too hard.
“Rusty’s got a fever and a pretty nasty stomach bug,” he says. “I had to pick her up early from school. No ballet tonight.”
I bite my lips together to fight the wave of disappointment that’s washing over me. I want to say get your mom to take care of her and come over anyway, but I don’t. I know when I’m being selfish.
“Poor kid,” I say instead. “Tell her I hope she gets better fast.”
“Hi Charlie,” I hear Rusty’s small voice say. “Tell Charlie hi.”
“Rusty wants to say hi,” Daniel says.
There’s some rustling on the other end. I take a deep breath, letting disappointment filter through me, willing myself to let it go because this isn’t the end of the world.
It’s not like he’ll never come over. He just won’t come over tonight.
Shit happens.
Goddammit, though.
“I’ll be okay by Saturday and we can still go eat cake,” Rusty says in my ear, with a level of absolute certainty achievable only by children.
“If you’re not, we’ll reschedule, sweetie,” I hear Daniel say, his voice distant.
“I’ll be better,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Bye, Charlie!”
Even through my considerable disappointment, I can’t help but smile. I guess she just wanted to make extra sure that I wouldn’t cancel cake tasting.
“Bye, Rusty,” I say, even as there’s more rustling on the other end.
“I’m back,” Daniel says, then pauses, briefly.
“Sorry about tonight,” he goes on. “I’ll see you another time.”
Even though it’s totally G-rated, it sends a tingle down my spine. Never in my life has the phrase I’ll see you held such promise.
“Oh?” is all I manage to say.
“Of course,” he says, and I can hear the smile, the rasp in his voice. “I’ll let you know when the munchkin is better and we’ll make plans.”
“I’m not a munchkin,” I hear Rusty’s small, quiet voice say.
“Sorry, kiddo,” he says, and she sighs very dramatically. I laugh despite my disappointment because I can just imagine it: Rusty pale, pink-cheeked, probably under a blanket and hugging Astrid, her stuffed wombat, still protesting being called a munchkin. I swear, nothing gets past that kid.
“And Charlie, I’d much rather be taking her to ballet right now than being on puke watch,” he says, and his voice is quieter, hushed, low. “Promise.”
“Aren’t most things better than puke watch?” I tease, keeping my voice low so Rusty can’t hear.
“Sure, but there’s better and there’s better,” he says. “And I owe you the latter.”
I bite my lip in the car. I’m pretty sure my whole torso, from bellybutton to scalp, is currently pink. Daniel hasn’t said a single thing even remotely inappropriate for a seven-year-old, yet I’m absolutely certain he’s talking dirty to me.
Oh my God.
“Go take care of Rusty,” I say. “And call me.”
“I will,” he says, and when we hang up I’m still blushing, still smiling, and still horny, though I feel much less weird about it this time.
I sit in my driver’s seat for a moment. I pull the utterly useless post-it from my pocket, give it a quick glance just in case I also wrote down anything important on it, and toss it into the passenger seat.
Then I go upstairs to my apartment, get out my vibrator, and put it to good use. Again.
