Beautiful Stranger
Page 51
“Why are you so nice?” she whispered, and then kissed me, muting any possible reply.
But this one stuck. It felt too big to disregard and pave over with my hand in her underwear or a grind under a tree. I pulled back. “I’m nice because I’m genuinely fond of you.”
“Do you ever lie?” she asked, eyes searching mine.
“Of course I do. But why would I want to be dishonest with you?”
Her face straightened and she nodded thoughtfully. After a long pause, she whispered, “I should get back.”
My mood shifted immediately from warm and intimate to resigned business-as-usual. The girl was a boomerang. “Okay.”
She stood, wiping the grass from her knees and skirt. “We probably shouldn’t walk back together.”
I could only nod, for fear I’d let loose a litany of frustration over her publicity rules, particularly after she’d just climbed into my lap beneath a tree.
After a lingering look, she stretched and kissed my jaw once, carefully. “I’m fond of you, too.”
I watched her walk away, head straight and shoulders back. Looking to all the world as if she were returning from nothing but a brisk walk through the park.
I looked around me as if it were possible to collect together the heart I’d nearly spilled all over the grass.
Eleven
To say my interaction with Max at the park had been odd would be an understatement. I knew I’d overreacted, but honestly? So had he. Worrying about my reaction in the conference room? Chasing me down? What were we doing?
Monday night I came home and spent two hours making æbelskivers for dinner. Puffed balls of dough, fried and powdered in sugar, traditionally served for breakfast, but screw it. I needed something elaborate. It was my grandmother’s recipe from Denmark, and focusing on making them perfect gave me time to think.
I hadn’t spent much time thinking at all lately.
But cooking something so associated with my family also made me miss home, miss my parents, miss the safety of a predictable life, no matter how depressing or untrue.
I reached for my phone, not caring how messy my hands were. Mom picked up on the seventh ring. So typical.
“Hi, pumpkin!” I heard something crash in the background and she swore, “Fucksticks!”
“You okay?” I asked, smiling into the call. It was amazing how three words could make me feel grounded.
“Fine, just dropped my iPad. You okay, honey?” And when she asked this I remembered I’d called her that morning on my walk to the subway.
“Just wanted to hear your voice.”
She paused. “Feeling homesick?”
“A little.”
“Tell me,” she said, and I immediately remembered the hundreds of times she’d said exactly this, urging me to let it all out.
“I met a man.”
“Today?”
I winced. I’d spoken to my parents a few times a week since I’d moved and had never mentioned Max. What was there to mention? They didn’t want to know about my sex life any more than I wanted to share it.
“No. A few weeks ago.”
I could practically hear her strategizing her best response. Supportive, but protective. How one reacts the first time their daughter starts dating after a horrible, public breakup.
“Who is he?”
“A finance guy here. Local. But not,” I said, shaking my head and wishing I could start over. “He’s British.”
“Ooh, a foreigner, how fabulous!” she said laughing, putting on her thick southern drawl. And then she paused. “Are you telling me this because it’s serious?”
“I’m telling you this because I have no idea.”
I loved my mother’s laugh. I missed its frequency. “That’s the best stage.”
“Is it?”
“For sure. Don’t you dare squander it. Don’t let that jerk of an ex-boyfriend keep you from having fun.”
I sighed. “But it feels so uncharted. I always knew what to expect with Andy.” As soon as I said it, I regretted it, and her answering silence felt thundering.
“Did you?”
She knew me so well. I could practically see her arms crossed, her I’m-gonna-kick-some-ass face. “No. I didn’t.”
“Do you feel like you know this guy?”
“That’s the weird thing. I kind of feel like I do.”
No matter how much I thought about it, or how little sleep I got that night, it’d be fair to say I had no idea where Max’s head was after what happened Monday. The dynamics were backward: He was supposed to know how to do this casual thing. I was supposed to know how to do commitment.
But this one stuck. It felt too big to disregard and pave over with my hand in her underwear or a grind under a tree. I pulled back. “I’m nice because I’m genuinely fond of you.”
“Do you ever lie?” she asked, eyes searching mine.
“Of course I do. But why would I want to be dishonest with you?”
Her face straightened and she nodded thoughtfully. After a long pause, she whispered, “I should get back.”
My mood shifted immediately from warm and intimate to resigned business-as-usual. The girl was a boomerang. “Okay.”
She stood, wiping the grass from her knees and skirt. “We probably shouldn’t walk back together.”
I could only nod, for fear I’d let loose a litany of frustration over her publicity rules, particularly after she’d just climbed into my lap beneath a tree.
After a lingering look, she stretched and kissed my jaw once, carefully. “I’m fond of you, too.”
I watched her walk away, head straight and shoulders back. Looking to all the world as if she were returning from nothing but a brisk walk through the park.
I looked around me as if it were possible to collect together the heart I’d nearly spilled all over the grass.
Eleven
To say my interaction with Max at the park had been odd would be an understatement. I knew I’d overreacted, but honestly? So had he. Worrying about my reaction in the conference room? Chasing me down? What were we doing?
Monday night I came home and spent two hours making æbelskivers for dinner. Puffed balls of dough, fried and powdered in sugar, traditionally served for breakfast, but screw it. I needed something elaborate. It was my grandmother’s recipe from Denmark, and focusing on making them perfect gave me time to think.
I hadn’t spent much time thinking at all lately.
But cooking something so associated with my family also made me miss home, miss my parents, miss the safety of a predictable life, no matter how depressing or untrue.
I reached for my phone, not caring how messy my hands were. Mom picked up on the seventh ring. So typical.
“Hi, pumpkin!” I heard something crash in the background and she swore, “Fucksticks!”
“You okay?” I asked, smiling into the call. It was amazing how three words could make me feel grounded.
“Fine, just dropped my iPad. You okay, honey?” And when she asked this I remembered I’d called her that morning on my walk to the subway.
“Just wanted to hear your voice.”
She paused. “Feeling homesick?”
“A little.”
“Tell me,” she said, and I immediately remembered the hundreds of times she’d said exactly this, urging me to let it all out.
“I met a man.”
“Today?”
I winced. I’d spoken to my parents a few times a week since I’d moved and had never mentioned Max. What was there to mention? They didn’t want to know about my sex life any more than I wanted to share it.
“No. A few weeks ago.”
I could practically hear her strategizing her best response. Supportive, but protective. How one reacts the first time their daughter starts dating after a horrible, public breakup.
“Who is he?”
“A finance guy here. Local. But not,” I said, shaking my head and wishing I could start over. “He’s British.”
“Ooh, a foreigner, how fabulous!” she said laughing, putting on her thick southern drawl. And then she paused. “Are you telling me this because it’s serious?”
“I’m telling you this because I have no idea.”
I loved my mother’s laugh. I missed its frequency. “That’s the best stage.”
“Is it?”
“For sure. Don’t you dare squander it. Don’t let that jerk of an ex-boyfriend keep you from having fun.”
I sighed. “But it feels so uncharted. I always knew what to expect with Andy.” As soon as I said it, I regretted it, and her answering silence felt thundering.
“Did you?”
She knew me so well. I could practically see her arms crossed, her I’m-gonna-kick-some-ass face. “No. I didn’t.”
“Do you feel like you know this guy?”
“That’s the weird thing. I kind of feel like I do.”
No matter how much I thought about it, or how little sleep I got that night, it’d be fair to say I had no idea where Max’s head was after what happened Monday. The dynamics were backward: He was supposed to know how to do this casual thing. I was supposed to know how to do commitment.
