Текст книги "A Different Blue "
Автор книги: Amy Harmon
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
I felt like an intruder, a peeping Tom, watching her as she gazed at him.
“Tiffa?”
“Hmm?”
“I'm pregnant. Did you know that?”
“Yes, Blue. I know,” she said gently.
“Did Wilson tell you?”
“He told me when you moved into the little downstairs flat.” The light in the room was dim, and we both spoke in hushed tones in order to not disturb Henry, but neither of us moved, a silent acknowledgement that the conversation had taken an intimate turn.
“I overheard your mother and Wilson talking,” I said softly.
Tiffa tipped her head curiously, waiting.
“Your mother was upset.”
“Oh, no,” Tiffa moaned quietly, her shoulders slumping. “What did she say?”
“She told Wilson he shouldn't have brought me here. That it was hard for you.” I wanted to apologize, but my lingering anger at Joanna Wilson kept me silent. I hadn't tried to hurt anyone.
“Oh, Mum. She can be such a nitwit . . . and an old-fashioned one at that. I see now why Wilson was keen to leave. She probably gutted the poor boy.” Tiffa reached out and clasped my hand.
“I'm sorry, Blue. Although I desperately wish I had a baby bump just like yours, you are welcome in my home, with my brother, any time.”
“Have you been trying to get pregnant?” I asked, hoping I wasn't getting too personal.
“Jack and I have never used birth control, and we enjoy each other immensely, if you know what I mean. I thought I would have several little Jackie's biting at our ankles by now.” Tiffa paused and looked at Henry again. “A few years ago, Jack and I saw a specialist. He said our chances are slim to none . . . and they favor none. But I'm an optimist, and I keep telling myself it could still happen. I'm only thirty-two. My mum had a difficult time getting pregnant, and she still managed it a couple of times.”
“Have you ever thought of adoption?” The words tumbled out of my mouth, and my heart begin to race. I knew what I was going to say next, and it terrified me even as I felt the surety of my sudden inspiration settle upon me.
Tiffa must have sensed my heightened emotion because she turned toward me, a quizzical look in her blue eyes.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, drawing out the word as her eyes searched my face. All the nights, laying awake, considering options, battling insecurities, weighing choices, seemed to coalesce in this one moment. I stared back, anxious to communicate. Needing her to understand.
“My mother abandoned me when I was two years old.” The words tumbled out with the force of Niagara, and the little boy in the bed tossed, though I hadn't raised my voice. “I want my child to have a different life than I had. I want her . . . or him, to be anticipated, celebrated . . . ch-cherished,” I stuttered, stopping to press my hands to my galloping heart. I was going to say it. I was going to make Tiffa Snook an offer that shook me to my core. She had pressed her hands to her own heart, and her eyes were as wide as twin moons.
“I would like you and Jack to adopt my baby.”
Chapter Seventeen
Wilson was quiet as we drove back to Boulder City, and I was too preoccupied to confess that I had overheard his conversation with his mother. I was too dizzy with hope to care that he'd dismissed me as a whim, nothing more. I had arrived at Tiffa's that Fourth of July expecting nothing but fireworks, hotdogs, and a long swim. I had left with a possible family for my unborn child. And though my head swam and my thoughts raced frantically, I felt a rightness that resonated within me through that first long night and into the days that followed.
Tiffa and I agreed that we should both sleep on the decision and say nothing to anyone until after she had spoken to Jack and consulted a lawyer. Neither of us had any idea what legal steps needed to be taken, but Tiffa thought she could get some answers from Jack's brother, who was an attorney. Her hands shook as she embraced me and her eyes were wide with wonder, most likely at the turn her life had suddenly taken. The hope in her eyes must have mirrored my own, and though she begged me to think seriously about my choice over the coming days, I knew I wouldn't change my mind.
Tiffa, Jack, and I met with Jack's brother, who took us through the process. It wasn't terribly complicated: Jack and Tiffa would pay my medical costs, which I would need to reimburse if I changed my mind within a certain window of time. And, of course, the father would have to be notified, and he would have to sign away his rights. The thought made my stomach cramp with dread. It wasn't that I thought Mason would want to be a daddy and raise the child. But he was territorial, and I could see him making trouble just for the sake of troublemaking.
And then Tiffa told her family. Tiffa's mother, Alice, Peter, and the kids were flying back to Manchester in the morning, so Tiffa invited Wilson to dinner so she could break the news while they were all still together. She invited me as well, but I refused, grateful that my scheduled shift at the cafe gave me an excuse to stay away. Awkward didn't begin to describe the situtation. And I really didn't want to talk adoption over tea and crumpets with Joanna Wilson. I wondered if the awkwardness would extend to my relationship with Wilson, and I spent a tense evening at work, dropping dishes and providing lousy service. It was nine o'clock when I finally clocked out and walked home, tired and strung out from juggling orders and nervous energy. Wilson was sitting on the front steps of Pemberley when I trudged up the sidewalk.
I sat down beside him and tried to rest my tired head on my knees, which I had done a thousand times before, but my burgeoning stomach made it impossible. In the last week it had grown so much it was constantly surprising me and getting in the way, and disguising it had gotten increasingly difficult. So I just sat with my hands in my lap and stared out into the darkened street, reminded of the time, several months ago, when I had been so lost and had shown up at Wilson's announced, looking for direction. We had sat just this way, our eyes facing outward, our legs almost touching, quiet and contemplative.
“Tiffa and Jack might be the happiest people on the planet right now,” Wilson murmured, looking down at me briefly. “My mother is not far behind, though. She was singing a stirring rendition of “God Save the King” when I left.”
“God Save the King?” I sputtered, surprised.
“It's the only song she knows all the words to . . . and she apparently felt like singing.”
I giggled and we lapsed back into silence.
“Are you sure about all of this, Blue?”
“No,” I laughed ruefully. “I've decided being sure is a luxury I won't ever be able to afford. But I'm as sure as a twenty-year-old waitress could ever be. And the fact that Tiffa and Jack are so happy makes me almost positive.”
“Lots of women, younger than you, and with a lot less talent, raise children alone every day.”
“And some of them probably do a damn good job, too,” I admitted, trying not to let his comments bother me.” Some of them don't. “My eyes met Wilson's defiantly, and I waited, wondering if he would press me further. He searched my expression and then looked away. I wanted him to understand, and I desperately needed his validation, so I turned to the one thing I knew he would grasp.
“There was a poem you quoted to me once, by Edgar Allan Poe. Do you remember?” I'd memorized it after that night. Maybe it was to feel closer to him, to know something he knew, to share something he loved, but the words had spoken to me on a very primal level, haunted me even. It was my life, boiled down to a few rhyming lines.
Wilson began to quote the beginning lines, a question in his expression. As he did, I spoke the words with him, reciting them. His eyebrows rose at each word, and I could tell I had surprised him by my mastery.
“From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone.”
Wilson stopped, staring down at me in the dusky light that spilled around our concrete perch.
“It's the next part I can't ever get out of my head,” I ventured, holding his gaze. “Do you know what comes next?”
Wilson nodded, but he didn't quote the lines. He just waited for me to continue. So I spoke them, delivering each line the way I interpreted it.
“And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then – in my childhood, in the dawn
of a most stormy life – was drawn
from every depth of good and ill,
the mystery which binds me still.”
There was more, but it was this line that resonated, and I gathered my thoughts, wanting to be understood.
“The mystery of my life binds me still, Wilson. You told me once we can't help where we are scattered. We are born in whatever circumstances we are born into, and none of us has any control over it. But I can make sure this baby isn't scattered like I was. I have nothing to give but myself, and if something were to happen to me, my baby would have no one left. I can't guarantee this child a happy life, but I can make sure she doesn't love alone. I want to layer her in love. Mother and father and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. I want her to have family surrounding her so there is no mystery and no fear of being alone or abandoned . . . or scattered.”
Wilson nodded again, but his face was troubled and his grey eyes morose. He leaned in and kissed my forehead, and I smelled peppermints and aftershave and had to steel myself against the desire to breathe deeply, to pull his scent around me like a warm blanket. I sensed his unrest, as if he disagreed with everything I had said but didn't want to hurt my feelings. I wondered if it was the fact that he would be an uncle to my child, to Tiffa's child. He would be one of the layers of love I was so painstakingly constructing.
“So what's next, Blue? Where do we go from here?” I didn't know what he referred to exactly, so I took him literally.
“Tomorrow I have to tell Mason.”
“Well look who's here. Couldn't stay away, could ya?” Mason crooned, looking down at me from his open door. He was silhouetted in the light from his little apartment over the garage. I had called him, telling him I was outside and needed to talk to him. He snapped his phone shut and began walking down the stairs, his swagger pronounced. He obviously thought I wanted to do something more than talk. I held my purse in front of me, not wanting him to get an eyefull until I was ready. I heard a door slam. Wilson rounded the corner. So much for him staying in the car.
“Where the hell have you been, Blue?” Mason reached the bottom of the stairs at the same time Wilson reached my side. Mason's eyes strayed to Wilson and a dark look passed over his features. “Thought you'd trade me in for this uppity pansy?”
“I'm pregnant, Mason. It's yours,” I shot out, not wanting to make small talk. I needed this over and done as soon as possible. I moved my purse to the side so he could get a good look at my stomach.
Mason's eyes shot to my belly and back to my face. I wasn't obviously pregnant if I wore the right clothing. I'd made sure to wear a fitted T-shirt with slim white capris so there was no doubt.
“Oh, that's rich!” Mason howled, running his hands through his hair, and I immediately felt bad for him. I didn't blame him for being outraged. It was a major sucker punch, and I knew exactly how he felt; I'd felt the same way several months ago. He pointed at me, his finger only inches from my face.
“You show up here after almost six months, and lay this on me? No way. Uh uh! I'm not buying it.”
“Not buying what, Mason?” I challenged. I tempered my sympathy with the need to accomplish what I'd come for.
“How do I know the kid is even mine, Blue? I sure as hell wasn't your first, and I definitely wasn't your last. If I recall, Adam here was in the picture around that time, too.” Mason eyed Wilson sourly. Wilson just shook his head and crossed his arms. The Adam thing just wouldn't go away. It did no good to try to deny or explain anything.
I shrugged, not arguing. It was better if Mason doubted me. He would make less of a fuss. I handed him the summons Jack's brother had prepared.
“I didn't come here to make trouble, Mason. I didn't come here to fight. I want to give the baby up for adoption. This explains termination of rights. You need to show up at court on this date, sign on the dotted line, and you're done. You never have to see me or my big belly again.”
Mason glanced at the paperwork and for a minute I thought he would rip it in two.
“I gotta work. I can't make it.” He scowled, tossing the paper aside. It fluttered to the ground, and we all stared at it, waiting for someone to make a move. After a second, I stooped to pick it up.
“I understand,” I said, sweetness dripping from my voice. “You're definitely gonna want to hold onto that job. Because if this adoption doesn't work out, I'm going to file a paternity suit and sue for child support.” I kept my face blank and my eyes innocently wide.
Mason swore, and Wilson bit back a grin. He gave me a thumbs up under his folded arms. His grin faded when Mason proceeded to call me an F-ing whore.
“Watch yourself, chap,” he bit out, and Mason eyed him warily, most likely recalling the kung fu from their last meeting.
“You aren't getting a damn dime from me, Blue.”
“Show up on Thursday, and I never will,” I pressed the paper against his chest, holding it there until he reached up and grabbed it, wrinkling it in his fist. “See you, Thursday.”
I turned and walked away, not glancing back to see if Mason watched or Wilson followed. I slid into the passenger seat of Wilson's Subaru and fumbled for my seatbelt, needing to feel secure, needing to reassure myself that I was safe. Safe from Mason's anger? From his palpable sense of betrayal? Maybe. I just knew I felt scared and inexplicably sad. Wilson climbed in beside me and started the car. My hands shook so badly that the clasp slipped and ricocheted back against the window, smacking the glass with a sickening crack. Wilson leaned over and pulled the seat belt across me and clicked it without comment, but I felt his eyes on my face as he pulled away from the curb.
“You're shaking. Are you all right?”
I nodded, trying to swallow the shame that filled my mouth and made speaking difficult.
I could feel Wilson's eyes on me, studying my profile, trying to peel back my mask. I wished he would just let it go.
“Do you love him?” The sympathetic query was so unexpected that I laughed, a harsh bark that held little resemblance to mirth.
“No!” That was easy. “I'm embarrassed and I'm ashamed. Love has nothing to do with it. It never did.”
“Does it make it easier . . . not loving him?”
I pondered that for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah. It does. I'm just glad he didn't offer to make an honest woman of me.”
Wilson smiled wryly. “Yes . . . there is that.” He turned up the radio and The Killers streamed out into the Vegas night, “Miss Atomic Bomb” making the dashboard vibrate. I thought the conversation was over when Wilson reached up and punched the knob, silencing the music.
“What if he had?”
“Had what? Asked me to marry him? Get real, Wilson.”
“Would you want to keep your baby then?”
“And we could be a happy little family?” I squeaked, incredulous. “It's bad enough that this baby has our combined DNA. It doesn't deserve to be raised by us, too.
“Ahh, Blue. You wouldn't be a bad mother.”
“I wonder if that's what someone told my mother when she found out she was pregnant with me.”
Wilson swung his head around, surprise evident on his handsome face. I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. I didn't know if I would be a bad mother. I didn't know if I would be a good mother. But I knew I wouldn't be as good a mother as Tiffa Snook, not yet anyway. And that was the bottom line.
Thursday came. I had slept poorly all week, worried that Mason would show up with his parents in tow and that they would sue for custody of my unborn child. If that happened, I would be keeping my baby. Giving her up to Tiffa and Jack was one thing. Giving her to Mason and his parents was another. But Mason was unaccompanied in the courtroom when I arrived Thursday morning. He was an adult and didn't need permission for what he was about to do. I wondered if he had even told his parents. He wore a tie and a shell-shocked expression, and I felt bad all over again.
When the judge questioned him, making sure he understood his rights as well as the rights he was terminating, he nodded and then looked at me. I didn't sense anger anymore. He just seemed stunned. With a notary looking on, he signed the documents, and Tiffa and Jack hugged each other tightly as if they too had been terrified of a derailment. I felt faint with relief and struggled to hold back a sudden flood of emotion. As soon as the proceedings were over, I found Mason. I owed him that much.
“Thank you, Mason,” I said quietly, extending my hand.
Mason slowly took my outstretched hand in his. “Why didn't you tell me sooner, Blue? I know we were never serious, but I . . . I wanted to be.”
It was my turn for shock. “You did?” I never thought Mason liked anything about me but the sex. It occurred to me then that my low opinion of myself may have blinded me to his true feelings.
“I know I can be an asshole. I drink too much, I say things I shouldn't, and I get mad too easy. But you could have told me.”
“I should have,” I acquiesced. We stood awkwardly, looking everywhere but at each other.
“It's better this way, Mason,” I suggested softly. He looked at me then and nodded.
“Yeah. I know. But maybe someday you'll give me another chance.”
No. I wouldn't. Mason was part of a past I didn't want to repeat. But I nodded noncommitally, grateful that there was peace between us.
“Take care of yourself, Blue.”
“You too, Mason.” I turned and made my way to the door. Mason called out behind me, and his voice seemed awfully loud in the almost empty courtroom.
“I never pictured you with a guy like Adam.”
I turned and shrugged. “Neither did I, Mason. Maybe that's part of my problem.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Why is your recliner in the middle of the floor?”
“I like to sit under the vent.”
“Are you cold? Don't be shy about turning up the thermostat. This little space isn't exactly expensive to heat.”
“Wilson. It's August in Nevada. I'm not cold.”
“So . . . why is the recliner in the middle of the floor?” Wilson insisted.
“I like hearing you play at night,” I admitted easily, much to my surprise. I hadn't planned to tell him. “The sound travels through the vent.
“You like to hear me play?” Wilson sounded shocked.
“Sure,” I said easily, shrugging as if it was no big deal. “It's nice.” Nice was an understatement. “I just keep wishing you would play something by Willie,” I teased.
Wilson looked crestfallen. “Willie?”
“Yes, Willie,” I insisted, trying not to giggle. “Willie Nelson is one of the greatest songwriters of all time.”
“Huh,” Wilson said, scratching his head. “I guess I'm not that familiar with his . . . work.”
He looked so flummoxed that I couldn't help myself and burst out laughing. “Willie Nelson is a country singer – an old-timer. Jimmy loved him. Actually, Jimmy kind of looked like him, just with darker skin and less scruff. Jimmy had the braids and the bandana, though, and he had every album Willie had ever put out. We listened to those songs over and over.” I didn't really feel like laughing anymore and abruptly changed the subject.
“There's one song you play that I especially like,” I ventured.
“Really? Hum a bit.”
“I can't hum, sing, dance, or recite poetry, Wilson.”
“Just a bit, so I know which tune you like.”
I cleared my throat, scrunched my eyes closed, and tried to think of the tune. It was there in my head, like a cool stream of water. Beautiful. I attempted a couple of notes, and gaining confidence, hummed a few more, still with my eyes closed. I felt quite pleased with myself and opened one eye to see how my humming had been received.
Wilson's face was bright red, and he was shaking with laughter. “I don't have a clue what song you're humming, luv. Maybe you should hum a few more bars until I have it.”
“You . . . jerk!” I fumed, slapping at him as he laughed harder. “I told you I couldn't sing! Stop it!”
“No . . . really, it was brilliant!” he wheezed, warding me off. I gave up with a huff and started dragging my recliner from the middle of the floor, indicating I wouldn't be listening anymore, now that he'd gone and embarrassed me.
“Come on, I'm sorry. Here. I'll hum now so you can poke fun at me.” He pulled the chair back directly under the vent. “Sit right here and put your feet up.” He pushed me down gently into the chair, and lifted my feet so they were propped on the recliner's footrest. “Even better, I'll run up and get my cello, and I'll bring it down and I'll play for you.”
“Not interested,” I lied. The thought of him playing his cello for me made me feel slightly breathless and lightheaded. Thankfully, he just laughed and jogged out of my apartment. I could hear him flying up the stairs and his door bang above me. In minutes he was back, carrying the huge cello case. He snagged one of my armless kitchen chairs, sat down in front of me, and pulled out his shiny black cello. He proceeded to tune and tighten his strings as I watched, trying to hide my anticipation.
“Perfect.” Apparently satisfied, he began to run his bow over the strings, finding a melody. His eyes met mine. “When you hear it, tell me.”
“Why don't you just play . . . the way you do when you're alone. I'll just listen.” I gave up any pretense of not being interested.
“You want me to practice?” He stopped playing abruptly.
“Yeah. Just do what you do every night.”
“I practice for at least an hour most nights.” It was spoken like a challenge, and I responded immediately.
“I know.” And I did, very well. “But tell me the names as you go, so that when I hear you practice from now on, I will know what you're playing. It will be educational,” I added, knowing it would make him laugh. It did. “I'm all about education, ya know.”
“Yes, quite. The girl who couldn't wait to come to my class each day, so eager to listen and to learn.”
If he only knew. But he just grinned at me and lifted his hands to play once more. He needed a haircut again. A chestnut curl slid into his eyes, and he impatiently pushed it back. He tipped his head to the side as if the cello he held was a lover, whispering a secret. His wand slid across the strings, and he launched into a melody. The sound was so sweet and sensuous – the low, trembling tones blending into one another – that I almost sighed out loud. The music filled the room and pushed against my heart, demanding entrance.
“Do you know this?” he asked as he played.
“Mary Had a Little Lamb?”
“Ever the cheeky one, aren't you?” he sighed, but a smile hovered around his lips and his eyelids drooped closed as he continued to play. I watched him, the length of his lashes against his cheek, the lean jaw emphasized by the slight shadow of a day's beard. His face was serene, lost in the music that he was creating. And I marveled that he had become my friend. I wondered if there were other men like him. Men who loved history and carried handkerchiefs and opened doors for girls . . . even girls like me. I didn't know anyone like him. I wondered again about Pamela and whether he was in love with her.
“This is Brahms.” His eyes blinked open, refocusing on my face. I nodded, and he sank back into reverie. One song bled into another, and I let my own eyes close as I listened. I felt heavy with peace and well-being, and I curled more deeply into the chair.
And then I felt a thump. Oomph! I looked down in wonder, puzzled at the nudging against my abdomen. The sensation came again and I gasped,
“Wilson! Wilson come here! The baby . . . is . . . dancing!”
Wilson was at my side, kneeling almost before the words had left my mouth. He reached for me, and I pressed his hand to my belly, guiding it toward the movement. I had felt the baby move many times, but not like this.
“There! There! Feel that?” Wilson's eyes were as wide as saucers. We both held our breath and waited. A nudge and then a kick.
“Ouch!” I laughed, “You had to have felt that!” Wilson moved his other hand to cup my stomach more firmly, and he settled his cheek against me, listening. For several seconds his head was cradled against me, dark curls bent over me, and I resisted the urge to run my hand through his hair. The baby was still, yet Wilson seemed reluctant to pull away.
“It was the music,” I whispered, hoping to keep him close, just for a minute more. “You were playing the song we like.”
Wilson looked up at me, and our faces were so close it would have been so easy to lean into him. So easy . . . and completely impossible. He looked surprised by my nearness and immediately pulled away.
“That was the song?” A smile lit his face.
“Yes. What was it?” I asked
“Bob Dylan.”
“What?!” I wailed. “I thought it was going to be Beethoven or something. Now I know I'm white trash.”
Wilson bopped me on the head with his bow. “It's called 'Make You Feel my Love.' It's one of my favorite songs. I embellish it a bit, but it's all Dylan, definitely not Mozart. The lyrics are brilliant. Listen.” Wilson sang softly as he played. His voice was as rich as the moaning cello .
“Of course,” I said sourly.
“What?” Wilson stopped, startled.
“You can sing. You have a beautiful voice. I can't even pretend that you suck. Why can't you suck at something? It's so unfair.”
“You clearly haven't seen me try to carve something intricate and beautiful out of a tree stump,” Wilson said dryly, and started playing again. I resumed listening, but the music made my fingers itch to carve.
“If you would practice in the basement every night, I could listen to you while I carve. Then, I would make sculptures that looked like your music sounds. We could make millions together. You would be my muse, Wilson. Can men be muses?”
Wilson smiled, but his eyes again wore that unfocused look, as if his power to see was absorbed by his need to hear. I closed my eyes too, letting myself drift away in a sea of sound. I awoke hours later to silence. My apple green throw was tucked around me, and Wilson and his magic cello were gone.
Since moving to Pemberley, I'd gotten into the habit of walking to work. It saved me money on gas and provided a little exercise, though as I neared the end of my eighth month, the heat, even in mid October, was almost enough to make me drive. But I never drove on Mondays. That was the night Wilson walked down and ate at the cafe. When my shift ended, I always joined him, and we would walk home together.
Once, just in passing, I'd told him how I used to bring Manny and Gracie dinner on Monday nights so Mondays were always a little melancholy for me. After that, Wilson started showing up at the cafe on Monday nights. I tried not to read anything into his actions. He was nice to me, kind and considerate, and I told myself that was just who he was. I never questioned the time he spent with me, never commented on it, never drew attention to it. I worried that if I did he might stop.
My shift usually ended at seven, and Wilson walked in that Monday at seven on the dot. He still wore slacks and a light blue dress shirt, rolled at the elbows. It was his standard school attire. Bev winked at him and gave me the go ahead to clock out. I joined him for a sandwich and a glass of lemonade, sighing as I wiggled my toes and rolled my stiff shoulders.
Bev made sure she served Wilson his standard tomato-and-grilled-cheese-with-french-fries personally, though Bev always called them chips, as if to make Wilson feel right at home. He thanked her and said everything looked absolutely “scrummy.” She giggled just like Chrissy used to do in history class. It was all I could do not to laugh right out loud.
“I think Bev has a crush on you, Wilson. I know you're probably used to that by now. Don't you have a fan club at school? The 'I Heart Wilson' club, or something?”
“Ha, ha, Blue. I have never been all that popular with the girls.”
“Wilson. Don't be an idiot. You were all Manny could talk about the whole first month of school.”
“Manny is not a girl,” Wilson remarked mildly.
I snickered. “True. But I think I was the only one who wasn't following you around with my tongue hanging out. It was disgusting. Now even Bev has joined the club. I saw a bumper sticker on her car that said British Butts Drive Me Nuts.”
Wilson choked on a mouthful of food, laughing, and grabbed at his lemonade to wash it down. I loved making him laugh, even if it was hazardous to his health.
Wilson recovered and shook his head, denying my claim that he was popular with the ladies. “I was always the orchestra nerd – whatever you Americans call them..band geeks? I got along better with my teachers than my classmates. I was the skinny kid with glasses and big feet who knew all the answers in class and who volunteered to clean the whiteboards after class.”
“Kids actually do that?” I interrupted incredulously.
Wilson just rolled his eyes at me and continued. “I was not a chick magnet at all, especially with girls like you . . . so the fact that you weren't all that impressed with me last year, well, that much hasn't changed. And that was always fine with me. Girls were never high on my list of priorities. Don't misunderstand, I noticed girls like you, but I didn't especially like girls like you. And girls like you never noticed guys like me.”
“What? Mean skanks, you mean?” I said this mildly, pretending I was kidding. I wasn't. His words stung, but “girls like me” knew how to roll with the punches.
“No, Blue.” He shook his head in exasperation. “That's not what I meant. Beautiful girls, hard girls, girls who grew up way too fast and who would chew up chaps like me up and spit them back out.”
“Yeah. Like I said. Mean skanks.” I pushed my plate away and slurped my drink loudly, indicating it was all gone. I stood up, communicating the end of our conversation and the end to our “cozy meal.” Wilson just stared up at me, and I could tell I'd made him angry. Too bad. I smiled at him slowly, sarcastically, showing lots of teeth. What had been a lighthearted conversation had suddenly take on a different tone. He ran his hands through his hair and pushed his plate away as well. He tossed a couple bills on the table and stood. He walked toward the register, away from me, dismissing me. He paid for both of our meals and left the cafe. I waved at Beverly, who blew me a little kiss.
