While my mother set the table, I went upstairs to change. I tossed my work clothes onto my bed and slipped into jeans and a T-shirt. As I returned downstairs, the doorbell rang.
Brett. Right on time, as usual.
I opened the door to let him inside. At five feet eight inches, Brett stood a full half foot above me, yet his stature gave him a somewhat boyish appearance. He had sandy hair, sage green eyes, and the perfectly straight smile that comes only with high-priced orthodontics.
He held a bouquet of irises in his hand, a mixed bunch including white, blue, and yellow, no doubt clipped from the beds in his backyard garden. Dating a landscape architect definitely had its perks. Not only had Brett installed an automatic sprinkler system in my yard, but he’d also designed a gorgeous flower bed across the front of my house and planted a redbud tree in the center of the lawn. Once the thing grew big enough to provide some shade, it would help cut down on my astronomical summer air-conditioning bills.
“They’re gorgeous,” I said, taking the flowers from Brett as he leaned in to give me a peck on the cheek.
The chaste kiss was both sweet and painful at the same time, making my heart swell, then shrink into a hard ball. Brett was a great guy. He was hardworking, easygoing, and generous. Any girl would be lucky to have him. Hence my decision to hang on to him.
Still, though I respected him, enjoyed his company, and found him physically desirable, I wasn’t sure I loved him—at least not yet. We’d been dating for several months, though with our busy work schedules, we weren’t able to see each other as regularly as most couples.
Should I know by now whether he was “the one”? Or would it take more time?
The only thing I knew for certain was that I could not rule out the possibility that Brett was the man I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. As long as that possibility existed, I couldn’t risk a good, solid relationship for what might or might not be with Nick. Besides, Nick could sometimes be a stubborn, bullheaded pain in the ass. I’d been called the same myself. And two stubborn, bullheaded pains in the ass was a recipe for relationship disaster, wasn’t it? I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life locking horns with Nick, though locking lips might not be so bad.
Ugh. What’s a girl to do?
I wished that fate would intervene, give me a clear sign of whom to choose. Until then, maintaining the status quo seemed like the sensible option.
I led Brett into the kitchen, where my father was scooping up bowls of steaming chili. My mother gave Brett a hug, then handed him a bottle of beer.
“Good to see you again, son,” Dad said. He handed Brett a full bowl of chili, tossing me a discreet glance in the process.
“This smells great,” Brett said.
Dad offered only a roguish grin in return. Though Dad was normally a fairly nice guy, he seemed to derive a sick pleasure in seeing who could tolerate his corrosive chili, like it was some gastronomical test of character. I could tolerate the stuff, but only because I’d had twenty-seven years to acclimate myself to it.
I filled a glass vase with water, arranged the irises, then joined Brett and my parents at the table. Dad raised his bottle of beer, and the rest of us followed suit.
“To health and happiness, fame and fortune, and cold beer and hot chili!” Dad exclaimed.
“Hear, hear!” We clinked our glasses and bottles.
Dad’s kick-ass chili seared your throat, and his hotter-than-hell chili made Hades’ river of fire seem like a kiddie pool. His killer chili kicked things up yet another notch and had been known to bring grown men to their knees. Serving the stuff was probably a violation of the Geneva Convention.
All eyes were on Brett as he scooped up his first spoonful. I wanted to warn the guy, but a stern look from my father told me not to. I watched as the steaming chili went into Brett’s mouth. I silently willed him to sack up and swallow the stuff without coughing, choking, or bursting a vein. Not that Brett had anything to prove to my parents, but still.
To Brett’s credit, he managed to swallow the bite without protest, even offering a smile afterwards. But his pained expression, the bright red glow on his cheeks, and the tears in his eyes told a different story.
“Whaddya think?” Dad asked Brett.
Brett sat up straighter as the chili burned its way down his esophagus. “It’s delicious,” he rasped, his vocal cords no doubt charred by the caustic substance.
“Glad you like it,” Dad said, glancing my way once more before turning his attention back to Brett. “Eat as much as you like. We’ve got enough for seconds.”
An expression of sheer terror crossed Brett’s face, but he managed to squeak out a mannerly “Thanks.”
Brett downed his entire beer in three seconds flat. My mother poured him a glass of tea and he downed that, too. I considered shooting him with my Glock, putting the poor guy out of his misery. But discharging my weapon required far too much paperwork.
We made small talk during dinner and as we enjoyed Mom’s homemade peach cobbler afterwards, I noted how nice it was to reconnect with old friends at Martin and McGee. Mom mentioned that her encore azaleas were in bloom again back home. Brett mentioned a recent game of golf in which he’d earned a good score. Though my father acknowledged Brett’s accomplishment with a raised beer and nod, I could tell he wasn’t sincerely impressed. To Dad, any sport that didn’t pose a risk of concussion or broken bones was for wimps.
Later that evening, I walked Brett out to his car, a black Lincoln Navigator SUV classy enough to fit in at the country club where he golfed with his father, yet with enough cargo room and towing power to hold his landscaping equipment and pull a flatbed trailer loaded with plants, sod, and mulch.
The night was fully dark, my porch light and a nearby streetlamp providing only dim lighting.
He settled back against the driver’s door and reached out to put his hands on my hips, pulling me toward him. He took my hands in his, leaned his forehead against mine, and looked into my eyes with a bloodshot pair of his own. The chili had made its way into Brett’s bloodstream and fried his retinas.
He grimaced. “I think my internal organs have melted.”
“Yeah. Dad’s chili should come with a biohazard label.” I pulled back a bit and placed a hand on his cheek, feeling the scratch of his five o’clock shadow. Or should I say ten o’clock shadow? The stubble scraped my hand like a tactile warning of all I might lose if I chose to pursue things with Nick.
“When can I see you again?” Brett asked.
I probably should have invited him to Thursday’s art showing, but Nathan would likely be there and I didn’t want to risk an uncomfortable encounter. “How about a movie on Friday?” I suggested.
“Sounds good,” he said. “We can grab dinner somewhere first. If I’m able to eat again by then, that is.”
He gave me a soft smile, followed by a soft, warm kiss that made my heart feel soft and warm, too. I backed away as he climbed into his car to leave. He cranked the engine and unrolled the window, sticking out a hand to wave good-bye as he backed out of the drive.
Once he was gone, I turned to go inside, stopping for a moment to admire the gorgeous flower bed in front of my town house, the pink rosebushes with their abundant blooms and the underlying pink petunias, the white stone birdbath. Even in the dim light it was clear how much the beautiful bed enhanced the appearance of my home. The project had taken Brett long hours of hard labor in the scorching Texas summer sun.
Damn.
Brett was such a sweet guy to do this for me. He was dependable, successful, and caring, too. He could occasionally be a bit naïve, which was understandable, given his sheltered upbringing in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Dallas. Besides, his innocence was part of his charm.
But, unlike the woman in Jerry Maguire, I wasn’t sure he completed me. I wasn’t sure Nick would, either. The only thing I knew was that my feelings were completely confused.