7
Frannie’s not answering her phone. Marco answers the landline at the diner, and I tell him to tell her to check her texts. Me: CODE RED. I met a man and I have a date!! Can you guys please come hang out with my kids tonight? I will pay you back in unlimited babysitting hours for eternity. A DATE!
Frannie, finally: OMG, yes!
When I’m home and I’m outside grilling burgers for my kids’ dinner, I am completely overwhelmed by what’s ahead of me. On the one hand, this is a lucky break—me, taking off my ring and getting to practice dating on a guy who’s only in town for a visit. By the end of the night, I’ll be able to check “first date after separation” off the list of things I am dreading. Also, it could be fun. The last real conversation I had with a man was about shin guards.
I am sweaty and need to reshower by the time I figure out what to wear. I would like to be in a dress for this date. I’d like to be able to cross my legs without feeling the rub of denim against itself. But a dress feels like too much, like I’m expecting a corsage or something. Plus, he said casual. As a compromise, I settle on a white sundress with a denim jacket over it, along with a pair of sandals that I have specifically chosen because they are not flip-flops. Sandals with a strap around the back will surely send the right signal about just how together of a person I am.
As I apply what I believe is the right amount of mascara, it hits me—I am infinitely more prepared for a safari than I am for this date. “So tell me a little about yourself,” I say into the mirror, like I’m conducting a job interview.
I tell my kids I’m going to my book club and accept Frannie’s enthusiastic squeeze of my hand as I head to my car. “I will be here, with all the time in the world to hear every single detail when you get back,” she says.
“I don’t want to act weird,” I say. I grab Greer’s red softball hat off the hook by my door and throw it in my bag. There’s no way I’m going to really need a hat.
“Then don’t,” she says.
Ethan’s waiting by a gray Audi station wagon in the empty rec parking lot. He’s in pale blue shorts and a white button-down. He’s casual but also dressed for a date. When he sees me pull in, he walks over to my car to open the door.
“I can drive,” I say by way of greeting.
“I bet you’re a great driver,” he says. “But I’m driving.”
“I didn’t picture you as a station wagon guy,” I say.
“You expected a minivan?” he asks. I start to say no, that I expected a Jeep or an SUV, but then I think maybe he’s kidding. I want to be kidding too, but I have suddenly forgotten how to be kidding.
He opens the passenger door for me and I get in. His car is immaculate, and I’m immediately grateful that we aren’t taking my car. I keep a lint roller in the glove compartment because of the dog hair.
He gets in the driver’s seat and turns to me. “Ready?”
This feels like such a loaded question. Am I ready? I look at his hands on the steering wheel and his forearms where he’s rolled up his sleeves. In the confines of this car, I can smell him—like pine and a candle burning in an old church.
“I am ready,” I lie. He makes a left and heads down Magnolia Drive, out of Beechwood, toward Baxter. I smooth my dress over my knees and fold my hands. I am trying to think of something to say but my mind is blank. I can’t even remember my job interview question.
We stop at a traffic light and he turns to me. “First date, huh?”
“Yes.” I would give anything not to be this nervous. My heart is beating too fast and I have no way of controlling that without taking deep breaths, which, of course, would make me seem like I’m hyperventilating. Which I’m pretty sure is a dating no-no.
“I’m honored. When was your last first date?”
“I was twenty-four.” I want him to keep asking me questions that I know the answers to.
“How’d that one go?” He looks over at me and his eyes catch mine in a way that’s more than a glance. It’s disarming, the way he looks right in my eyes.
“Fine,” I say. But then I picture Pete in his biking shorts and make a face.
“What’s that face for?” he laughs, and it relaxes me a little. It’s the second time I’ve heard his laugh. It sounds like it comes from someplace deeper than his chest.
“We biked over the Brooklyn Bridge. That was the date. He was in these biking shorts and, I don’t know, I don’t really think they’re a good look for everyone.”
“They do make you think of an overstuffed sausage.”
“Exactly,” I say. And I turn to watch him watch the road. He has a slight bump on his nose that makes his whole face look strong.
He turns to me and the quick eye contact invites me in. “So then what? Besides the sausage pants, how was the date? I want to know what pitfalls to avoid.”
“Well, so far you’re batting a thousand with the appropriately loose clothing.”
“Skateboarders don’t wear a lot of Lycra,” he says. “So then what? You rode across the bridge?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was exciting and exhausting. But also kind of weird. Like a first date where I’m following him around, sweating. No eye contact.” This is actually a perfect metaphor for our marriage, I don’t say.
“That is weird. Let’s have so much eye contact tonight.”
“So much,” I say, and this makes me laugh.
When we get to Baxter, he turns into the marina. “Did you bring a hat?” he asks.
“I did. Are we going on a boat?” I ask.
“We’re going to a baseball game, by way of boat.” He’s smiling at me, waiting for a response, and all I can do is smile back. Part of me just wants to stay in this car with him where I can smell him and watch his hands grip the steering wheel, but the rest of me is excited to jump into the night. “We’re nailing the whole eye contact thing,” he says finally. I laugh again, and it wipes out the rest of my nerves.
We walk through the marina, and Ethan stops at a two-seater powerboat with a lounge seat at the back. “It’s not mine,” he says. “My friend loaned it to me because the traffic can be horrible getting to Connecticut.” He says it like traveling by boat is the most normal possible way to combat traffic.
I take off my sandals and hop in just as he’s extending a hand to help me. Full of regret over that missed opportunity to touch his hand, I settle into the passenger seat. He’s all business starting the engine and untying the ropes from the dock. I’m a bit unsettled not knowing where I’m going, but also excited. I haven’t been on an outing that I didn’t plan since my mother got sick.
“Wait, what baseball is in Connecticut?”
He backs away from the dock. “Minor league. Rookie league really. The Southport Rockets. A guy I know is pitching.” He puts the engine in neutral and turns to me. “Is this okay? I thought a surprise would be fun, but I probably should have asked you.” There’s a crease in his brow that I haven’t seen before. It’s the first time I’ve seen him unsure.
I’m crossing state lines with a total stranger because I’m hoping to remove a few firsts from my recovery checklist. He makes a good point. But the air is summer warm, and the sun is as low as the stakes. Rookie-league baseball. A one-off date with a cute guy.
“No, this is great,” I say and put on Greer’s hat.
The ride up the coast to Southport is about thirty minutes. The engine is loud so we don’t talk. I like the way the mist of sea spray is landing on my arms, how the wind in my face makes me feel free. I steal glances at him while he drives, and he catches me.
We dock and he cuts the engine. The new quiet is replaced by the sound of gulls and the crack of a bat hitting a line drive. He hops onto the dock and reaches to help me out of the boat. His hand feels strong and sure, and for a second, it seems like neither of us is going to let go. We make our way through the tiny marina, and the sound of cheering gets more distinct as we walk a block inland toward the stadium. We should be talking, I think.
“How do you know the pitcher?” I ask.
“He’s from Devon. That’s where I live.”
“Massachusetts?” Massa-Cheez-Its. I hear my mom snort.
“Yes.” He turns to me, and in this light, I can see he has a scar on his right eyebrow, but there’s no crease next to it now. His face is completely open and relaxed.
The stadium announces itself with a forty-foot rocket out front. A wooden sign encourages us to Blast Off into Summer. An elderly man takes our tickets, and we find our seats in the front row, right by third base. I’ve never sat so close at a baseball game, but then again this isn’t exactly Yankee Stadium. Half the seats are empty, and there’s a man a few rows back who is sound asleep. It’s the third inning, and the Rockets are down one to five.
“How long have you lived in Devon?” I ask.
“Six years.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. You’re good at dating—I can see you’ve mastered this part.” He gives me a sideways smile and nudges me with his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m a pro,” I say. “Want me to guess your sign?”
He puts his feet up on the concrete wall in front of us and relaxes back into his seat. I put mine up next to his and lean back, happy with this view of his legs.
“Leo,” he says.
“Knew it. Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve never really dated anyone I wanted to marry, and also I’m told I’m unreliable.” I turn to him and narrow my eyes. Unreliable. It’s a good thing I’m not in the market for a husband, because this would be a deal-breaker. I wait for him to say more about this, but he doesn’t.
A man comes by with a huge box strapped to his chest, and my unreliable date buys me an ice-cold beer and a hot dog.
“This may not have been the fine dining you were hoping for on your first date, but I promise the ice cream sandwiches are excellent.”
We clink our plastic cups together and drink to that.
“There he is,” Ethan says as a new pitcher takes the mound. We watch him warm up and then walk three players, followed by a grand slam.
“At least the beer’s cold,” I say. I take a sip and I can feel him smiling at me. I lean back in my seat and my arm brushes against his on the shared armrest. I am stunned by the feel of it, and I stay perfectly still to keep him there.
It’s the ninth inning, the Rockets are down by twelve, and I’ve had two hot dogs and two beers. Ethan shells peanuts and hands them to me, while we watch the Southport Rockets let in run after run. We talk about nothing. It is a free-flowing, easy stream of conversation that feels like it’s pulling me along, each topic leading to another. He tells me about the particular quirks of Massachusetts drivers. He likes San Diego but only to visit. It turns out we lived in the same neighborhood in Manhattan for a month more than a decade ago.
I tell him about my organizing business. “I’m running out of houses to organize in Beechwood, but I’m trying to make it a thing on Instagram.”
“Because you’re very organized?”
“Yes,” I say. And immediately think of the full year of my kids’ artwork currently on the floor by my front door. “Well, it’s not so much that I’m currently organized, but I like to bring order to things. It helps me relax.”
“Me too,” he says, and it surprises me. “That’s pretty much what my legal work is. I work mostly in housing and personal injury. Solving problems. Restoring balance. It feels good.”
“Yes,” I say. And before I’ve thought it through, I lean in toward him and say, “Yesterday, I took everything out of this woman’s mudroom, wiped the shelves clean, and only put half of it back in so that there was space between every pair of shoes.”
“That must have felt great. She must have been so happy.” We’re leaning on one another now, shoulder to shoulder, arms still sharing the armrest and heads nearly touching.
“Not as happy as I was.”
He laughs, and I watch his mouth so close to mine. I don’t know how much time you can spend looking at someone’s mouth before it becomes awkward, but I’m probably pushing it.
“I’m glad you agreed to come with me. You’re fun, and of course the alternatives were coming by myself or another night with my family.”
“Is your family not fun?” I take a peanut from his hand.
“They’re actually very fun. But you know how it can be.”
I don’t, actually. I don’t really have a baseline for what most families are like. “I don’t.”
“They’re great. They really are. But I’m the person in the family who doesn’t quite fit in.” He looks out at the field and then back at me. “The outlier, you know? I think maybe they always wanted me to be someone different.”
“Different how?”
“Well, like a football player, for starters. My dad never got over the fact that I wasn’t interested in football.” He pops a peanut into his mouth. “It was like he hoped one day I’d come down for breakfast in pads and a helmet and make his dreams come true.”
I think of Cliffy and feel a pit in my stomach. I know this is the vibe he’s getting from Pete. “That stinks,” I say, at a loss for better words. The best thing about my mom was that she saw me for exactly who I was.
“Yeah, and it’s sort of still like that. They don’t understand why I live up in Devon. I have a great life there, but it’s like they’re waiting for me to snap out of it, go back to working at a law firm in Manhattan, and bring my wife and two point five kids to Sunday dinner.”
“No one ever tells you the point-five kid turns into a full kid, every time,” I say.
He laughs. “Should we work on our eye contact some more?”
We lock eyes, and it’s playful. He stepped into a vulnerable topic and stepped right out. I’d like to be able to do that.
We get ice cream sandwiches on the way out and eat them as we walk back to the boat. They’re the classic kind with thin chocolate wafers that stick to the roof of your mouth. They’re delicious, and we lick our fingers and share napkins as the vanilla ice cream drips down our wrists.
As we approach the water, the moon casts a perfect stripe that ends at the dock. I stop to look, because it’s magic the way it lines up so perfectly. A one-in-a-million chance, sort of like a handsome man passing through my town on the exact day I take off my ring. It’s starting to feel like a champagne summer.
Ethan powers up the boat and we head out into the sound. He’s driving slowly, and I’m glad because I’m not ready for this night to be over. After a few minutes, he cuts the engine.
“Are you in a hurry to get back?” he asks.
“Not even a little bit,” I say, and smile, because it’s true.
He smiles back. “Let’s just float for a bit.”
I follow him to the back of the boat, where he plops down on the lounge seat and puts his feet up on the center console. I do the same, and we are back to where we were in the stadium—reclined, shoulders touching, and leaning into one another.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Yes.” It’s odd how the space is so small again. The sky stretches above us and there’s water as far as I can see, but I’m cozy here with Ethan.
“So what’s your life like? Single with three kids?”
I turn my head toward him. He’s looking at me with that open-faced expression, like he’s ready to take on anything. “It’s like you’d imagine it,” I say.
“How do I imagine it?”
“Sort of hectic but beautiful. I have great kids. My husband. My ex-husband I guess. Pete, with the sausage pants. He doesn’t really step in much.” Okay, Rule Number One on a Date: don’t say “husband.”
“Does anyone help you out?”
Rule Number Two: don’t say “dead mother.” “My friend Frannie is great. She’s with my kids tonight.”
Something passes across his face. It’s a slight expression shift, almost a wince, that makes me think he’s about to take this conversation in a different direction.
“What?”
“What, what?” he asks, and turns back to the moon.
“You looked like you were about to say something.”
“No.” He shakes his head a little. “It’s nothing. I’m really glad we got to do this.” And there’s something he’s not saying. It’s almost like the words he wants to add are “just this one time.” Which, of course.
We’re quiet for a bit, and I concentrate on the feel of his arm next to mine and the slight rocking of the boat under me. “So where are you with your divorce?” he asks.
“It’s imminent.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I’m a pretty good lawyer.”
“Yeah, but not in Manhattan, I hear.” I turn to him to see if he knows I’m kidding.
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I think the whole reason I went to law school was to get my parents to take me seriously. But even back when I was a corporate lawyer, they still treated me like I was fourteen and maybe about to burn the house down.”
I laugh. “Did you grow up around here?”
He looks away, back up at the moon.
“Did you grow up in New York?” I try again.
The crease is back in his brow. “Connecticut,” he says.
“I’m a big fan of the Southport Rockets,” I say. “So were you kind of a screwup in high school?”
“For sure.” He meets my eyes and his face is open again. I feel that connection that’s been building all night, like he’s telling me something that matters.
“How so?” I ask.
“In a quiet way. I didn’t make a big splash about it. My acts of terror were mostly against myself.” He looks back to the sky, and I know this is something he doesn’t want to talk about. I want to know more, and I want to keep hearing the sound of his voice.
Instead, we’re quiet for a while. I listen to the sound of the water lapping up against the boat. I watch our bare feet next to each other on the console. I watch a cloud pass over the moon above us. I try to memorize this fun night with this fun man. A night like this could easily never happen again, and I want to be able to look back and remember it—the sound of the water hitting the boat, the stripe of moonlight, the press of his shoulder against mine.
I turn to him just as he turns to me.
“So how’d your first date go?” he asks.
“So much eye contact,” I say.
He smiles, just a little. There’s a sadness to it that’s totally out of place. “I’m glad I got to be the guy.”
The water keeps lapping up against the boat in a slow rhythm. The moon keeps laying its rippled stripe down the middle of things. And Ethan keeps looking at me like he’s going to kiss me any second. But he doesn’t.
He takes my hand, and it startles me. Both the strong feel of it and the way he’s entwined our fingers like this is something we do all the time. He feels soft and strong at the same time, and I think the whole construction-worker-turned-concert-pianist thing may have been spot-on.
“I’m going to get you home,” he says, and sits up, releasing my hand.
We’re back in Baxter more quickly than I’d like. He cuts the engine and ties up the boat. And as we walk back down the dock to the car, my mind reeling, he takes my hand again.
We’re quiet on the drive back to the rec. He parks next to my car and gets out. He’s definitely going to kiss me now. I am loopy with anticipation. He comes around to my side of the car and reaches out his hand to help me out. I get out, and he doesn’t let go. We’re facing each other, and I take a small step forward, just to make my consent crystal clear.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says. “It was perfect.” And he does not kiss me.