Chapter 3

Lee was already on the court, rallying by himself when I arrived at 4:00p.m. on Tuesday. We played for an hour and a half until thudded pounding on the thick door disrupted us, and we were forced to abdicate our court to the next reservation.

Sweat soaked and still breathless, we chatted over Diet Cokes in the lobby. He spoke about his weekend alone at home, boredom and guilt motivating him to spend multiple hours each day playing the $5,000 electronic keyboard he'd recently purchased. Then he asked me about my weekend.

I told him I worked on a novel from a script I started in film school. And I read, I said, but lied. I didn't tell him I'd wasted much of the weekend watching TV and getting off to sate the relentless ache of loneliness.

"Great rallies today. You really had me running, which is precisely what I need. I'm looking forward to getting back in shape." He took a drink from the frosted can and leaned against the wall behind him. "Gained like fifty pounds during the two years I was married. I've lost about thirty since we separated. Have around twenty more to go, though this last bit's been a bitch to drop.”

I was awestruck by his frankness, his willingness to confess a typically female struggle. In the 1990s thin was mandatory in women, but men not so much, especially if they made a lot of money, which Lee had indicated he did.

“Truth is, I'm kind of a connoisseur.” He flashed an arch of his brow. “Not exactly in the traditional sense. I just love food."

I laughed. "Me too. My dad turned me on to the joys of eating early on, so I was kind of pudgy growing up. Took a lot of crap for it too, from kids at school, even from my mom. Lost a bunch of weight in high school, with the help of Black Beauties,” I confessed, probably because he had.

“They were pharms, back in the 70s, right? But women were starving themselves to death, if I'm remembering right.”

“Yup. FDA pulled them from the market. Too bad, but better fat than dead, I guess.” I half smiled. Shrugged. “I use racquetball in lieu of speed now. Fat is worse than leprosy, at least for a woman, especially in L.A."

"It's true that men aren't under the same body scrutiny as women. But if a guy is fat, he's not going to attract women like you, even with a lot of money.” Lee eyed me. “You can have most any guy you want, Rachel, with that nouveau-punk wild-child look you've got going. You're really quite beautiful," He said boldly, and as statements of fact, without sexual innuendo.

I laughed to cover my embarrassment. "Right." Lee was teasing, or being patronizing, or he was crazy. I could pass as L.A. trendy, but I was not beautiful.

"You are beautiful," he said again, as if reading my mind. "You just have to believe it."

"Belief doesn't make god real."

"Ah. The cynic."

"No. Realist." I smiled. His eyes virtually twinkled as his Cheshire grin slowly appeared, a visceral awareness we were connected through a private joke we'd already established. I looked away, at the stud behind the front counter watching us.

"Don't you see the way men look at you?" Lee looked at the attendant, who went back to folding towels.

"Oh, he's just a big flirt. I'm sure he stares at all the women that come in here. He's probably an actor, or rocker or something— always looking for fans."

Lee sighed, and shook his head. "Whatever." He watched me, then took a long draw off his soda. "I wanta show you something." He put his Diet Coke on the floor and pulled out some stapled papers from his gym bag, then flipped through them to the last page and handed them to me. "I just got them from my lawyer today, pulled them from my mailbox on my way here."

They were his divorce papers, signed by both him and his wife on the last page, along with the impending date of 11/14/91 in the box with the L.A. County court stamp. I handed them back to him. "Wow. I'm sorry."

"I'm not. We should never have been together and I'm glad it's over. Now we can both move on." He put the papers back in his bag, picked up his soda and took a long draw. "On November 14th my marriage is officially over." He took another drink then looked at me. "Join me for dinner tonight and help me celebrate, unless you've got something else going." He looked at me, waiting for an excuse or confirmation.

“Technically, you've got a week until you're officially divorced. And I'm not too sure it's appropriate to celebrate the dissolution of a lifetime commitment.”

He eyed me with a hint of disdain. “It's more like a relief to have eradicated a malignancy.” His expression softened. “Come get some pasta at Maria's with me, Ray. We earned it after that workout. And you know I hate eating alone. You like Italian?"

---

Moving at 80 on the 101, I lost Lee in traffic somewhere in front of me as it compacted. I slowed when I saw the river of red tail lights coming on a half mile ahead.

I heard the screeching of brakes, the boom! Then the bending of metal, the shattering of glass before realizing the compact in front of me hadn't slowed with the traffic and slammed into the sedan in front of them so hard they ended up on top of it.

I slammed on my brakes barely missing hitting the sedan under the compact, then watched my rear view and braced for the car in back of me to connect, but they managed to move around me. Most everyone on the freeway slowed to a crawl. The door to the sedan opened, but no one got out. That's when I noticed the flames lapping the undercarriage of the compact. And no one was coming out of there either.

“Fuck.” About the last thing I wanted to do was get out of my car and get hit by a passing truck. I looked around frantically. Cars moved around the accident slowly as they ogled the scene, but no one stopped to help. “Fuck!”

It took me a moment before I was able to get out of my car without getting hit. I heard the high-pitch screaming of a child as soon as I opened my car door, and saw a kid in the back seat of the compact trying to open the crumpled door. I moved in front of my car, and to the right side of the accident as the female driver, who I assumed was the mom, moved to the passenger door and began kicking at it until it popped open with a sickening crunch.

"Hand him to me!" I shouted to her, lifting my arms. I felt the heat of the fire as a child scrambled out of the compact, practically falling onto me. Maybe 5, or a bit older, he was heavy and it took all my strength and will to hold onto him. He gripped my hair and wrapped his legs around my waist. The mom scrambled forward with a baby in her arms. I couldn't hold both, so I opened the passenger door of the sedan. The driver sat in his car. He looked at me dazed. Blood trickled into his eye from his forehead. “Can you move?” I yelled to make sure he could hear me.

He stared at me, then finally nodded.

“The car on top yours is on fire,” I screamed at him. “There's people inside. Help me get 'em out!”

He just sat there staring at me.

“MOVE NOW! I need you help!” I screamed.

The boy clung to me as the driver of the sedan came to my side and helped the mom with an infant in her arms down and onto the freeway. The flames were licking the base of the compact's doors as I carried him across the two lanes of the freeway, the bloody sedan driver stopping traffic until we were all safely on the side of the road.

I set the boy down on the wide freeway railing and checked to make sure he was OK. Then I focused on the mom and child. The woman was Indian, from India, as were her kids, and spoke broken English, but I managed to get that even though her upper arm had a wide bleeding gash, she was well enough to care for her baby, which seemed fine. I asked the sedan driver if he was OK, and he mumbled a response I didn't get but I assumed since he was able to respond he was at least sentient. Then I stopped traffic again and ran back to my car to get my t-shirt.

The police showed up along with a firetruck and an ambulance as I was wrapping the woman's arm. I explained what I'd witnessed to the cops, then left the scene without goodbyes. No point in lingering now that everyone was being taken care of. I'd been driving virtually daily since I was 15 and had seen plenty of accidents. I'd stopped to help in only a few since most were minor and I'd have merely been an additional distraction. This was no minor accident, but no one died, or seemed permanently injured I told myself as I pulled into traffic on the 101, trying to convince myself to stop trembling.

I aggressively wove through traffic to get to Maria's to meet Lee. Twenty minutes had passed since we'd left the club. I hoped he hadn't assumed I stood him up and left. The only parking space was several blocks from the restaurant, and I ran to Maria's arriving breathless and sweaty, and right into Lee as he was leaving.

“I'm so sorry,” I managed, approaching him just outside Maria's. He still wore the loose navy shorts he played in, and had put on his black, hooded pullover.

“Where have you been? You were right behind me—” he began, then cut himself off. “Whoa. What happened? You OK?”

“There was a car accident,” I started, but had to swallow back bile. “I really need some water.”

“Absolutely.” Lee slid his hand in mine and led me back into the restaurant. “Table for two, please,” he told the anorexic hostess. She led us back to a small square wooden table next to an ivy covered column in the outdoor patio. He held my hand till we sat on opposite side of the table.

I told him what happened in detail, continually sipping my water so I wouldn't throw up.

"Jesus," Lee said. "You could have been blown to bits. Whatever compelled you to risk your life like that?"

"Tad over-dramatic, don't ya think? Cars only explode in the movies. Besides, one of those kids could grow up to cure cancer, or initiate world peace or something. Never know." I flashed a wan smile.

"A cynic and an idealist. Must be a continual battle inside your head between the realist and the dreamer."

I eyed him. "You bet." His insight was shockingly astute, but bordered creepy, especially for a guy. I sipped my water, then took a deep breath to slow my racing heart. "I'm just glad everyone was OK. We all got damn lucky no one got killed out there today." I pictured the terrified kid, and the mom's torn up arm, and the sedan driver's head bleeding. And suddenly bile rose fast and I was sure I was going to barf. "Can we just drop it? I don't want to think about it anymore. I really hate gore."

Lee's glassy eyes were still fixed on me, but I couldn't tell if he was high. Jealously consumed me again, with the notion he was buzzed, and I sat there fighting myself over asking him if he knew where I could connect.

"You want a drink?" he asked. "Seems to me you could use one right now. I don't generally drink, but I'll share a bottle of wine if you'd like."

"I don't drink, actually.” I wondered, if like everyone else, he assumed I was in AA. “Can't stand the taste of alcohol." I stuck my tongue out to emphasize my point. "Liquor has this revolting edge that everyone said I'd grow into but I never have."

"Wow. Me neither. And beyond the taste, I never liked the buzz. Too mind numbing. Hard to fathom why most everyone I know, or have ever met, frankly, drinks, and way beyond the social lubricant they all claim it to be."

"It's astounding where the mind will go to rationalize bad behavior." I smiled, finally calming.

He laughed, this deep, wickedly-knowing chortle. "Touché."

His eyes fixed on mine and I felt the tangible connection between us, almost electric, like plugging in, a profound understanding, a spark of shared knowledge. "I think you're like the only adult I've ever met who doesn't like alcohol. I'm always the odd one out with friends, when we go to dinner or especially to a club. Even with my family. My father insists toasting with water invalidates the sentiments."

"Well, no offense to your old man, but the sentiment is the toast, no matter what's in the glass." Lee assured me, then picked up his water glass and raised it. I followed his lead and we clinked our glasses, the words validating me, connecting us again.

He really was quite cute, even with his short stature, and the pudgy thing he had going on. And he wasn't married anymore..."So weed is your only indulgence?" I asked, intuition knowing the answer.

"I have many." He flashed a reticent grin. "If you're talking outside chemistry, weed's the only thing I've stuck with over the years. Tried a lot of the stuff going around high school, like everyone else. But like alcohol, they took me too far out there."

"How often do you get high?" I asked, even though I knew the answer to this too.

"Occasionally. Maybe a few times a month. On the weekends mostly, I guess. A frivolous indulgence at best." He answered without hesitation. "I generally wait for something good to come around, buy an ounce and smoke it till it's gone. Hard to find good smoke these days with so much Mexican crap flooding the market."

I stared at him, tried to see into him, if he believed himself, if I believed him. I wanted to. The voice in my head labeling him a stoner could be wrong.

A young waitress wearing tight black slacks, a white blouse and a red bow-tie appeared at our table. She flicked her long, tawny hair back over her shoulder and gave Lee a flirtatious smile. "Hi. Welcome to Maria's. What can I get you to drink?"

Lee smiled, then nodded for me to order first, and mirrored my canonical choice—black tea with milk, the English way. The waitress left and Lee opened his menu. "The best thing they make here is their Angel Hair Pomodoro. It's light, but very tasty."

I read along in my menu. Pomodoro sounded like L.A. chic for spaghetti. Expensive 'pasta' was all the rage lately. "Sounds good." Spaghetti was among my top favorites, but a rare high-calorie treat, though allowable after our workout this afternoon.

The patio was surrounded by high stone walls covered in ivy. Soft light glittered from the small white bulbs woven through the trellis overhead, and the candles in the red jars in the center of each table. The rich aroma of roasting garlic, and the subtle, sweet scent of Italian herbs and spices permeated the air and teased my taste buds.

"God, it smells great in here." Lee's face tilted upwards and he took a long, deep breath. He'd read my mind again.

Our waitress came back with our teas and Lee ordered for both of us, including a chopped salad to share, looking at me to confirm. When she left, he focused his attention back on me. "So, you don't drink. Are you one of the rare few of our “Me” generation who's resisted sharing a joint, or even popping their mother's little helpers?"

Ah, a moment of truth. I could cop to all the way, or hide behind the façade of 'normal,' as I did with most people. "I smoke weed occasionally, though it's been a while. My connection abandoned his lucrative dealing career for a record deal about a month ago.” I paused, hoping he may offer his contact, but he didn't. “I did a bit of speed in high school and college. Probably like you, I tried a lot chemistry, but the downs weren't worth the highs," I began, still debating how far to take it.

"For me, either. I never got into speed, or hallucinogens. Too taxing on the body."

"Marijuana's a hallucinogen."

"Well, it's an opiate derivative, and a mild one at that. It's not like heroin, or even opium. And it's not addictive like those drugs are."

That was a debate I wasn't about to engage in right then. "Well, I've never done heroin. Too afraid of needles, and that I'd like it too much and get hooked. And Mother's Little Helpers never interested me. Depressants aren't my thing. I can get down all by myself. According to my folks, I live there."

Lee narrowed his brows quizzically. "Wow. You don't seem like a depressive to me. Interesting your parents see you that way. Are you close with them?"

"Yes and no. I live only a couple miles from my parents' house, the one I grew up in. Studio City is great for freelancing. Thirty minutes to downtown or the beach during off-hours," I added, to assuage the impression I needed the security of living near my folks. "I spend a lot of time with my family, but I've always been the odd one out. For the longest time I thought I was secretly adopted."

Lee gave a quick, short laugh. "I used to wish I was." He took a sip of his tea. "And I must confess, sometimes I still hold out hope my real parents were a physicist and a college professor that died in some horrible car wreck when I was an infant."

"Jesus, and I thought I was dark," I joked, sort of. "I'm guessing you don't exactly get along with your folks?

"I get along with my dad okay. He lives in Arizona so we rarely see each other. My mom lives in Chicago. We hardly ever speak. I don't think she likes me very much. I think I remind her of my dad."

Red flag, my intuition waved. Any guy who thinks his mother doesn't like him is bound to harbor misogyny. "You have siblings?"

"An older sister. She lives in Oregon, with her female partner. My sister's a dyke." He stared at me, looking for my reaction, I guess.

"Does that bug you?" Didn't bug me, but his using the word 'dyke' instead of 'gay' seemed telling.

"Nope. Sexual orientation isn't a morality play for me. I've been an atheist since I was old enough to get that religion truly is the opiate of the masses, and a naive buzz at that. Doesn't take much to convince you to believe when you're looking for someone to save you."

I stared at him, rather awestruck. To date, there wasn't a man I'd gone out with who attested to being a non-believer— one of the primary reasons I was still single. And while Lee's uniqueness impressed, I bridled at his arrogance. "I don't want to lead, or be shown the way. I want to share the journey."

He sipped his tea but didn't take his eyes off me. "Me too." He flashed a soft smile. “And I'm hoping with someone like you.”

I stayed fixed on him, smiled softly, on the precipice of knowledge—knowing who Lee was, and desire—the man I suddenly found myself wanting him to be.

Our waitress delivered the salad, set it between us and gave Lee a perfect smile. "Enjoy," she said with a quick glance at me and left.

Lee started eating. He savored the bite almost lovingly, closed his eyes before swallowing then opened them and focused on me with a big happy grin. "Mmm. Lovely." He took another forkful, bigger, and before consuming the bite indicated with his fork for me to join him.

I did, savoring the lovely mix of veggies and greens covered in tangy, sweet Italian dressing. I generally felt shame eating in front of men, but salad was virtually guilt-free calorically.

"Thank you for joining me tonight. Other than the occasional meal with a few old friends, I've been kinda gun shy around new people since Sharon and I split."

"I've heard it feels like a death, when a marriage ends,” though Lee didn't seem to be grieving at the moment. “I don't ever want to know what divorce feels like. When I give my word, especially on such a profound commitment for the rest of my life, I better be damn sure I'm prepared to keep it." Lee's expression harden, and felt the urge to recant, but instead took another bite to fill my mouth so nothing else derogatory would pop out.

"I did not, and still do not take marriage lightly,” Lee said softly, but firmly. “I know Sharon and I never should have married. I knew it then. What I didn't know was how to walk away." He studied me a moment before he continued speaking. "I met her in Vegas when she was just 21, and a voluptuous, raving beauty. She was a dancer in one of those chorus line shows, a speed freak and cokehead. I didn't know how to help her." He shook his head as if with regret, and then delivered a compact discourse on why they were a bad match from the start. He made his ex sound crazy, subtly relieving himself of all culpability.

Watch out, intuition hissed. No matter how Lee rationalized his breakup, the fact was he made a profound promise he did not keep. In all probability, his word could not be trusted—a dangerous character flaw unlikely to change without some profound awakening, and his words did not indicate he'd had one. I kept hoping he'd admit to falling for the transient lure of beauty, then examine the cost and acknowledge the avalanche he'd helped perpetuate. But he didn't.

"Bad as it was, I was still prepared to see it through. It was Sharon that initiated the divorce." Lee glared at me with righteous indignation, as if he knew the accusations in my head. "My ex-wife was having an affair with a business associate of mine and wanted out of our marriage." His glare softened. He shrugged, shook his head and looked away.

"Wow... How fucked up is that." The words kind of fell out of my mouth.

Lee scoffed. "Pretty fucked up."

"I'm sorry." I felt the sting of humility. If what he said was true, Lee didn't break his vows after all. His ex did, which absolved him of divorcing. "I'm really sorry that happened to you."

"Me too." A moment passed and his expression brightened. "I have learned, though. I can be taught! I now know I need to be with someone who's ready to commit to working at communicating—staying connected. Before I marry again, I have to trust my partner and I are on the same team, and we're looking to help each other be the best we can be. Till death do us part kind of thing." He half shrugged and gave me his single-dimpled smile. "Know what I mean?"

I did. He'd just recited my definition of Love. Lee was too cute. And I had the urge to lean across the small table, gather his face in my hands and kiss him right then.

The waitress appeared and served us our meals. Lee consumed the pasta with the same flourish as the salad. I took small bites, wrapping thin strands of capellini around my fork carefully before eating to savor each morsel.

"You like?" Lee asked with a quick raise of his brow.

"Yes. It's very nice."

We ate silently, almost reverently, sharing the same delectable experience. And I felt content, safely ensconced with Lee, a million miles from Lonely.

The silence didn't feel awkward, nor did it last long. Again, conversation flowed from favorite restaurants, foods, news gossip, in a smooth, even exchange. We lingered over our meals, enjoying our food, the evening, immersed in each other. It took conscious effort to leave some pasta on the plate instead of consuming every last bite and licking off the sauce. Lee finished every bite. Our waitress came back, took our dishes and left the bill, which Lee insisted on paying, leaving $50 in the black billfold.

He walked me to my car. It was dim, and cold, the air thick with evening haze that glowed around the stark streetlamps. I stopped when we got to my car. We both stood there, caught in that awkward moment not knowing what to do next.

"Thank you for another enjoyable evening." He stared at me, searching, then his eyes wandered to my lips. I anticipated the kiss and felt my walls go up. He'd agreed to just friends, and that's exactly where my intuition insisted we keep it.

As if reading me, he shoved his hands deep in the pocket on his pullover. "See ya on the courts on Thursday at 4:00," he said. "Drive safe."

"I will. And thanks again for dinner." I stepped off the curb, then moved around my Civic, unlocked my car door and opened it. "See ya Thursday. Goodnight." I got in and pulled away, leaving him standing on the curb.

My mind raced right along with my palpating heart on the drive home. If Lee really only used 'occasionally,' it could be he wasn't the addict I feared. And he didn't renege on his marriage if his ex-wife had broken the promise between them. Perhaps he wasn't the train wreck my intuition had conjured. He seemed everything I'd advertised for: Passionate, to be sure. And with his lack of religious orientation, obviously an independent thinker. Maybe my resistance to moving beyond friendship with Lee was merely fear masquerading as intuition.

Could Lee be my knight? I flashed on his baby face, smiling at me across the table tonight, and couldn't help smiling. I'd never fallen head over heels for a man, experienced that intense rush people talk about with new relationships. But from the moment I met Lee on the courts, and each encounter since, it was like being with someone I'd known a very long time. I'd heard friends talk about chemistry with this and that new guy they were dating. Whatever that meant. I assumed it was merely physical attraction, infatuation. Surely, they were confusing lust with love. But then, I wasn't factoring in chemistry. Powerful stuff. Dangerous stuff.

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