NAT
Remember a few years back, when the NSA was in trouble for “spying” on American civilians by listening in on their phone calls and reading their Facebook posts? I remember thinking at the time, Well, maybe that means that at least one man is listening to me. But based on my rounds of texts with Marc since I quit, I suspect it’s mostly women listening. Women are just better at getting the subtle nuances of both oral and written conversation.
For example, they might know what I meant from my answers to an assortment of his texts during the past few weeks.
Work isn’t the same without you. The caterer made your favorite chocolate chip red velvet cupcakes, and he was brokenhearted not to see you here to enjoy them.
Drop dead.
I’m truly sorry. I was terribly out of line. Not to mention inexcusably belligerent and defensive.
What can I do for us to be friends again?
Drop dead.
Did you get the flowers I sent?
Dude, I will cut you.
Now see, while I think a woman might pick up on my diplomatic hints and understated subtext, clearly what a man hears is, “Oh, my God, I love you soooooo much! Please don’t call me or show up in person while your wife is visiting—just start to text me a million times a day the moment she leaves town.”
He’s been texting me, e-mailing me, and then calling my cell off and on for over a month, and I’ve surprised myself by managing to stay strong and (mostly) ignoring him. So I know what I should have answered when I saw this text yesterday:
Can I take you to dinner? Just friends.
But after a “streamlined” escrow that cost us each an extra five thousand dollars in bank fees … (Seriously, how do banks get away with so many extra fees? We paid a fee to the bank just to give us a lower mortgage rate. Paid them money we were borrowing from them five minutes later. I was never great at economics, but by the third time Jessie explained to me how the process worked, I had a bottle of aspirin in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen in the other.) … not to mention having to cash in my last IRA to pay for unplanned extra expenses for renovating the bar (Let’s see: Spend my last few thousand dollars on a trip to Maui or on an ungraded sewer line? I’m such a clichéd romantic. What girl wouldn’t choose the sewer line?), I felt like I was hemorrhaging money, and frankly a free gourmet meal in a posh restaurant with a remorseful hunk was not the worst way to spend an evening.
I vowed that I was not going to have sex with him. I was not even going to kiss him hello. I was just going to have dinner with an old friend and coworker.
A really expensive dinner. I’m thinking about ordering the veal.
Holly was out seeing a play, and Jessie was spending her night going over the bar’s balance sheets, so sneaking out was not a problem.
But seeing Marc now, in his navy blue Prada suit, as he waits in front of my favorite high-end French restaurant? Huge problem.
“You look bewitching,” Marc says seductively before kissing me lightly on my cheek.
At that moment I realize that I’m not just flirting with danger—I’m grabbing it, pushing it up against a wall, and jamming my tongue down its throat. This is a bad idea. What could I have possibly hoped to accomplish by coming? He isn’t going to leave his wife just because I got decked out in his favorite bright red dress and sky-high sparkly red heels. And I cannot let myself slip back into pathetic mistress mode and sleep with him.
Soon we are seated and begin a two-hour, seven-course prix fixe tasting menu, with wine pairings.
During the first course, Golden Imperial caviar paired with Dom Pérignon, he is a perfect gentleman.
Which is making me uneasy. Why am I here? If he’s not hitting on me, what are we doing?
“What’s wrong?” Marc asks me as he scoops up and eats his last bite from the small porcelain plate. “Is caviar too traditional for a first course? Should we have gone somewhere else?”
“Are you kidding? No,” I exclaim, scraping the small white plate with my mother-of-pearl spoon and downing the rest of my dish in one nervous bite. “It’s fantastic.”
“Do you think Dom Pérignon is too cliché for a wine pairing?” he asks, noting my flute has barely been touched.
“Dom Pérignon is perfect,” I say, taking a healthy swig. “And clichés usually exist for a reason. Speaking of, how’s your wife?”
Well, that came out wrong.
“You’re being generous about the wine,” Marc concludes, ignoring my jab completely. “What would you have paired this with?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I might have paired it with a sparkling from California, but that’s probably just me overthinking it.”
“So will your new venture be focused mostly on California wines?” Marc asks.
Ugh. Holly and Jess would kill me if they knew that I had told him all about our wine bar. But in the past few weeks, we might have talked a little more often than I cared to admit.
“No,” I say, then finish the rest of the half glass of champagne. “I mean, I love California wines, particularly lesser-known ones from the Central Coast. But you can find a hidden gem from any country. You just need to know what you like.”
Marc smiles. “You have always been a woman who knows exactly what she likes. I admire that about you: You never dither. You want something, you go after it. But perhaps even more important, once you’re done with something, you’re done. I’ve never seen you invest good time after bad. If you had a piece of writing that didn’t work, rather than pore over it, racking your brain to try to make it palatable, you knew to throw it out and start fresh. It’s a great quality in a person. Very rare.”
Huh?
Soon, the waiter clears our first-course plates and glasses and brings each of us a large scallop doused in brown butter, paired with a Bourgogne Blanc. I take a bite of the scallop, which melts in my mouth. Then I sip the wine, which tastes decadently rich. While I would normally lean more toward a Sauvignon Blanc, this is lovely.
As is the company—I just won’t let him know that.
Marc looks very pensive as he watches me eat. He doesn’t touch his food. Just stares at me. “What?” I ask.
“I don’t like scallops,” he reminds me.
I reach over, pluck the scallop from his plate with my fork, and plop it into my mouth in one giant bite.
Marc chuckles at that. “Would you like to steal my wine as well?”
“Well, I did Uber. But, no. I think I may need to keep my wits about me this evening.”
Okay, did I just tell him I Ubered to hint that I want a ride home, or did the last half of my sentence prove that nothing was going to happen? Wow, I can’t even read myself, much less this evening.
Marc tilts his head and gives me that sexy look he knows makes me melt inside. “Really?” he asks flirtatiously. “Do I seem scary to you?”
“Scary? No. Dangerous maybe…”
“Oh, I’m not so bad once you get to know me,” he says playfully.
“As opposed to me, who’s only bad once you get to know me,” I joke, wiggling my eyebrows up and down in an exaggerated Groucho Marx move.
“I very much liked getting to know you,” Marc tells me, suddenly serious.
For a moment, we stare into each other’s eyes, and I’m all jelly inside again. Is he going to kiss me? He looks like he’s going to lean in and kiss me. Do I really want him to kiss me? I spent six weeks getting over him. Do I want to start that process all over again?
But Marc surprises me and, rather than make a move, breaks eye contact. “I almost forgot,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket and handing it to me.
I look down at the envelope to see the familiar studio address in the top left corner. The clear plastic window with the recipient’s name and address shows the familiar shade of light blue I associate with my paycheck. Confused, I open the envelope and pull out a check for eight weeks’ worth of work. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Your last paycheck,” he answers. “You still had eight weeks left on your contract, so I decided to pay you in full for the season.”
I hand him the check back. “I can’t accept this…”
Marc puts out the palms of his hands in a show of no contest. “Legal says you can, after a rather lengthy conversation with the Writers Guild.”
“But I quit,” I say, confused.
“They didn’t see it that way,” he tells me, quickly adding, “You had a contract for a specific project that was supposed to take thirty-nine weeks. You finished it in thirty-one. Lots of writers finish jobs early.”
Despite myself, I examine the check and debate accepting it. As I said, since the day I committed to this bar, I have been hemorrhaging money, and I’m sure it will only get worse. Between bank fees, building permits, liquor permits, contractors, and trips to Home Depot and furniture stores, I wonder how anyone who opens a bar makes money. So far, it has just been a very expensive hobby.
“I can’t accept—”
“You can. You must. You shall. If you don’t take it, the studio keeps the money. Haven’t you made enough for them?”
He’s right. I did have a contract. My boss has decided to pay it off, with the studio fully supporting him. Why am I fighting this?
I slip the check in my purse. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I tell him sternly.
“I didn’t offer,” he reminds me.
And yet, clearly we’re both thinking about it.
The next few courses are spectacular. With a seared wagyu beef filet, we sample a Barolo from Italy that makes me want to grab my passport and fly to Piedmont.
During that course, Marc tells a gregarious story that makes me burst out laughing, and the tension between us instantly dissolves.
The mushroom course features chanterelles, an earthy Burgundy, and a compliment on my dress, followed by a sexy, lingering gaze from Marc.
As we finish the lamb course, which includes a cru Beaujolais that is so tasty, it is making me rethink that I hate Beaujolais, he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. It’s very sweet and innocent. There is nothing sexual about the gesture. But, oh, my God, I missed that kiss. It made me feel loved and accepted. Not necessarily hot and bothered, but cared for.
Women aren’t supposed to want to feel cared for. We’re supposed to be independent: capable of changing our own tires, buying our own houses, zipping up our own dresses, and rubbing our own feet. But I think everyone—male, female, gay, straight, young, old—wants the luxury of just resting for a moment and letting someone else put in the effort.
I get hot and bothered during the cheese course, when we both flirt over the last bite of Camembert. Marc smiles, spreads the gooey ambrosia on a cracker, and feeds me.
By the time we finish with the chocolate mousse paired with Sauternes, we are all over each other.
I miss him so much, I ache. Logically, I know this is a bad idea. But I can’t remember the last time I felt this way when I was around a guy: that heightened feeling of not knowing if something will happen or not, and desperately wanting it to. Followed by the flood of relief from being truly wanted and cherished.
A few minutes later, with Marc wrapping his arms around my waist and nibbling my neck from behind, I text Holly to say I’ll be out all night, but I don’t tell her why.
I’m sure she knows why, and I’m sure I’ll be paying for it tomorrow. But right now, I don’t care. Right now, I’m with the guy I dream about at night. How many women can truly say that?