NAT
Sundays are our early days, and we decide to open at three instead of five, and close at eleven instead of one. Holly wasn’t scheduled to come in until four (her new “we-are-so-not-dating” beau asked if she could come in late). So it’s just Jessie and me.
Chris never shows up. Which is fine. The end of last night probably put him on alert as much as it did me. I mean, we didn’t do anything. I have nothing to feel guilty about. But maybe there was something there? If he had leaned in to kiss me, what would I have …
Nothing. I would have done nothing.
When Holly comes in at four, we have all of six customers in the place. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a Sunday afternoon or because we’re new, but it’s kind of nice not to have to zoom around all day.
“You know, we might be able to get away with only two bartenders on Sundays,” I suggest to Jessie, who’s hyperfocused on her phone.
I seem to startle her, and she throws the phone into the air a bit, then catches it. “What?” she stammers. “Oh, well, uh, it’ll probably pick up later in the evening.” She looks around. “If it’s okay with you though, since Holly’s here now, I’d love to get some accounting work done in the back until it gets busy.”
“Sure. Go for it.”
An hour later, Chris comes in, carrying his laptop.
I suddenly remember that today was another wedding day with his sister! He wasn’t ignoring me. He was with his family. I walk up to him and ask, “The usual?”
“Not yet. Do you have coffee?”
“We do. And I won’t even ask you how you like your coffee.”
I pour him a cup of black coffee, drop in two sugar cubes, stir, and bring the cup and spoon to him. He looks at the cup. “Do you have any—”
“I already put two cubes in and stirred,” I interrupt.
“Oh. Thanks,” he says, looking confused for a brief second, then returning to his work.
Yeah, moron! I remember how you take your coffee from twelve years ago! Don’t I get points?
I wait.
Nope—no points.
* * *
By around six, we have a few more customers, and things are picking up. Holly and Jess both have full tables, we got a little Adele playing in the background. Things are good.
Except for the guy at the corner of the bar, who is antagonizing me by, well, ignoring me.
I mean, I don’t care if Chris is ignoring me: It’s certainly better than him engaging me in a heated debate over fake boobs, or enlightening me on his theories about the battle of the sexes. But he seems to be working, and I don’t understand why he’s come to a relatively loud bar on a Sunday night just to work.
I want to ask him, but I also don’t want to engage. So every few minutes I glance over at him, nursing his coffee and working very studiously on his laptop. When his cup is empty, I mosey up to him.
“Refill?” I ask.
He looks up. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Then he focuses on his work again.
I grab two sugar cubes, toss them into the cup, pour coffee over them, stir, and place the cup next to his computer.
The sight of me doesn’t register.
“Okay, fine. You win. I’m intrigued. What are you doing here?”
Chris looks up from his computer, not seeming to understand the question. “Working.”
“I see that. Why here?”
“I like it here.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Plus I said I’d see you today, so…” He wiggles his fingers in a wave. “Hi.”
Then he goes back to typing.
Seriously, I can’t get a read on this guy at all. Every night he has been here, he has baited me with conjectures on flowers, weddings, and my fear of intimacy. The first night, after not seeing me in over ten years, he greeted me with an insult. And now, here he is, doing … what exactly?
“So does Giovanni feel like going to a Lakers game with me tomorrow?” Chris asks without looking up from his screen.
“No. He’s going to the opera that night.”
Chris looks up at me, surprised. “Since when do you like the opera?”
“What is that supposed to mean? You don’t think I’m cultured enough to like the opera?”
“Sorry. So who’s your favorite soprano?”
“That would be Tony,” I answer, only half kidding. “Actually, Giovanni’s going with Jessie.”
“Oh. Well, then, would you like to go to the Lakers game with me?”
“I have a”—oops, I almost said “date”—“previous engagement.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I see. That previous engagement wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain floral aficionado, would it?”
“What a bizarre question. No.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Well, if that engagement falls through, or you change your mind for some reason, they’re really good seats.”
Jessie walks behind the bar, texting Kevin. I make my way over to her. “Hey, do you think…”
Once again, she nervously pops her phone out of her hands. I try to catch it, but when I do, I accidentally hit a glass, which shatters all over my hand.
Before I can even figure out what happened, Jessie is screaming, and there’s blood everywhere.
Shit. My blood.
Oh, crap. My hand is split open like a canned ham. From my wrist to my thumb.
“What happened?” Holly asks, running up to us.
“Nat’s bleeding. Call nine-one-one!” Jessie screams.
“Do not call nine-one-one,” I say firmly as I quickly wrap a white towel over my hand. “It’s just a little blood. I’ll be fine.”
Chris has already closed his laptop and started walking behind the bar. “Let me see.”
The white towel immediately begins to blossom red. I raise my hand because I read once that that slows down bleeding. “I’m fine.”
As Jessie runs to the back room, Chris takes my hand and slowly unwraps the towel. “Let me take a look.”
The towel only partially comes off before I spurt blood. “Shit!” Holly says. “You need stitches.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat as Jessie dashes out of the back office with my purse. “Chris, you have to take her to the emergency room.”
“We’re on our way,” he says, holding up my left arm with his left hand, and wrapping his right hand around my waist to guide me out of the bar.
“Maybe we should just wait a few minutes and see if the bleeding stops,” I suggest.
“You can wait a few minutes while we drive to the hospital,” Chris counters. “If the bleeding stops by the time we get to the ER, I’ll be happy to admit you were right and I was wrong. Bye, guys! We’ll keep you posted.”
Appearing to be outvoted, I grudgingly go with Chris to his car.
Within fifteen minutes, the bleeding has not stopped, and we are at the local emergency room, with Chris filling out forms for me.
“Name,” he begins. “Natasha Lila Osorio. Address?”
“I’m right-handed. I can do it.”
“Your adrenaline is pumping like crazy, and your hands are shaking. Let me do it. Address?”
I look down at my hands. Which are shaking like San Francisco in 1906. Damn it. I give him my address and various other information. For my emergency contact, I list Holly.
He looks up. “Holly?”
“Yes. She’s my roommate. Why?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Just a little surprised is all. I need your insurance card.”
“It’s in my wallet,” I tell him.
He waits for me. “What?” I ask with a note of irritation.
“Don’t you want to get it out?” Chris asks.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap. “I’m doing my best impression of Captain Hook right now. Maybe a little help?”
“I just didn’t want to invade your privacy,” he says, taking my purse and opening it. “Most women don’t want you rifling through their purse.”
“There’s nothing in there that would embarrass me,” I tell him as he pulls out my wallet, which unfortunately has two condoms stuck to it. He looks over at me.
“What?” I repeat in the same irked tone.
Chris puts up the palms of his hands as if to plead No contest. He takes my insurance card and my driver’s license from my wallet, then brings them and the clipboard over to the receptionist.
I look down at my red-clothed hand. That is going to leave a mark.
My phone texts. Crap. I grab the phone with my good hand and read:
Jessie told me you’re in the hospital. Should I come back early?
I start typing back with one hand.
No, I’m fine. She’s overreacting. I’m only here because she and Holly made me go.
Chris walks back to me and takes a seat, telling me, “She said they’ll see you soon.”
“Sir,” the receptionist says, “you forgot your wife’s insurance card.”
“Thanks,” he says to her as he walks back to retrieve my card.
My phone beeps again.
She said you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.
Chris comes back. “Can you do me a favor and type a text for me?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he says, taking my phone.
“Type, ‘Jessie doesn’t even know what a stuck pig is.’”
Chris looks up. “I’m sorry?”
“Read what she told Giovanni. I am not bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Chris reads the text. “How about if I tell him everything’s going to be fine, you’re at the ER with me. No need to panic, we will keep him posted.”
“And I’m not a pig,” I add.
He looks up, sighs, then returns to typing, “How about all of what I just said, and you’re not a pig.” After typing, he asks, “Do you want me to tell him you love him?”
“Give me the phone,” I say, putting out my good hand.
“Now what did I say wrong?”
“Just give me the phone.”
He does. I hit Send—without the “I love you.” “Thank you for your help.”
The doctor calls us in. Long story short, I needed six stitches, and it could have been a lot worse. Why do doctors always say that?
As we’re making our way out of the hospital and through the parking lot, I click my speed dial and get Holly. “Okay, everything’s good. Just needed a few stitches. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
I hear her say, “Wrong. Go home. What did they give you for pain meds?” at the same time Chris says, “No. You need to get your antibiotics and your Vicodin and go to bed.”
I put up my stump to shush him as I say to Holly, “Wait, what did you say?”
“I said go home. What did Chris say?”
“That I’m totally fine,” I say, but the phone disappears from my ear.
Chris took it away from me to tell Holly, “She’s not fine. She’s had stitches and she’s hyped up on adrenaline. Any minute now, she’s going to have an adrenaline crash and be in hideous pain.”
“You guys are being ridiculous. I…” This time he shushes me, answering Holly. “Yes. Vicodin … I have both prescriptions, she also needs an antibiotic. We’re going to the pharmacy now.”
“Seriously, you don’t have to…”
“Great. And I will. Thanks,” he says, then hangs up and gives me the phone. “Do you want to call Giovanni?”
I take the phone. “What did she say and what will you do?”
“She said the two of them will handle the bar, because it’s not that busy. And to make sure you take your Vicodin, because apparently you hate the feeling of being spacy and sometimes won’t take your medicine.”
“That’s pretty judgmental coming from … Never mind. I need to call Giovanni.”
I dial him, and he answers on the first ring. “How are you? Jessie says she accidentally cut open your hand.”
“Yeah. She fumbled with her phone, and I tried to catch it and hit a glass. I’m fine. How are you doing?”
“Well, I didn’t cut open my hand. Are you sure you don’t want me to come home early?”
Chris presses the alarm for his Prius and opens my door first. “No,” I tell Giovanni. “You have wine to sell, and I’m just going to take my medicine and go to bed early. Stay in Santa Barbara. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Well, do you want me to cancel the fund-raiser? I don’t have to go,” Giovanni tells me. “I can come straight to you tomorrow afternoon.”
Shit. With everything going on, I totally forgot about my dinner with Marc. “No, Jessie’s really looking forward to it, and I’m going to be drugged out and resting anyway. I’ll just see you Tuesday.”
“Okkaaayyyy…” he says reluctantly. “Are you sure? I feel bad.”
“Don’t feel bad. You’re being the perfect boyfriend. Go. Sell wine. See opera. Have fun.”
We talk for another minute, and I think I have him convinced that I’m not dying.
He seems to be the only one I’ve convinced. After I hang up, Chris tells me in an urgent tone, “We’ll stop by the pharmacy, then pick you up some food. What are you hungry for?”
“In-N-Out.”
He turns to me, surprised.
“What?” I ask.
“I just thought you were going to fight me about the meds. In-N-Out it is.”
Chris runs into my local Walgreens to drop off my prescriptions, then we head to the nearest drive-thru of In-N-Out. I order a double-double with everything on it (including the grilled onions), french fries, and a chocolate shake. Chris gets almost the same, but no grilled onions.
We grab our bags, and he starts to drive away from the restaurant. “What are you doing? Park,” I command.
“We should get back…”
“No, no, no,” I insist. “This is In-N-Out. You don’t save In-N-Out. You thank the gods for this blessed ambrosia, and you wolf it down like you still have the metabolism of a fourteen-year-old.”
Chris capitulates and parks in the lot. I hand him his double-double, then tear into my burger. For my first bite, I close my eyes and have a culinary orgasm. “Oh, my God, that’s good,” I murmur. “They should not tell us it’s six hundred and seventy calories. Nobody wants to know that.”
“Leave some food to have with your meds.”
“Yeah. That’s not happening,” I say through a mouthful of delicious burger.
Chris takes his first bite. “These really are the best. Some East Coast people say Five Guys—”
“Oh, they’re so wrong,” I tell him, then take another bite and savor. I lean back in my seat and let happiness wash over me. “Man, I don’t even know the last time I got this with the grilled onions. I’m always worried about my breath.”
“Never know when there might be a man around to kiss,” Chris jokes.
He watches me as I continue to scarf down my burger with just my right hand. “What?” I ask, not able to read his facial expression. “Am I making a mess?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s In-N-Out. That’s expected. No, I was looking at…” He smiles, take his napkin, leans into me, and gently wipes sauce from my lip and chin.
Okay, that was sexy as hell. Where did that come from?
I smile and take a few (nonmessy) french fries. We stare at each other until …
I look away from his stare. “So, you never told me how the rest of your wedding weekend went. Did your sister find a venue?”
“She did. In downtown. It’s happening Valentine’s Day weekend. Now I just have to dry-clean my tux and find a date.”
“And the bachelorette party?”
“As of now, I’m still hosting. Maybe I can find a date for that too.”
I let his statement lie there, because there’s a tiny part of me that thinks, maybe, he was referring to me?
My phone buzzes a text. I put down the burger, wipe my hands, and check it to see …
We have 7:30 reservations at
I quickly turn off my phone and stuff it into my purse. Chris pretends not to notice my panic.
But he knows. I know he knows.
I nervously offer him the white box of french fries. He takes a few.
The car is deafeningly silent. Finally, he asks, “So how long have you and Giovanni been dating?”
“Not long,” I say. I am hoping those two words form a whole sentence.
Chris waits for more.
“Less than a week,” I admit reluctantly.
“Oh. So he’s not really your boyfriend.”
“Really? What constitutes a boyfriend?”
“Having sex.”
“Sex does not constitute a boyfriend.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends I didn’t have sex with.”
“Not after the age of twenty-five you didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, come on.”
More silence. Finally I have to ask, “How did you know we haven’t had sex yet?’
Chris smiles, clearly very proud of himself. “I didn’t until just now.”
Damn it! He keeps entrapping me. “I will have sex with him soon, though. And, unlike you, he passed the kissing test.”
“Do you want to explain…”
I cross my arms. “It’s none of your business.”
Chris debates prodding me, then surprises me by saying, “Fair enough.” But you could cut the tension in the car with a knife.
We finish our food and head back to the pharmacy in silence.
As Chris pulls the car into a spot in the Walgreens parking lot, I say, “I’ll get everything. You wait here.”
As I open the passenger door, he asks, “So you can text your married boyfriend?”
Ouch. I turn to him and clearly enunciate every word. “No. So I can talk to the pharmacist in confidence and take my pill.” I haughtily grab what’s left of my chocolate shake and head out.
Surprisingly, Chris lets me go in by myself. I get in line for prescription pickup, turn my phone back on, and use my good hand to text.
I can’t wait. Pick me up at 7:00. I’ll be wearing the dress you like.
Will you be wearing the bra and panties I sent you?
The pharmacist calls out, “Next,” and I give him my name and wait for my meds. It kind of hurts to type, because I have to rest the phone on my bad hand, so I type back …
If I can get them on. I actually had to go to the hospital because I hurt my hand. I’m fine but have people around me. See you tomorrow?
I hit Send and then wonder why I wrote that. Because I want him to come over and take care of me? But I don’t want him to meet Chris? Or know about Chris? Or maybe I want Chris to take care of me?
I wonder what the definition of neurotic is. Thirty-two-year-old single woman?
The pharmacist hands me my pills, explains the proper dosage and side effects, and sends me on my way. On my way out, I rip open the antibiotic bag and take my first dose with the chocolate shake. I leave the Vicodin alone for now. I get loopy on that stuff.
Then I head back to Chris.
We drive to my place in silence. Out of the blue, Chris asks me, “So did your married guy pass the kissing test?”
My initial inclination is to give a resounding, “Oh, yeah.” But instead I shrug.
More silence. Five blocks later, “So, did I pass the kissing test?”
Whoa. He remembers. He remembers that night, the night I left. But he’s still here taking care of me. Why?
“Actually, no,” I answer, thinking back to his balcony, and our dance, and that magical first kiss. The one that I initiated.
“Wow. How bad was I twelve years ago?” he asks.
“No. It has nothing to do with the kissing itself. I just have a rule that a man has to kiss me by the middle of the first date. If he doesn’t, it means he’s not really interested, so we both need to move along.”
He smirks and shakes his head. “That is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard of.”
“Of course you would think that, because you always force the woman to put herself out there. Look, I’m sure there are perfectly good men whose wives or girlfriends asked them out or made the first move or whatever. But I need a man who will put himself out there. I want a man—”
“You want a man who you don’t care enough about to have an actual relationship with, so you definitely don’t want the guy who you like so much, you’re stressing out the entire date trying to figure out if he’s going to kiss you or not. And by the way—I did not flunk that kissing test. I kissed you.”
“Wha … You most certainly did not.”
“Like hell I didn’t. I pulled you into a slow dance and totally worked up to it.”
“You did no such thing! I pulled you into the slow dance. Me! I did that!”
I wait a moment before stating one more time, “And I kissed you.”
Chris shakes his head slightly, seemingly having an entire conversation in his head. “Fine. Maybe I’m remembering it wrong.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I watch him drive. I can’t tell if he’s placating me. I look down, feeling bad. “Well, if this were a date, just for future reference, the next red light might be a good time to kiss the girl.” I turn away. “Not that I mean me, of course. I’m just giving you pointers.”
“I think pointer number one would be, ‘Don’t start your date in the emergency room,’” Chris says, trying to lighten the mood. “And I can’t kiss you now anyway. You’re hopped up on Vicodin.”
“I haven’t even opened the bag yet. I just took the antibiotic.”
“Why haven’t you taken your Vicodin?” he exclaims with a little more exasperation than I think is warranted.
“I don’t like the feeling when I’m on the stuff. I get woozy.”
“You’re supposed to get woozy. Your hand is currently resembling a fifth-grade girl’s needlepoint project. Take your damn pill.”
“Fine,” I say, ripping open the bright white bag and pulling out the bottle. But my left hand is a bit bandaged up. “I can’t get it open.”
Chris stops at the next red light and puts out his hand. “Here. Let me.”
He opens it, hands me the big white horse-size pill, then hands me my shake. I can feel it slog down my throat. Yuck.
A minute later, Chris slowly pulls his car up to my house, and stops.
“You want me to help you inside?” he asks.
“No. I’m fine.” I put my hand on the car door handle and start to open it. “Thank you for taking me to the ER. You’re not so bad. I’ll see you soon.”
I let my statement hang there, making no motion to actually open the door. I turn to him, a little sad. “You know, I feel like if we were in a parallel universe, we’d … I don’t know.”
Then, as I open the door, he becomes his usual antagonistic self. “If I kissed you right now, you’d secretly be afraid that I wouldn’t come back Tuesday, and you can’t stand that. That’s why we haven’t kissed yet.”
I slam the car door back shut. “What?”
“It plays into your whole fear-of-intimacy thing. Which is cool, I get it. It’s also why you have three men around and you don’t know what to do with any of them.”
I sigh loudly. “You know, if I’m so awful, why do you keep showing up to see me every night?”
He shrugs. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
I open my door again, but not completely. I want to say a million things to him. I want to tell him to go away. I want to say I’ll see him Tuesday. I want to ask him in.
I slowly close the door again. We stare at each other. I lean in and kiss him. Tentatively. Hesitantly.
What the fuck am I doing?
His lips are so soft, and he opens his mouth slightly. He doesn’t stick out his tongue, and neither do I.
So what does that mean? Is he being polite? Is he being nice to me because I’m in pain? Does he feel sorry for me?
I quickly pull away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He gives me a sexy smile. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”
I shake my head slowly, sadly. “You give me more credit than I deserve.” Then . . “You need to not come into the bar anymore.”
Chris seems to give my request some consideration. Then he answers, “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“No. Seriously. I don’t know why I just did that, because I don’t want you. I want Marc.”
Chris doesn’t seem offended. He asks me in a neutral tone, “He’s the married guy?”
“For the record, how did you know he was married?”
“A single guy shows up with flowers. A guy with a girlfriend sends flowers. Only a married guy sends a bouquet the size of a kid’s jungle gym.”
I can’t help myself—I focus on his lips. And before I know what I’m doing, I fiercely lean in and kiss Chris again. Race cars have less velocity.
This time he kisses me back and, make no mistake, he’s not just being polite.
I rip myself away just as fiercely. “My God. Giovanni. I have to break up with Giovanni.”
Chris calmly leans in, puts his arms around my waist, and kisses me again.
I melt. I absolutely melt. There might as well just be a puddle of Nat on his passenger seat.
Eventually, I come up for air. “I have to go,” I tell him, and this time I manage to open the door fully. And yes, okay, so maybe my knees are weak and I can barely get out of the car. But I’m out of the car.
He starts to get out of the car too.
“No, no, no, no,” I stammer and point. “Stay in the car.”
“I just want to make sure you get in okay.”
“No you don’t. You want to make sure…” I look at my white bag, then point to him again. “And I’m now on drugs. You said so. So that’s…” I whirl my index finger around, not quite sure what to say next. “That’s what that is.”
And I turn on my heel and racewalk to my door.
I have not heard his car turn on yet. “Go!” I command without looking behind me.
“I’ll go when you’re safely inside.”
“I’m safe. Go,” I yell behind me and fish through my purse for my keys.
Fuck. Noooo … Not when he’s looking. Where are my damn keys?
“I’m not fishing for my keys as an invitation!” I yell toward him.
“Okay,” he yells back.
There they are. I pull them out.
Then stare at my fist full of keys.
Silent night out here. Just a cricket and some faraway freeway traffic noise. I still don’t hear his car. He still hasn’t moved.
I could invite him in. Crawl into his arms. Softly kiss him until the Vicodin kicks in and I fall asleep.
Jesus, Nat: Marc, Giovanni, now Chris? What’s the matter with you?
Determined not to further screw up my life, I slip my key into the lock, and turn it. I quietly let myself in and close the door. I fall against the door, desperately wanting to invite him in, yet knowing what a horrible idea that would be.
Still quiet outside. I remain with my back to the door and wait for what could be two minutes or twenty. Finally, I hear a car start and slowly drive away.
Holly’s still at work, so I decide to lie down on the couch and breathe.
Seriously, what’s wrong with me? Who kisses two guys within thirty-six hours of each other, knowing she’s about to finally get the third guy she has pined over for years?
I hear my phone ping a text.
Chris.
Of course.
See you Tuesday.
I start to write back.
No, you won’t.
I delete that. Type …
I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.
Delete.
Finally …
Okay.
And Send.