Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly (3 page)
I cannot believe that just happened to me. I finally get up the cojones to buy something sexy, and then I run into my boss, of all people. That's the problem with small-town living. Oh sure, it's great most of the time. Well, some of the time. But there are definitely times when it sucks. Like right now.
I don't mind shopping at Target as much, because it gets traffic from several surrounding towns so the population is a bit diluted. I can almost guarantee I'll run into at least one person I know, but it won't be like everyone in the store knows who I am.
I grab a cart, since I am physically incapable of walking into the store and buying only one item. One time, I came in for cat food and left after spending $127. I like to blame the cat for costing me so much money, but I think it had something to do with the new shower curtain (and garbage bags, sports bras, tuna fish, cookies, pens, and a book) that came home with me that day. Anyway, I was here for hair color, but I might as well get some groceries. Oh, I need a card for Rob. I have his gift—a nice watch. I should get wrapping paper while I'm here. I need some more ibuprofen as well, and some deodorant. I wind up snaking back through the health and beauty aisles. I see the family planning stuff near the end of the aisle, but there's a greasy looking guy at the other end of the row. I go and get my deodorant and when I pass back, the aisle is empty.
Heading down the aisle, I glance out of the corner of my eye at the products. I'm walking more slowly than I normally would, but am certainly not stopping. I see what I'm looking for. It's one of those his and hers lubricant things that's supposed to spice things up when the two are mixed together. Without even pausing, my hand shoots out, grabs it off the shelf, and tosses it into the cart. I then reach down and re-arrange all the other crap in the cart so that my adult purchase isn't visible from any angle. I don't want people seeing it in my cart, whether I know them or not. My speed doesn't even decrease.
I grab the last few things and head toward the check out. The frozen pizza on top of my pile is calling my name, as it is now almost nine. I scan the checkouts, not for the shortest line, but for the one in which I know neither the cashier nor anyone waiting. I spot the perfect candidate. A disinterested looking woman of about twenty. She doesn't look familiar in any way, shape, or form. She didn't go to my school. I didn't have her in class. She's too young to have kids I would have in class anytime soon. The perfect cashier for me.
I unload the contents of my cart onto the conveyor belt. Such a random selection. Hair dye, wrapping paper, frozen pizza, sexual lubricant. That's smack in the middle of my stuff, so hopefully she won't even notice when she scans it. I try to distract her further by engaging in conversation, talking about how we haven't gotten any snow this winter. She's happy about that. As she picks up the lubricant box, I tell her that I'd be happy for at least a few snow days. She looks down at the item in her hand.
"Oh, I've been wanting to try this."
Seriously, this is not happening to me. "Um, okay."
"Is it any good?"
Oh. My. God. Is she really asking me about this product? "I don't know. I've never used it before."
"Oh, trying it out for Valentine's Day?"
Please, floor, open up and swallow me. "Yeah, I guess."
"You'll have to let me know if it's any good." She winks at me.
Like that's ever going to happen. I mumble something and swipe my card through the card reader. Why can't this day just end?
The cashier pulls the receipt off the register and looks at it. "Have a great night, Ms. Perkins. I know you're gonna be in for some fireworks!"
For the second time in just over an hour, I hightail it to my car and want to die. Apparently the universe it trying to send me a message that I'm not meant to do romantic things like this.
I manage to get home without any further mortification. I want to call Therese and tell her about this. She would probably piss herself laughing at me. Not that she's ever been really shy about this stuff, but after going through fertility treatments and giving birth with her mother and mother-in-law in the room, Therese has no shame about her girl parts. She proudly breast fed in public, whipping those puppies out whenever and wherever we happened to be. Now I know that's all-natural and it's perfectly normal, but I don't know if I would ever be able to do it. I'm just not that comfortable with my body.
Speaking of aspects of my body that I don't like, I have gray hair to cover. I got my first gray hair when I was seventeen. It was junior year, and I remember sitting in health class, playing with my hair, which was long and permed at the time, when I found that gray hair. All of my mom's family went gray prematurely. I wasn't that concerned about it. For me, going gray was something I inherited, like my dad's blue eyes. It had nothing to do with me getting older. I'm trying to ignore the fact that more and more of my hair is going gray, and I have to touch up my roots every five weeks now.
While the hair color is sitting, I put the pizza in the oven and pour a glass of wine. I only sip it, afraid it will go to my head since lunchtime was so long ago. I can't afford to get drunk before I get the hair color off.
I pull out my overnight bag and pack for the weekend. I'm sort of—okay, a lot—bummed that I didn't get lingerie for the weekend. I look in my drawer. There is a little teddy set that my ex-boyfriend gave me. I think about packing it but can't bring myself to do it. It would be too weird, and I could see Rob getting upset about something like that.
I'm hoping this weekend spices things up for us. We're sort of in a rut. I guess that happens. It's even more boring since everything last fall. That thing that we don't talk about. I like to think that we've moved past it. And now we're middle-aged people, and we've fallen into a comfortable pattern. Well, we're not yet middle aged; we just act like it. And I don't want comfortable. I want something exciting. At least I've got the special sauce. I toss that into the bag. I can't wait to tell Rob what happened in the store. And for the record, no, I will not be updating the clerk about the effectiveness of the lubricant.
On second thought, he probably won't appreciate my stories. He might be mad that John saw me with the lingerie. John is one of those people who Rob doesn't want to know about our relationship. We're both tenured, but Rob is afraid that it could make us look bad. It's not like it will change our promotions, since there are none. Whatever. He's not comfortable with it. Someday he will be, and I can wait. Right? It seems like I've spent my whole life waiting for one guy or another. It's what I do. This pattern was established a long time ago.
The first guy I ever waited for was Henry Fitzsimmons. Dark blond hair, light green eyes, and a kind heart. Of course, he was my brother Brady's best friend, so that made him the forbidden fruit. I fell in love with him when I was about nine. When I was eighteen, I made a complete ass out of myself in front of him, and then I never talked to him again. It took me a few more years to get him out of my system. Word in town is that he moved out of state. I'm sort of glad I never had to cross paths with him. I'm sure if I did, I'd be reduced to a bumbling teenager again. Thank goodness for small favors.
I rinse the dye out, and my hair is now its correct shade of medium brown. This is my natural color. I mean, it would be my natural color if I weren't now salt and pepper.
I'm trying to distract myself from thinking about the weekend and what it will mean for our relationship. I'm giving Rob a watch. What will he be giving me? It's time to take the next step. Maybe. I guess. If he's ready. I'm not sure if I'm afraid that he won't propose or that he will. Thinking about it gives me a stomachache, so I turn on the news to distract myself.
Well, that's no better, since the lead, and apparently only, story is about Tristan. I see his mother on the TV, clad in her hoodie and sweats, yelling about how her son was innocent and never did anything to anyone. I'm mad at her. Now, I know I'm not a parent, but I do spend enough time with kids to know that having a good parent makes all the difference. From everything I know about the family, she is not a good parent. She's making my anger at the senseless loss return, so I snap off the TV.
I should call my mom to remind her that I won't be around this weekend. I look at the clock. It's just after ten. Too late to call. And it's too late for me to still be up. Drying my hair quickly, I turn back my covers.
What an awful and hectic day today has been. Tomorrow, getting away with Rob, will certainly be better.
"Oh hell, no—this cannot be happening!"
"What? Sadie, are you okay? What's wrong?"
Balancing my phone precariously between my ear and my shoulder, I angle in for a closer look. "I cannot believe this. It’s a total disaster."
Therese tries to reassure me. "Whatever it is, we can figure it out. When is Rob picking you up?"
"Um, I have to leave in ten minutes. I'm meeting him at the B&B. I want to get there by five so I can get ready for dinner." Today has been just as hectic as yesterday. I've run home right after school, showered, and am now trying to complete all my necessary grooming. I'll swing by the nursing home to say a quick hello to Dad on my way out of town.
"Wait—he's not picking you up? What kind of romantic getaway weekend is this? But that's getting off the topic. What were we talking about?"
Leaning even closer to the mirror, I acknowledge the fact that my eyes are not deceiving me. There it is. As plain as, well, the eyebrows on my face. "Therese, this is serious. I'm tweezing my eyebrows and there's a gray hair!"
"Oh my God, that's terrible! That's, that's ..."
"I know. We're getting old."
"We? There is no 'we' here. You. You are getting old."
"Therese, you are only seven weeks younger than I am."
"But it is an important seven weeks."
"Okay, but we're getting off topic. Again." Conversations with Therese were often like this. We could be talking about three different topics all at the same time. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, like now, not so much. "What am I going to do?"
"Well, obviously pluck that sucker. Duh."
I wince as I pull the offending hair out of my eyebrow. Staring at it in the tweezers, it's just an unassuming little fiber. But it's what it symbolizes that scares me. I'm getting old. And I'm alone. Well, not alone, because I have Rob, but I also have a vacant ring finger. "It's gone. I gotta get going soon."
"You'll call me if he proposes?"
"Of course. And what do you mean 'if?' Don't you think it'll happen?"
"I should be asking you that. You're the one with the intuition about these things."
I sigh and lean into the mirror again, just to make sure there are no more offending gray suckers infiltrating my eyebrows. "I don't know, Therese. I mean, I haven't gotten a sign or had a dream or a premonition about anything. It just makes sense. We've been together for almost two years. I'm thirty-five. He's forty. We're going away for Valentine's Day weekend to a romantic B&B. This is the perfect time for him to propose."
"Why do you sound like you're trying to rationalize it? Do you want him to propose?"
There's the loaded question. I should want him to propose. As my mother (and sister and brother and sister-in-law and friends) like to remind me, "You’re not getting any younger." I should want to settle down. And I do. I think. I mean, I do.
I want to come home to someone every night. I'm sick of an empty apartment. I want to own a house. I want to be part of something larger than just me and my cat. Rob makes sense. We're both teachers. He's all the things that I'm not—organized, pragmatic, structured. That's why I'm pretty sure the proposal is coming. We haven't really discussed it. He's forty, and I'm his first long-term girlfriend. I know, I know, that should be a huge red flag right there. I knew him for a few years before we started dating, so I don't think he's a serial killer or anything. He's just reserved and set in his ways. He's just what I need. Stable and dependable. "Of course I want him to propose. Why wouldn't I?"
"That's the question. Why wouldn't you? You still don't seem sure. What do you want?"
"I want my eyebrows not to be turning gray."
"Sadie, that ship has sailed, so you'd better figure out what it is you do want."
Now, since I've had gray hair on my head for more years than I care to admit, it doesn't, in my mind, symbolize aging. A gray eyebrow hair does. I'm getting old, and I'm still alone. I think about this as I'm packing and driving to the B&B in the quaint village about forty-five minutes away. On paper, Rob looks like the ideal fit. He's about 5'10", which is not too bad, considering my 5'5" frame. We both teach in the social studies department of the local high school. Our rooms ended up being next to each other and we became friends. I tend to be a bit more of a dynamic teacher than Rob is, but it's not about our teaching styles. It's about the fact that he's stable and will make a good husband and provider. When I think about it, I know that's what I want: someone to take care of me. Oh sure, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, but I want someone who can swoop in and take me in his arms and ravish me.
That's not Rob.
He hates it when I call him Rob, by the way. But I have a serious issue with calling him by his given name. I just can't, in the throes of passion, call out, "Oh Robin." I just can't do it.
He didn't have a choice about his name, any more than I did. If I had a nickel for every time someone told me they had a dog named Sadie, I would be able to buy a coffee at Starbucks at least. It's certainly not his fault that his mother has poor taste. She had to know that a woman would never find her son sexy with the name Robin. It brings to mind too much gender confusion and images of spring birds. I can't make that a deal breaker in determining my future happiness. Rob will be a stable provider. I know that life isn't like a romance novel, so I just need to dial back my hunky man expectations. Obviously those expectations have been letting me down since I was in high school.
I get to the B&B, having daydreamed the entire way. Probably not the safest thing in the world. My driving leaves a lot to be desired, but I've been lucky so far. Rob can't stand it when I drive. He yells at me the entire time. So I am perplexed as to why he wanted to meet me up here. I thought he'd prefer to drive us both to spare other motorists from having me on the road. It has to be because he has behind-the-scenes setting up to do. Nothing else makes sense. I try to get excited about what’s going to happen. We've never talked rings or anything, but Rob certainly has paid attention to my personal style. Like the fact that I never wear yellow gold. Or that I don't like the pointed edges of marquise-cut stones.
Looking around, this B&B is truly amazing. Rob told me that it used to be a convent. I've parked in the back, so I'm entering through a hallway near the kitchen which is to my left. Several small, round tables are spread out, giving the kitchen a cafe atmosphere. A large stone fireplace divides the kitchen and dining room. It is one of those fabulous fireplaces that is open on both sides. Sitting in the formal dining room, you can see right through to the cafe-kitchen. I see a sign indicating that the guestrooms are in a wing to the left off the kitchen, making it necessary to pass through the kitchen on the way to the rooms. Straight ahead of me is a sunken living room that has bookshelves from floor to ceiling. My eyes travel up and up and up, as the ceilings are cathedral height with massive hanging chandeliers. This library room leads into another sunken room, which appears to be a sitting room. The walls and the floor are made of stone. At the far end of that room is the most enormous fireplace I've ever seen. Worn couches surround it, with small end tables scattered about, holding lamps that light the otherwise dark room.
"Dear, can I help you?"
If I didn't know better, I'd say this lady was a left-over nun. Maybe she didn't get the memo that the rest of the group moved out about thirty years ago. "Um, yeah. I'm supposed to be meeting my boyfriend here. We have reservations for the weekend."
"Okay, come this way. You came in the back door. The check-in desk is through the library."
I follow her, apologizing for coming in the wrong door. Walking through the place, it's even more impressive than I first thought. I wish I could curl up with a book for about a week here. It looks so peaceful and relaxing. Maybe I can convince Rob to bring me back here every year for a special treat. I know, I'm putting the cart before the horse, but I've convinced myself that we're getting engaged. I wonder if we'll be married by next Valentine's Day. At my age, I don't want to wait that much longer. Glancing around the library, I wonder if we could have our wedding here. It's not that big, but I don't want a huge shindig anyway. I'd be content with our parents and siblings, and maybe a few close friends. Of course, I'd have to invite my aunt and uncle. And if I do that, then Rob would have to invite his, and his mom is one of seven kids. Just with family, we're up to over sixty people, and that's not including any of our teacher friends. I doubt this place could hold everyone. Maybe if it were in the summer and we were outside—
"Dear? I asked what name the reservation is under."
"Oh, sorry," my attention snaps back to the elderly lady who obviously owns this place. "Henderson. Robin Henderson."
She flips through her ledger and finds the information she's looking for. She opens a small cabinet on the wall and pulls out a key. There is a second key hanging on the same hook. I guess that means Rob's not here yet.
"Here you go, Robin. Room Eleven. Through the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs and first room on the right."
"Oh, I'm Sadie. Robin is my boyfriend."
"Oh, sorry about that dear."
"No problem. It's not his fault he has an unfortunate name. Has he checked in yet?" I can't believe I said that. I don't know why I'm asking this. I know the answer.
She looks at the ledger and then back up at me. "No, dear. You're the first one here."
Putting on a brave smile, I take my bags and head back up to the kitchen to get to the wing of rooms. There's a heavy fire door that separates the rooms from the public part of the building. I guess that's good. There is still some privacy between the bedrooms and the common areas. I try not to let my spirits get too down as I trudge down the hall. I really had it in my head that Rob would be here, and he would have the room all lit in candlelight with rose petals strewn about and a bucket of champagne waiting.
Not that he's ever done anything that romantic, but that's the sort thing you do on Valentine's Day when you're going to propose, right? Turning the key, I push open the door and find the room empty. Just as I knew it would be. Woven scatter rugs dot the worn wood floors. There's a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room that has a Laura Ashley-type flowered comforter on it. The bed ruffles cascade down in coordinating stripes and plaids that are also featured on the multitudes of pillows on the bed. It is a nice room. For a thirteen year-old girl. There is nothing about this quaint room that even hints at romance or seduction. Certainly nothing that would be conducive to anything spicy in the bedroom.
Not that Rob has ever been spicy in the bedroom. Or anywhere else. I mean, when he was super frisky, that one time, the living room rug was suitably creative for him. We don't need fancy props or lingerie or rose petals to be romantic. We love each other, and that's enough. Right?