Ms. Taken Identity (16 page)

“What are they?” I ask.

“Portuguese custard tarts.”

I’ve never heard of such a thing. Krispy Kreme donuts, yes. “May I?”

“Help yourself.”

It’s the shape of a cupped hand but half as big, with a custard and blueberry topping. I take a bite. “Oh, man, this is good.
Wow. Fruity. But not too fruity. And rich.” (I realize I do not have a future as a food critic: “Fruity. Yummy. Me like!”)
“Not the kind of recipe you’d get off the back of a cereal box, is it?”

She gives a small laugh. “This was the dessert we made in my last cooking class. Iberian cuisine.”

“Ah, so dancing classes
and
cooking classes for you.”

“I have to. The cooking class meets once a month and we cook up all this food, with tons of calories. Then I have four weeks
of dance class to work it all off.” She pats her hips. “I could probably use six.”

I take another bite of my tart. “So where do you go for that?”

“A place called Chez Henri. It’s actually a restaurant open to the public, but they have two kitchens. Students cook up their
dishes in one, then we all sit out with the other diners. It’s a lot of fun. In fact, I have another class this Friday. Wanna
come?”

I lick a splotch of custard off my finger. “If everything tastes this good, you bet.”

The band launches into a swingy version of “The Girl from Ipanema” and the place gets hopping, people in sundresses and linen
slacks and Hawaiian shirts pouring onto the dance floor, moving any which way they can. Those of us from the studio try to
use our steps, and sometimes it works with some of the songs, but when it doesn’t we just laugh it off and say we’re glad
Adonis isn’t here to see. I dance with Fran and Marie and Jennifer and Rosie—who, true to her word, is well on her way to
being in no condition to drive—and there’s mingling of the tables and lots of “You gotta try this” and “Who made that?” and
we talk about
Sideways
and what a great movie that was, and how it must’ve made it cool to order pinot noir because of that terrific scene where
Virginia Madsen talks about the pinot grape, and how it must’ve made it uncool to order merlot, because, well, it’s “fucking
merlot,” and did the movie really affect sales of pinot noir and merlot, which leads to a conversation about how Oprah got
sued by the cattle ranchers a few years back because she said something about not liking beef, and we discuss whether Oprah’s
so powerful she could take down an entire industry with just a wilting glance. We agree she is: the woman makes presidents.
And with all apologies to Bradley and Skyler and Trista, it’s a thousand times more fun than last night.

Much later into the evening, after we’ve all had a chance to sample the wine and salads and sushi and Brie and custard tarts
and whatever else has found its way onto our table, I ask if anyone
does
know where the bathrooms are.

Dave struggles to lift his bleary eyes from his empty wineglass. “Bathrooms? They have bathrooms here?” Apparently, Dave’s
been visiting the side of a tree.

Steve points over his shoulder. “Up that hill and bear to the left.”

“Follow the signs,” Jennifer cautions. “It’s a bit tricky.”

Marie nudges me. “I can show you, since I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”

We head up a grassy incline, and it’s actually sort of quiet on top, since the band’s on break and we’re removed from the
chatter. From here, everything lies below us—our friends at the tables, the swaying lantern lights that remind me of glowing
bubbles, the silent vineyards rolling and tumbling as far as I can see. Overhead, a three-quarter moon is veiled by a thin
layer of clouds, like a sheer curtain. A breeze stirs over my body and tickles the hairs on my neck, but not in a way that
makes me want to scratch it, but in a way that lets me know I’m alive and I can feel things and autumn will be coming soon,
with cool temperatures and pumpkins and color on the trees.

“It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?” I say.

“Mmm. I love it.”

From the way she says it, I can tell she’s thinking the same—
feeling
the same—that life is wonderful in moments like this; and something catches in my gut, something sweet and deep and exhilarating,
like a dip on a roller coaster, and what’s pumping through my blood and warming every inch of my skin is the certainty that
I want other moments like this with her, the two of us, alone, in the breeze, and the only way for me to have those times,
and have them for real, is to tell her who I really am.

“Marie, there’s something I need to tell you…”

She turns to me slowly, still feeling the breeze on her face, and she’s something of a vision, in her halter top and billowy
skirt, the bare skin on her shoulders tan and soft and glowing, her eyes catching a sliver of moonlight, her earrings shimmering
and mingling with her hair; and I realize I can’t say what I want to say, because if it doesn’t come out right, or she doesn’t
hear it the right way, that’s the end of us, and there’s no way I can risk losing her now, because for the first time since
the night we met, I’m not looking at Bradley’s sister, or a woman I’d be embarrassed to introduce to my dissertation panel.
Just Marie. So instead of the truth about me, I give her the truth about her.

“You look beautiful. You
are
beautiful.”

She smiles, and even in this light I can see she’s blushing. But from the way her gaze won’t let go of mine, I can tell she
has more on her mind, and she needs my help, so I lean closer and she brings her lips to mine, and we kiss.

Does the kiss last five or ten or sixty seconds? Don’t know. Are her lips soft and warm and electric? Maybe. Is there a little
tongue involved? Could be. The sad and unfortunate truth is,
I have no idea
. I’m so nervous and giddy and overcome and thrilled to finally be kissing this woman I’ve wanted to kiss
since the moment I saw her!
and only at this moment do I realize it’s been since then, and now I’m actually doing it, and I’m so caught up in actually
doing it that I forget to take notes on what it’s like. Then it’s over.

We stand and look at each other for a long time, in silence, like maybe we
have
swallowed each other’s tongue. Then we look some more. Then finally I get some words out, and they’re the words that every
woman longs to hear on the crest of a hill on a beautiful summer’s evening after she’s just been kissed by the man she may
or may not be falling for.

“I have to pee.” Which I go and do.

When I get back to the table, thankfully she’s out on the dance floor. We don’t have much contact the rest of the evening,
and when we do, we’re overly polite (“The band is great, isn’t it?” “Wonderful!”), but mostly we ignore each other and try
not to make eye contact, and we go back in separate cars, and barely wave goodbye across the parking lot. All of which is
perfectly understandable when you really, really like someone. And you’ve just kissed them. And you’re twelve.

Chances are good that somewhere along your TV-watching way, you’ve seen a doctor in a hospital utter a line that goes something
like this: “The next few hours are critical.” Maybe it was House of
House
, or Meredith or McDreamy or McSteamy, or even an old-school doc like Marcus Welby, and maybe they were talking about a guy
who’d just been shot or hit by a car or had some preposterously confounding ailment that caused his heart to beat twice an
hour, and it was touch and go whether he’d live or breathe on his own or ever walk again. The point is, whatever happened
during those “critical” hours would go a long way in determining his fate.

Since I’m not a doctor (just a drug rep—ha!), I don’t know how often this really occurs, or if it’s accurate. How many hours
are critical? And are they critical, or just really important, or is this just some trumped-up TV line to keep you coming
back after the commercial? Whatever the case, I do know that when it comes to nonmedical conditions of the heart—such as saying
I love you, or having sex, or making out with your best friend’s sister—the next few hours
are
critical, in the sense that this is your chance to let her know it wasn’t a fluke, that the alcohol had nothing to do with
it, that you’d like it to be the start of something
big
.

Here’s what I want to do when I get home. I want to call her. I want to call her and tell her that I’m lying in bed and can’t
get to sleep because I’m thinking about her and that kiss, and my head is still buzzing and my lips are still tingling, and
I’m trying to remember exactly what it was like, and can you help me fill in the details? Better yet, how about I just come
over and we can do it again. But I don’t, since it’s already late and she’s probably in bed and there’s no need to wake her;
and I’m thinking a version of the same in the morning, that it’s still too early and she’s sleeping in. Besides, we all know
there are rules about when to call a woman after a date, to send the right message that you’re not overeager, but not uninterested
either, so I’ve got that to consider (though technically speaking, this wasn’t a date, and we’re already friends, so probably
this is different). Plus, I’ve got the entire day to make that call, right?

Only Bradley rings
me
up early and we head out to shoot baskets, then we go back to the apartment to watch football; and because Skyler has to
work all day, this means the two of us making a marathon of it, watching all the games, which ordinarily would be great, but
today not so much, since I need to have a heart-to-heart with his sister about where we stand, and is she feeling the same,
and was that a French kiss, or not? Around five I feel the day slipping away; by seven, I have a panicky lump in the pit of
my stomach that’s telling me I should’ve called earlier. I finally get Bradley out the door at eight and make the call, but
she’s not home, which is disturbing: she didn’t even bother to stick around to make sure she got my call. Then, she does call
back an hour later and says she was out to dinner and a movie with a friend named Chris. But who’s Chris, and is it Chris
tine
or Chris
topher
, because suddenly I care very much. Worse, she sounds jittery, hesitant, a little strange (
guilty
?), which rattles me a bit, enough that when she asks about my day and I tell her I watched football, at a bar, alone, it
all comes off sounding squirrely and evasive, like I’m trying to hide something, which, oddly enough, I am; and we wind up
not talking about last night, and especially not the kiss, because by now I’m sweaty and uncomfortable and rambling. And then
we hang up.

Monday night goes even better. I’m not sure how to greet her (handshake? kiss?
proposal
?), so I do nothing, just say hi, which means all the momentum of Saturday night is lost, and even worse, now we have negative
momentum, since doing nothing signals a retreat from the kiss. I muddle through the lesson and our Showcase time with Adonis—stiff,
formal, distant—and she’s pretty much the same—like she hardly even knows me—and then it’s over and I go home. A couple beers
later, I figure out what’s going on: before the kiss I was glib, spontaneous, playing with house money, with nothing to lose,
but the kiss changed everything, showed me how much I like her, and now I’m getting nervous, uptight, self-conscious, wanting
to be on my best behavior, and as a result, losing all my personality. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. But
what’s her excuse?

Ever since Saturday night, she’s been as talkative as my belt. She hasn’t said a word about the kiss, or her feelings, or
us
. Unless… this
is
her way of talking about the kiss, and her feelings, and us. Of course! It fits! All along, she’s the one who’s been making
all the moves—inviting me out for drinks after the first lesson and to go shoe-shopping and to the movies and her cooking
class. Now she’s not making any moves at all. She’s a statue. Which means the kiss meant nothing to her, but she’s too chicken
to tell me, and this is her passive-aggressive way of letting me know. Oh, that’s rich. I give her the next couple days to
call, to explain herself, but when she doesn’t, I have my proof.

I consider not going to class on Thursday night, just skip the whole mess, but I do, to see if there’s anything left to salvage.
Apparently not. I tell an idiotic joke that’s pathetic from start to finish—even giving you the punch line, “The pickle slicer
got fired, too,” without the rest doesn’t damage the joke much, because there isn’t much to damage—and no one else laughs,
but Marie laughs like a fucking hyena. I know why she’s doing it: it’s her chance to pretend how supportive of me she is,
that she’d fill awkward dead space with laughter to help me save face, so that later, if I tell any of them that we kissed
and how poorly she behaved in the days that followed, she has witnesses who’ll point out that she laughed at my stupid joke.
It’s a cheap stunt, and I almost tell her as much, right in front of everyone, but I don’t. But I think she gets the message,
because she keeps her distance the rest of the night, and I don’t join any of them for drinks.

The next day my phone rings, and I assume she’s
finally
worked up the nerve to cancel our cooking class date for the evening, probably with some excuse about having a cold, or headache,
or malaria (the lengths some people will go to just to avoid saying they don’t like you). But it’s not her. It’s Katharine.

“I got Bradley’s story. I read it. I love it. I need to talk to her.” She’s saying all this in a rush, so that I hardly have
time to process it. “Can you give me her number, Mitch?”

“Her number? Wow. You know, I don’t think that’s going to work. She never gives it out to anyone. No offense. Stalker ex-boyfriend.
Besides, um, as I think I told you, she wants everything to go through me.”

“That’s right,” she purrs. “I like that even better. Mitch, how about you fly up here tomorrow for dinner, drinks, and a little
tête-àtête about the book.”

“Me? Fly up to Chicago?”