Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) (3 page)

The waitress at The Pub seats us at a table for two near the bar and hands us laminated menus.  I see other women steal glances at him.  They’re probably wondering what he’s doing with me.  Hell,
I’m
wondering what he’s doing with me.  I have no illusions that this guy — a guy who trolls AA meetings for loose woman — is interested in me sexually.  I can only imagine he finds me amusing.  And you know what?  That’s fine.  It’s been a long time since a guy found me interesting — sexually, or otherwise.

Of course, Patti would debate that.  She says the only thing standing between me and a man in my life is me.  But the truth is, it’s extremely difficult to meet a decent, available man at my age.  At least, that’s what I hear.

“I think Guinness is the way to go at this juncture.  What say you, Claire?” Justin smiles at me.  So handsome.  Such bad news.  One of the pluses of no longer being a college kid — I actually have a clue.

“I’m just going to have coffee,” I say.  He raises an eyebrow.  “Okay. Coffee with Bailey’s,” I amend.  When in Rome…

The waitress is quick with the drinks.  I like pubs — the food, beer on tap, regulars at the bar watching the game, waitresses quick to sniff out the enthusiastic customers and the people who are slumming.  Center City is filled with these places and were home to me during college.  Walking in the door tonight, with this gorgeous man, I feel young.  I feel free.  If it weren’t for this health stuff hanging over me, I’d feel
care 
free.

“To the YMCA,” he says, raising his glass.

I give a wry smile and touch my glass to his.  “Really?” I say.  “That’s the best you can do?”

He shrugs.  “Yeah.  Until you ‘fess up what you’re really doing there.”

“What makes you think it’s not exactly what I told you?  I go to hear the stories at the Erotic Reading Salon.”

He looks at me suspiciously.  “Fair enough.  What do you do for work?”

“I work at Macy’s.  The counter manager at Chanel.”

“Okay.  So you know a little bit about people, right?  A woman walks in, you decide if she’s a buyer or a browser, if she’s going to buy a lipstick just to cheer herself up, or if can you suck her in for a full make-over.”

I look at him.  “That’s a bit cynical, but essentially accurate.  What do you do?”

“I own a headhunting firm.  And, like you, I make money by assessing people and fulfilling a need.”

“Okay.  So your point is?”

“Looking at you, I don’t see you as someone who has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than sit around listening to dirty stories.”

I turn red.  He’s wrong.  I don’t have anything better to do on a Thursday night.  Is he flirting with me?  Is he…interested?

Regardless of why he’s hanging out with me, I don’t need him analyzing me. 
And
I certainly don’t owe him any explanation for why I’m at the YMCA.  I take a large gulp of coffee.  The bite of Bailey’s is satisfying, a familiar, slow burn.  Another reason I love pubs — the generous pour.

“That’s funny,” I say.  “Because I pegged you as exactly the sort of guy who would troll AA looking for easy women.”

“Ouch!  It sounds terrible when you put it that way.  I’m not some sort of sexual predator.”

The front door swings open, bringing a gaggle of young women with uniformly long straight hair, skinny jeans, and clunky boots.  They bring the smell of cigarette smoke and beer.  I turn back to Justin watching them with palpable interest.

Any thought that this is anything other than friendly conversation is out the door before it swings closed behind these lovelies.

“You were saying something about not being a sexual predator?” I smile when he finally snaps back to our table.

“What?  Oh yeah.  The AA thing.  It’s just that I enjoy sex, but I’m not looking for a relationship.  Women in AA know they shouldn’t get into relationships, but everyone needs to get laid once in a while.  It’s win-win.”

“You
never
want a relationship?”

He shakes his head.  “Been there, done that.  Not a good fit.  So what’s your deal?”

“There’s no deal,” I say, pretending to look at the food menu.

“Come on.  I told you mine.  And I’m not even complaining that you’re judging me over it.”

I smile.  “I’m not judging you.”

“You are.  Admit it.”  His smile is devastating.

“Fine.  Maybe a little.”  I take a deep breath.  “Here’s my deal: I’m not married, I don’t have a boyfriend, and I don’t date.”

“What does that mean, don’t date?”

“I haven’t had a date in twelve years, okay?  I raised a son by myself, I work hard, I have great friends.  No time, no interest.  End of story.”

“Wow.  How did you do that?  I mean, I find it hard to believe that men weren’t coming on to you all the time,” he says.  I’m startled by the comment — he says it so casually.  How does he not know that’s the biggest compliment I’ve had in as long as I can remember.  Maybe ever.  But his face is neutral, like he simply said I make a good pot of coffee.

“Um, no.  Not exactly.  And even if they had been, I didn’t want to make more mistakes.  I tried dating a few times.  But then he’d inevitably meet my son, and then the relationship would do what relationships are wont to do — fizzle.  And then I had to explain to Max why so-and-so wasn’t going to be around anymore.  What kind of example was that for him?  It’s bad enough I found out things never last.  I didn’t need to teach him that lesson at age six.”

“Makes sense,” he says, nodding.  “So what now?  Your son is out of the house.  No one to witness the way we adults tend to fuck up things.”

“I guess somewhere along the way I lost interest in finding Happily Ever After,” I say.  “Or maybe it’s that I feel I don’t deserve happiness.  That’s what my therapist used to say.”

“I don’t believe that therapy crap.”

“Yeah, I stopped going.”

“Well, we are officially like-minded individuals,” he says, raising his glass.  “To no relationships.”

“To no relationships,” I say,

“So…just one night stands?”

“Nooo,” I say, as if I’m speaking to a learning-challenged person.  “No dating means no sex.”

He slaps the table with his palm.  “Get the fuck out of here, Claire!  No sex in twelve years?  No wonder you have to listen to dirty stories.”

The table of college girls look at him, and one giggles.  The prettiest one.

“Ssshhhh.  Quiet down.  You don’t see me broadcasting your pathetic sexual habits to the entire restaurant.”

“We’re moving to the bar,” he says.

We find two seats in the corner of the bar, away from the die-hard Flyers fans yelling at the TV screen.

“I know a guy isn’t supposed to ask a woman her age.  But you look kind of young to have been married, divorced, and gone a dozen years without dating.”

I smile.  I feel like beaming, actually.  But I keep it to a mere smile.  He thinks I look young.  How young, I wonder?

Not as young as those girls he’s been eyeing — even still, from the bar.

 
“I got pregnant in college.”

“Ouch.  That sucks,” he says.

“Well, I have my son,” I say, slightly indignant.

“Yeah, but…”  He lets the
but
linger, heavy in the air.  Weighty.  Painful.  As it has been for the past dozen years.

Yes, I have my son.  But I am alone.  And now, thanks to the intimate details of my fellow salon-goers sexual exploits, I realize despite what I’ve been telling myself all these years, I have missed out.

This hits me as hard as the cancer diagnosis, maybe harder.  Because while getting sick was out of my control, putting my life on hold was my decision.

One of the college girls passes us on the way to the bathroom.  She throws a look at Justin.  An invitation.

I feel old.  Extraneous.

“I should get going,” I say, pulling my bag over my shoulder.

“Aw, don’t be like that.  I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Bad?  I’m suddenly on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay.  It’s not you.”  And then it happens — the full-on waterworks.  Sobbing, tears, the whole bit.  It’s not pretty.  I’m mortified.

Justin, to his credit, seems unfazed.  As if it’s every night a woman breaks down over her coffee and Bailey’s during a simple conversation.  He hands me a cocktail napkin.  I blow my nose.  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Why pretend?  Justin will find new fertile ground for his sexual exploits, stop showing up at the Y, and I’ll never see him again.

“I don’t go to the Y for the Erotic Reading Salon.  At least, I didn’t at first.”

“You’re in AA?” he says, eyeing my drink.

I shake my head.  “No.  I was going for the breast cancer support group.”

He swivels his bar stool to face me straight on.  “Shit, Claire.  I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.  It’s early, it’s treatable.  It’s just…I have to have surgery and I feel like the surgery will diminish my…um, sexuality I guess you can say.”

He nods.  “When’s your surgery?”

“In two months.”

“Okay, so you have some time.  Better have some fun, right?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?”

“I think I’ve missed the boat on fun,” I say, draining my drink.  “Hearing those stories at the reading salon.  Good lord.  I’ve missed out on so much.  And now it’s too late.”

“Are you…dying?”

“No.  I’m not dying!”

“Then it’s not too late.”

“It is.  I just took for granted that my body would be there for me if I ever decided I wanted that part of my life again, and now I’ve waited too long.”

“Too long for what?”

“Everything?”

Justin grabs a cocktail napkin and asks the bartender for a pen.  “Let’s get specific.”  He writes the number “1” on the napkin.  “What haven’t you done?  Start with the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Those girls over there keep looking at you,” I say, desperately trying to change the subject.

“This conversation is much more interesting than those girls.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Come on, we’re in a bar, having drinks.  Why the hell not, Claire?  It’s that kind of thinking that got you into this mess in the first place.”

He has a point there.  I take a deep breath.

*** ***

Justin looks at me expectantly.  My heart beats fast just at the thought of confiding one of the many sexual and romantic things I have never done.  So I pick the most innocuous of the bunch to start.

“I’ve never kissed a stranger,” I say.  “You know, like someone I just met.  A glance across a crowded room, that sort of thing.”

I try to imagine an alternate scenario of last Thursday night when I first met Justin.  What if, instead of getting distracted by the man harassing Karina, he’d just leaned over and kissed me.  It’s unthinkable.

He writes on the napkin
kiss a stranger
.  His handwriting is impressively neat.

“Nice penmanship.”

“Catholic school,” he says with a smile.  “Sister Illuminata.  Loved the ruler on the knuckles.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.  They nicknamed her Horse Killer.”

“Why?”

“She was so ugly she killed the horses.  That was back in the horse-drawn carriage days, of course.  But the nickname stuck.”

“She was a hundred years old?”

“At least.  Now don’t try to change the subject.  Okay, next thing on the list.”

“I don’t have a list.”

“You do now.  Go on.  What else?”

He looks at me, all business.  I’m not getting out of this easily.  And I’m not sure I want to.

“I’ve never had a man buy me sexy underwear.  I’ve never worn any of that stuff, the garters and stockings.”

“Hot lingerie,” he says as writes, then looks up.  “Great.  Keep going.”

“I’ve never had a one-night stand.”  He adds to the list.  Again, my mind drifts into fantasy.  What if we just left this bar, right now, and went back to his place.  What would he do with me?

“I’ve never done anything kinky,” I say.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I say, blushing.

“Well, give me something.  What do you like?  What do you wonder
if
you’d like?”

I think of Karina’s story, about the guy meeting her at the hotel room.  And I think of April’s story that first night where the man goes down on his ex-wife on the kitchen counter.  It’s sad I have to fall back on other people’s stories to create a list of my own desires, but it’s been so long since I’ve let myself even fantasize, I don’t even know what I want or need anymore.

“One of the readers told a story about a woman sitting on her kitchen counter and a guy — her ex-husband actually, but believe me I have no interest in going there — was giving her, um, oral sex.”

“What else?”

“There was this crazy story where a woman met this guy online, and went to a hotel room, and he blind-folded her and they did stuff and she never even knew his name.”

“Got it,” he says, writing some more
.

Then he waits for me.  And waits.  “Come on, don’t hold out on me now.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?” He looks at the napkin.  “We only have five things.  I am not walking out of this bar without a solid ten.”

I laugh.  “I’m sorry my sexual fantasies can’t fill a cocktail napkin.  Sad, but true.”

“Ever been to a strip club?” I shake my head.  He adds it, above a few of the others.  I think of Dylan’s story tonight, the power she felt controlling the man’s desire.

“How about voyeurism?  Ever watch people have sex?” he says.  Again, I shake my head.  He jots it down.  “How about sex in public?”

“Never did it.”  Added to the list.  “What else haven’t you done?  Anal?”

“Justin!”  I am bright red.  There is not enough Bailey’s in this entire bar to get me through this conversation.

“You have to try it.  At least once.”  He jots it down, thinks for a minute, then writes something in slot number nine, three-way.

“Is this my list, or yours?” I say.

“Hey, I’ve done all this stuff.  I’m trying to help you out so you don’t need a whole new list when you’re fifty.  This should get you through the next decade without feeling like you’ve missed anything.”

“This is just conversation, Justin.  An entertaining one, for sure.  But it doesn’t exactly make me feel any better about where I am in my life.”

“Of course a conversation won’t make you feel better.  But once you get started on the list, I guarantee things will start looking up.”

I laugh.  “I haven’t had a date in over a decade.  I can’t just start doing this stuff.”

“I know you can’t do the list — not with that attitude.  But I’ll be your wingman.  You’ll see.  It will be fun.”

“You’re not serious.”  But I’m smiling.  I hope he is serious.  Of course, the list isn’t literal.  But the idea of hanging out with him — even as friends, having fun conversations like this — thrills me.

“I am totally serious.  And it will be good for me too — a challenge.  I’m sure I’ll find some adventures of my own along the way.”

He slides the napkin over to me.

“Number ten is still blank,” I say.

He winks.  “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

My heart leaps.

“I should get you home,” he says.  I look at him, surprised.  Then I realize he probably wants to move on to greener pastures — the college girls sitting at the table nearby.

I envy them so much in that moment, my stomach hurts.  They’re beautiful, they’re young, and they have all the time in the world.

“It
is
getting late,” I say, putting money on the bar.  Justin picks it up and hands it back to me.  I’m not going to argue with him over paying for my drink.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“I barely finished my drink.  I’m fine.  I’m a big girl, Justin.  Really.”

“Okay.  Well, at least let me walk you to your car.”

Outside, the night is much cooler.  I keep forgetting that summer is over.

“I’ll probably end up taking a cab home myself,” he says.  “I’m not used to drinking in the ‘burbs.’”

“Where do you live?”

“Rittenhouse Square,” he says.  Of course.  One of the most beautiful parts of Center City.

“I can’t believe you drive out here just for the meeting,” I say.  “That’s a little crazy, you know?”

“I really should stop,” he says with a devilish smile.

I hope he doesn’t.

“That’s me,” I say, pointing to my white Honda.

He walks me to the car, and waits until I have the door open before shaking my hand in mock formality.

“Claire, this was interesting.”

“Definitely,” I say, feeling like a blushing school girl.

He hands me a cocktail napkin.  I glance at it and realize it’s the list.  Then he pulls out his cell phone.  “To be continued.  What’s your number?” he asks.

“My number?”

“It will be tough for me to get in touch with you without it.”

I hesitate.  This has been fun, but I don’t need to be the source of amusement for some hot guy who has the strange habit of picking up women at support groups.  My life might be lame, but at least it has some integrity.

“I’ll just see you next week at coffee hour,” I say, climbing behind the wheel of my car.  Ready to drive home, to my empty house.

“I’d say every week counts for you, Claire,” he says, looking at me with a seriousness I have not yet seen on his handsome face.

He might be a womanizer.  Or just a flirt.  Or just a good-looking guy with too much time on his hands.  I don’t know yet.  And I don’t care.  Because the thing is, he’s right.

I give him my number.