Off the Menu (18 page)

H
ey, how is the work going?” RJ asks, his call a welcome break from my work fog. It’s been a Sunday morning full of playing catch-up, not at all weekend-y, and deeply annoying, so hearing his voice is a wonderful distraction.

“Fine. I’ve got about five or six more hours I want to try to get done today. But I think I have found a new assistant for Patrick, so if they have a good meeting tomorrow, I might be able to get back to just enough work for three people instead of five. What are you up to?”

“I was wondering if I might convince you to take a break for precisely two hours and twenty minutes.”

“Do tell!”

“So remember that movie we were talking about the other day at lunch?
Out of the Past
?”

“I do.”

“Well, a copy arrived yesterday from Netflix, and I have a lovely bottle of bubbles, so I thought you might let me come over for afternoon champagne and snacks and a movie if I promise to leave right after it is finished and let you get back to work.”

He is so dreamy. “That sounds perfect, and I could use a break, my head is all fuzzy.”

Normally, this would be my cue to frantically primp and prep and try to get super cute while crazily tidying the
apartment. But not with RJ. I’m in one of my Target outfits, hair in a ponytail, glasses on, no makeup, and the house is what the house is. And I don’t feel one bit of pressure to change any of it. Not because I don’t want to impress him, or because somehow he isn’t worthy. But because RJ won’t mind, and I love that I know this about him, and I love even more that I feel so comfortable with him that I don’t feel the need to go all tornado on myself. I know that he would feel bad if he thought that I would waste time and energy on stuff like that; he likes me just the way I am.

It’s been a lovely couple of weeks. We had a delicious late lunch after my insane Patrick meeting, where he listened to all my work bullshit like a trooper and was completely understanding. And was equally understanding when, after three whirlwind days in New York, I returned completely swamped by work, limiting us to one brief date at the Art Institute, which was interrupted and cut short by another of Patrick’s manufactured emergencies.

“Studio. Right now,” he said when I answered quickly, my phone shockingly loud in the middle of the Modern Wing Fischli and Weiss exhibit.

“Patrick, I’m at the—”

“You’re at the STUDIO in FIFTEEN MINUTES.”

“Fine.” I turn to RJ. “I, um.”

“Work thing?”

“Yeah. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, things come up.” But I could tell he was disappointed.

“Things should not come up like this, but you are very kind to understand.”

“You’re worth it.”

He had said it with conviction, making me feel even worse,
and not worthy of the sentiment. This is going to be one of the reasons he eventually decides I’m totally not dateable.

Patrick’s frantic emergency at the studio? Paint color. Over the weekend the set and props people repainted the studio kitchen. Just a freshening up of the same color it has always been, a deep, saturated, slightly greenish brown that reads great on camera, and makes everything in front of it really pop. But Patrick was apparently convinced they had switched the color on him.

“It looks like shit. Actual shit. I took a shit this very color this morning.”

“Patrick, I can’t speak to your bowels, but this is the same color it has ALWAYS been.”

“Nope. They switched it.”

“No, they didn’t. And even if they did, exactly what do you expect I should do about it tonight?”

We went back and forth, and finally I grabbed an old still from his office where he was posed in the kitchen with Michelle Obama, who had come on the show with a box of produce from the White House garden to promote her healthy eating campaign. I held it up to the wall. Same color.

“See?”

“Something is off. I just know it.”

“Your brain is off. And you ruined my evening, by the way.”

“You were at a museum.” He says the word with utter distain, as if I were somewhere unfortunate. I haven’t told him about RJ yet, especially since we met on EDestiny. He’ll just give me crap about it, and I’m trying to just be mellow. I also haven’t told my family. No need to get everyone’s hopes up; its hard enough not to get my hopes up.

“I was having a nice evening, and had reservations at Terzo
Piano, so you get to call Tony and tell him why I blew him off when I’m pretty sure he had Meg ready to make it special for me.” Tony Mantuano is the executive chef at the elegant restaurant in the Art Institute Modern Wing and both he and his chef de cuisine, Meg Sahs, are friends.

“I’ll do you one better, we’ll call them up and go over there now, my treat.”

Which is how I ended up enjoying my romantic dinner with my idiot boss instead of RJ.

Lucky for me, RJ just let it slide. We have continued to talk every day, and the more time I spend getting to know him, the more I like him and the more attracted to him I become. So far our passion has been limited to just kissing. He is a perfect Southern gentleman, and is not applying any pressure on me. And I’m finding that the slow, luxurious pace of true courting suits me to a tee. My desire for him is building alongside my trust and our friendship, and I really hope that when we do take that step, that it is as good as I want it to be. Which, of course, makes me pretty sure that it will be horrible and disappointing, or he will turn out to have weird fetishes, or we’ll just be out of sync and the whole thing will lead to our breakup.

I tidy up my computer a bit, and clear the detritus off the coffee table. Dumpling starts barking, not his traditional bark of greeting, but deeper and more growly, with a tinge of actual menace. “Stop that, boy, it’s just RJ.”

I walk to the door and open it. “Hello, beautiful.” RJ leans over and kisses me. Yum.

“Hello, you.” I kiss him back.

He looks deeply in my eyes, holding me to him with one arm. “You look adorable and cozy. Perfect for a Sunday afternoon movie. And I have … What the—?” he says, looking
down. Where Dumpling is casually and proudly taking a piss on his leg.

“DUMPLING! BAD BOY! GO. TO. YOUR. BED. RIGHT NOW! Oh my god, RJ, I’m so sorry, he’s never … I mean, I just …”

Then we both start to laugh. “Well, that is some greeting.”

“That is just the worst thing ever. RJ, I don’t know what to say.” Dumpling turns with a sniff and walks over to his bed and flops down, glaring at RJ with what can only be described as contempt. “Dumpling, you are a VERY BAD BOY.” I have never been so mortified.

RJ touches my arm. “It’s really okay. Dogs don’t necessarily love me on first meeting.” He hands me a large shopping bag. “Any chance you have an extra pair of sweat pants lying around?”

“Of course.” I am gobsmacked. I put the bag on the kitchen counter, and go to fetch him a pair of pants. I bring them out to him, and motion him to the front bathroom so he can change. While he is gone, I unpack the bag. On top, a small bouquet of flowers, deep pink peonies mixed with pale pink tea roses. A bottle of Vilmart pink champagne, already chilled. Smooth chevre, sharp cheddar, caramel-y aged Gouda. Three kinds of sausage. Two kinds of olives. Cornichons, those tiny puckery pickles that I am addicted to. Marcona almonds. A pear, an apple, and a small bunch of grapes. A bar of dark chocolate.

And a bag of organic dog treats. I look over at Dumpling, who is pouting on his bed. Dumb dog. And with RJ so excited to meet him and bringing him treats.

I get out a platter and some small bowls.

“Well, I don’t think this is going to be my most fashionable
day,” RJ says behind me. I turn and can’t help but laugh. My sweatpants hit him mid-calf.

“Heather gray manpris are all the rage.”

“Well, I guess I should be grateful that my jeans are so absorbent, saved the shoe. Don’t suppose you have laundry?”

“I do, in fact. Please allow me.” I reach for the pants. He hands them over and I head up the hall to the washer-dryer, and toss them in. By the time I get back RJ has managed to arrange the nibbles artfully.

“Thank you for all of this, especially the flowers. They’re so lovely.”

“Well, they made me think of you. I seem to remember you said something at some point about peonies.” This man remembers everything.

“They are my favorite flower.” I slide my arms around his waist and tilt my head up, and he obliges me with a deep and thrilling kiss.

We bring all the goodies to the living room and arrange them on the table. I put the DVD in the player, while RJ pours the champagne.

“To making you play hooky, even just for a couple of hours.”

“If this is how you make me play hooky, I’m in whenever you like!” We sip, and the bubbles go straight up my nose in the best possible way. “I really do want to apologize about Dumpling, I have never seen him do anything even remotely like that. I don’t know where it came from!”

“Really, don’t worry about it. I had a friend bring her old dog to my house once, and while we were looking at something in the garden, he somehow got locked in the bathroom and totally panicked and pissed everywhere and shat himself,
and then got even more panicked and was apparently just running in circles in the bathroom peeing and pooping. By the time we came back in the house and heard him, my bathroom looked like a sewer line had exploded.”

“Oh NO!” I am laughing at the very thought.

“Oh YES. And I? Only have ONE bathroom. In retrospect, a little pee on the leg is not so bad.”

“Shh. Don’t give him some challenge.”

“Hey, he’s adorable. And if you were my person, I’d be sure that any interloper who showed up was made perfectly aware that he was being watched, and that you would be protected at all costs.”

“You keep saying things like that and plying me with champagne and flowers and delicious snacks, and I could be persuaded to be your person.”

He leans over and kisses me deeply, sending shocks of electricity right down into my toes. “I’m counting on it.”

By the time the movie is over, we have decimated a good percentage of the platter, the bottle is empty, and RJ is back in his freshly cleaned pants, smelling of the dryer.

“Is the dog still on lockdown, or can I try to make up with him?”

“You are welcome to try.”

RJ walks over to the kitchen and picks up the bag of treats he brought, opening it up and taking a couple out. Then he comes back over to the living room and sits beside me on the couch. “Dumpling, c’mere, boy. Get a treat.” He pats the couch next to him and holds up the treat. Dumpling rises from his bed, stretches a bit, and walks over to the couch. “Good boy. Let’s be pals.” RJ holds the treat down to him, and he leans over and sniffs it before taking it in his mouth. “Good boy, that’s a good boy. Want another?” Dumpling takes the second
treat and wolfs it down, allowing RJ to pet his head. Then he jumps up on the couch and wiggles his weird little misshapen self right in between us. RJ laughs. “He’s just jealous. And that’s fine by me.”

“Oh really, why is that?”

“Because it means he thinks there is something to be jealous of, and I hope he’s right.”

RJ gets up, pats Dumpling one more time on the head, and I stand to walk him to the door.

“So, I’m sure this is either early or late or presumptuous or something, but I was wondering if you had plans for New Year’s.”

“Well, I do have plans for New Year’s Day with my family, but no firm plans for New Year’s Eve yet.” Which is a lie. I am supposed to spend New Year’s Eve at Patrick’s annual party, to which I was going to invite RJ, but if he has other ideas, I’m more than willing to blow Patrick off. He usually ends up luring me into the kitchen and I spend the whole night whipping up extra food in uncomfortable shoes.

“Some friends of mine are having a small dinner party, and I would love it if you would come with me.”

YAY! “I would love to come with you.”

“Good. So I’ve got the last of my work travel stuff this week, and then I head to Tennessee to see the family for Christmas, but I’ll be back on the twenty-sixth. Maybe we can sneak in another date between then and New Year’s?” My kiss is all the answer he needs on that, and I watch him walk down my front steps and out to his car.

Sigh. I turn around and look at Dumpling, who is preening on the couch as if he has done something to be proud of.

“You’re still on my list, buddy boy. And make no mistake. At this point, if you challenge that man, you just might lose.”

He looks at me as if to say, “Bring it.”

I take the platter over to the kitchen, and discover a card sitting on the counter. I open it. On the front is a picture of a heart and the words
From the bottom of mine
.