Regrets Only (2 page)

“Yeah,
you
seriously
don’t pay me enough for that one.”

“I
don’t pay me enough for that, either,” she said, and hung up. She kissed Rick
on the cheek and followed him to a table.

During
dinner, Rick talked about work while Suzanne toyed with her Cobb salad. From
what she could tell, he really seemed to love his job. A particular type of
personality was required to be successful in sales—bombastic, friendly,
guileless—and Rick fit the part. All this, along with a seemingly genuine
interest in every single word she said, had drawn her to him when they met a
couple of weeks before. He was such a gentleman that he had even pretended,
briefly, to be surprised when she suggested they go back to his hotel room just
a few hours after they met.

He
chatted easily now, telling stories about fishing trips and golf games with
clients between bites of an enormous burger.
Such kind, lively eyes,
she
thought.
And he’s mature. Not some self-absorbed kid.
Rick was
age-appropriate. He was focused. Down to earth. He was…

A
little loud, though, isn’t he?
Out
of the corner of her eye, Suzanne imagined she saw people at a nearby table
looking over at them.
You’re imagining things. Focus. What a cute face.
Remember those first kisses?

Rick
was describing a party he’d attended on a boat for some work function in Miami.
Something about a thirty-five-foot yacht and scoring a key nursing home account
over a game of poker.
Is that barbecue sauce on his chin? Should I let him
know?

Suzanne
fidgeted with her napkin and tried to ignore the sauce. She knew very well her
reputation as a serial dater. Her friends had teased her about it for years,
and she’d never taken it seriously. But lately the teasing felt more like
criticism. Like there was something
wrong
with her.

There’s
nothing wrong with me. I am perfectly capable of making a relationship work
long-term.
She
forked a cherry tomato and put it in her mouth.
Did he just say
‘irregardless’?

As
the yacht story wound to its apparently hilarious conclusion, she faked a brief
laugh, and Rick honed in. “So, how about you? I remember that you grew up here.
I’ve never asked—do you have family in town?”

“Yes,
my parents live in Peachtree City.”

“Isn’t
that where they have all the golf carts everywhere?”

“Yes.”                                                                   

“That’s
pretty cool. Are you close to your parents?”

“Define
‘close.’”

“Well,
uh, I guess, do you see them a lot?”

“Not
really.”

Clearly
this was a closed door, so the salesman changed tactics. “Well, at least
they’re nearby. My parents moved down to Florida a few years ago and I only see
them a couple of times a year. It’s a good thing Dad and I have an annual
fishing trip in the Keys. We go out on this great little boat…” And he was off
again. Suzanne watched his face as he talked. A little doughy, perhaps, but
with kind eyes. She imagined that being on the road all the time meant he
didn’t eat as well as he should. His dark brown hair was still full and thick,
in need of a trim—it curled up just a bit over his ears. Overall, she decided,
he was attractive but approachable.

 “That
sounds really nice,” she said at an appropriate pause in his monologue about
the fishing trip.
He does seem to have a thing about boats, doesn’t he?

Soon
Rick was boasting happily about a swordfish he and his dad had caught several
years before. Suzanne wondered whether she could ever successfully decorate a
room that included a six-foot mounted fish.
It would have to be a nautical
theme…

Stop
it,
she chided
herself.
You are not marrying this guy
or
his fish. We are having a grownup
conversation and being open to the possibility of something more. This is what
people in their thirties do on dates.

She
smiled broadly at him, remembering to show her teeth the way she’d been
instructed before beauty pageants as a child. She could almost taste the
Vaseline her mother made her rub on her top teeth to ensure they didn’t get
smudged with lipstick.
Smile. Be open.

Rick
returned the smile with warmth. He also seemed to notice he’d been talking
about himself for too long. “So tell me how you got started in the party
planning business.”

Suzanne
recounted briefly how she had been an art history major at the University of
Georgia, desperately wanted to work as a museum curator, and how she’d taken
the job on the event staff at the High Museum right after college. “Originally,
I hoped the foot in the door at the museum would land me a job in procurement
or something, but it never happened.”

“Oh,
I’m sorry,” Rick said sympathetically.

Suzanne
shrugged. It turned out she had a knack for event planning. Something about the
combination of creativity and crisis response. After a couple of years at the
High, she had been hired away by a large event planning agency. She stayed
there for a few years before creating her own boutique agency. Now she had one
of the most successful, prestigious agencies in the city. People were often
shocked to discover she and Chad were the only permanent staff. “We actually
won an award last year,” she told Rick.

“Sounds
like you are quite the little rock star in the event planning world,” he said. “Or
do you just plan events for rock stars?”

Normally
very discreet about her clients, Suzanne couldn’t resist the opportunity to
brag a little. “Actually, I am doing a benefit in a couple of weeks for Dylan Burke.
Of course, he’s more a
country
star…”

“Seriously?
I was kidding about the whole rock star thing.”

A
Southern lady is always modest
,
her mother’s voice chided her. “Well, it’s not that big of a deal,” Suzanne
hedged. “It’s at my old stomping grounds at the High, which is probably why I
got the job.”

“Don’t
sell yourself short,” Rick countered enthusiastically. “That’s awesome. He’s
totally famous.”

She
waved away the words with a manicured hand, but Rick was undeterred.
“Seriously, you should be really proud of yourself. That’s a huge deal.
Obviously you’ve earned quite a reputation for someone like Dylan Burke to
choose you.”

His
eyes held hers sincerely.
Okay, Rick, ease up. We’ve already slept together.
You can dial it down a tad.

“Really,
his manager chose me. I haven’t actually met him yet. We’ll see how it turns
out,” she said, and pretended to be engrossed in the highlights of spring
training on the TV over the bar. “How do you think the Braves will do this
year?”

#

A
few hours later, Suzanne awoke suddenly, unable to breathe. She gasped for air
in the darkness, desperately trying to move, to figure out where she was. There
was no light anywhere. Her chest tightened painfully, heart pounding, lips dry.
As she struggled to move, she heard Rick groan softly nearby and roll over,
releasing her from his grasp. She was in his hotel room, she remembered, and
relaxed a little. When his breathing was soft and steady she moved again to
slide out from between the crisp sheets.

I
can’t do it.

She
found the clock face down on the floor. Almost four a.m. She crept into the
bathroom and shut the door before finding the unpleasantly bright light. She splashed
water on her face and breathed deeply. After a few moments with her hands
steadying her against the sink, she looked in the mirror.
Jesus, I look like
crap.
Mascara was smeared beneath her eyes, her formerly perfect hair was a
rat’s nest behind her head, and the evening of cocktails had weathered her face
like a sailor’s. Suzanne looked and felt much older than thirty-three. She made
a mental note to have Chad schedule a facial before the benefit.

Silently,
she began gathering her things. The hotel room was pitch black, so she scrounged
in her purse for the tiny keychain light, shaped like a pig, which Marci had
given her years ago. The expensive pumps had been kicked off near the door. Skirt
and blouse were in a heap nearby. After a few moments of searching, she located
her bra hanging off the desk lampshade across from the bed. Her panties,
however, had gone completely missing.

She
covered the room with the tiny pig several times, freezing periodically when
she heard Rick shift or grunt in his sleep. Opening the blackout curtains a
fraction gave her enough light to shimmy into the rest of her clothes and make
one more sweep of the room. She kicked herself for wearing her favorite pair of
La Perla underwear, as they were about to become a casualty to an early-morning
getaway.

Sorry,
girls.

She
decided to add “Leave favorite underwear at home,” to her list of dating rules.
The rules were sort of Suzanne’s cross between Emily Post and Julia Roberts in
Pretty
Woman,
mostly resulting from her own bad experiences: Never bring a man
back your place. No emotional talk during sex. Never get naked with the lights on.
Always undress yourself. No dating guys with kids or dogs. No sex in cars. And
so on. She thought one day she could publish these rules and make a fortune.

She
closed the curtain and crept toward the door. She was nearly out of the room when
she lost her balance and bumped against the closet door. It rattled loudly.
Rick stirred behind her. “Suzanne? You okay?”

Damn.

“Yes,
I’m fine.” Her voice was sheepish despite her best efforts. “I just need to get
an early start today.”

“But,”
his voice in the darkness was slow and softened by sleep, “it’s Saturday.”

“Yeah,
I just have so much going on with this benefit; I really need to get home.
Thank you for dinner and…everything.”

She
waited as she heard him fumble for the lamp and got it turned on. “Um, sure.
You’re welcome?” he said, looking around, befuddled. In the sudden light, his
bare chest looked a little pudgier, and furrier, than she remembered. He ran
his hand through the thick brown hair standing up all over his head.

“Okay,
well…bye, Rick,” she said, as sweetly as she could. She turned back toward the
door.

“Wait,”
he said softly.

Please
don’t make an ass of yourself,
she willed him.
Please just hate me and let’s be done with it.

She
didn’t have to worry. As much as he liked her, Rick the Salesman knew a simple,
cardinal rule of all relationships: never beg. He simply asked the exact
question to which he wanted the answer. “This is ending right now, isn’t it?”

Suzanne
noticed that there was neither hope nor despair in his tone. Obviously, he
genuinely liked her, and yet the question only sought to confirm, rather than
to convince or retaliate. She hesitated only for a split second. “Yes.”

She
hovered there momentarily, waiting for the usual barrage of questions or
arguments to commence, but Rick just nodded slowly and said, “I’m sorry to hear
that. It really was very nice to meet you, Suzanne.”

Her
face flushed. The stark contrast between this courteous ending and last night’s
very primitive activities embarrassed her, as did standing in her professional clothes
and heels with no underwear. “You, too, Rick. Take care, okay?”

She
hurried out, made her way down the stairs, and exited the side door. She had
the phone number to the cab company on speed dial.

 
“You look awful,” Chad said when
she got to the office Monday morning, handing her a cinnamon latte. He was
right. She’d barely slept all weekend.

“Thanks,”
she replied. “I would say the same for you but I have to say you actually look
great in jeans. I didn’t know you owned any.”

He
pretended to be offended. “Hey, just because I don’t dress like a homeless
person every day doesn’t mean I can’t pull off casual when it’s appropriate.
You just never get to see me on my days off. Except
today
.”

The
snarl was tiny but hard to miss. Typically their office was not open on
Mondays, because the nature of event planning required them to work so many
weekends. But the gala was coming up in two weeks, and Chad had been bribed
with the promise of a week’s paid vacation and several free dinners to work
three Mondays in a row in preparation. It was a raw deal for Suzanne and she
knew it, but Chad was indispensable to her and the thought of his being unhappy
was more than she could handle. She considered it an investment in her own
sanity.

“Thank
you again. Your sacrifice has been duly noted.”

Chad
gave her a tight smile and walked deliberately to his desk, about ten feet away
from hers. They worked in a converted studio loft space in West Midtown, with
floor-to-ceiling windows, brightly painted exposed pipes, and old red brick
along the outside walls from the building’s days as a textile mill. Normally
neat as a pin, today the office was cluttered with event paraphernalia. Two
hundred goodie baskets with tiny guitars hot-glued to ribbons hanging from the
top. Silent auction items ranging from original artwork to an autographed pair
of boots. Piles of pop culture magazines and music industry trade publications
from which Suzanne and Chad had tried to glean everything possible about Dylan
Burke before the benefit.