Читать книгу Dater's Handbook - Cara Lockwood - Страница 6

Two

“Schmointz? She’s seriously taking his last name?” my sister Nadia said as I sat with her and her husband Michael at Peter’s bar, Sportz, that night.

Michael sipped at his beer. “No hyphen?”

Nadia continued, amazed. “What kind of name is Schmointz, anyway?”

“An absolutely hilarious one,” Michael said and took another long swig. My brother-in-law had the driest sense of humor and happened to be one of the most patient men to ever live, which was why he tolerated my sister’s regular freakouts. Don’t get me wrong. Nadia is a wonderful, smart, and funny woman, but she’s also so Type A that she makes me look like a slacker. When we were kids, she refused to let me touch anything when we had tea parties. Everything had to be set up to her exact specifications, from the tiny plastic spoon to the miniature sugar bowl next to Mr. Giggles, the bear.

Little had changed now that she was married and staying at home with my four-year-old nephew, Jeremy. She was the kind of mom who spent hours reading every bit of developmental research she could get her hands on, fretting about everything that could go wrong—from GMOs to childhood cancer. Now that she and Michael were expecting Baby Number Two, I’d wondered if she’d loosen her grip a little bit, but so far, I hadn’t seen any signs. She even had a binder filled with possible baby names—boy, girl, and neutral, listed alphabetically—sitting on her dining room table at home.

“She was just so happy,” I said, glancing at my own beer in front of me at the narrow high-top table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that excited about anything. Ever. I didn’t even know people got that excited.”

“Of course, she’s excited. Marrying Schmointz is her fairy-tale dream,” said the woman who, before she had a binder for baby names, cherished her binder filled with bridal gowns and flower arrangements.

“It’s kind of like our wedding, right, honey?” Michael piped in. “A fairy tale. A dream.”

“Dream wasn’t the word.” Nadia sipped at her cranberry juice with a hint of soda water as she rested her hand on her now protruding belly. “More like…”

“Nightmare?” I offered.

“The word was nauseous,” Nadia said. “I tried to run…then I threw up.” She glanced at me.

“She’s not kidding, because I had to hold the veil,” I said. Ugh. That was a memory I’d rather soon forget. I’d been crammed into the tiny bathroom at the church, desperately trying to keep the tulle out of the line of fire.

“You’re such a good sister,” she said, and we exchanged a look. Oh, I know I am. Michael chuckled to himself into his beer, but that’s probably because even he had no idea how close he’d come to not marrying my sister that day. Nadia, the girl who’d dreamed of her wedding day her whole life, had suddenly gotten a horrible case of cold feet the very night before. I’d had to talk her out of running for the hills. Michael was a goofball, but he was a stand-up guy, and he loved my sister. And now look at her, happy—mostly—with baby number two on the way.

I’d done my good deed that day.

I glanced at the empty seat next to me and again wondered where Peter was. I knew he oversaw the bar and couldn’t spend the whole evening chatting with us, but he’d almost entirely ignored us since we came in. I’d gotten a quick wave and a hold-on-a-minute sign. That had been twenty minutes ago. I guessed they might be understaffed tonight. I didn’t see the usual number of waitresses. Peter always seemed to lose employees. People quit or just didn’t show up—one of the dangers of running a sports bar. I liked that Peter owned his own business. We bonded over being entrepreneurs. He understood the stress of meeting payroll and trying to find good employees. Besides, I thought he’d been smart to roll over his money from playing baseball for the Rockies into a place that could build him a stable financial future.

I had to admit I liked telling people I was dating a semi-famous person, even if “dating” might not have been the right word for it. Peter seemed fine with hanging with my sister and Michael—usually because they picked up the tab when they took us out to eat—but he’d yet to go deeper and meet my mom or my friends. Even after two years, I honestly couldn’t say if I was his standing Saturday night date or not. But I decided not to push it. I hated relationship talks.

I saw Peter near the kitchen doors now, holding a platter of wings and talking to a group of girls wearing Rockies shirts. I told myself he was only being a good bar owner, making sure his customers were having a good time. Yet, why did he linger so long at their table, near the girl with the low-cut shirt who seemed to be flipping her blonde hair constantly? Why didn’t he give any love to the high top of dudes right nearby? Peter must have felt me looking, because he eventually dragged himself away from the pretty blonde. He grinned as he headed to our table, carrying an oversized platter of wings.

“Oh, look. Here’s your boyfriend, bearing gifts,” Michael said, perking up at the sight of food.

Peter looked like the professional baseball player he used to be: tall and broad, with a killer smile and amazing blue eyes. He was part overgrown frat boy, part jock, and all confidence. Everything about Peter seemed beefy, from his thick, muscled shoulders to his extensively worked calves. I had to admit that watching him cross the bar wasn’t a bad way to spend the night.

“You guys have to try these,” Peter said, placing the tray on our high-top table. “Cilantro Sesame-Honey wings.”

I glanced at the sauce-covered chicken and frowned. I was allergic to honey. Peter knew this. I’d told him many times. Like when he tried to feed me honey-mustard sauce. That time he drizzled honey on my waffles. That other time he dumped honey in my chamomile tea when I was sick and I got, well…even sicker. Honey causes my tongue to swell and my throat to close up, and if I don’t get an EpiPen shot, then it’s a trip to the emergency room.

Nadia looked at the plate in front of us as if it was full of live bees.

Peter grinned at me, still not getting the message I was trying to silently drill into his brain. “And since I can’t hang with you because we’re shorthanded, they’re on the house.”

Michael grabbed one. “Well, you know I love free,” he said. Nadia, meanwhile, swiped the food from his hand.

I cleared my throat, but Peter just looked at me blankly. He seriously did not remember.

“You know I love wings,” I said and clutched his arm—his big, bulky, muscular arm. “But I can’t have them because…” I paused to give him time to catch up. I really didn’t want to have to finish my sentence and remind him of the honey allergy—again. Especially not in front of Nadia. She was already not all that impressed with Peter. She’d told me so.

But Peter just stared at me, blue eyes vacant. He wasn’t getting it. I continued. “Because of the…” Another pause, another blank stare from him. “The honey?”

I expected a burst of recognition, a sheepish apology. Yet still, he seemed befuddled. Okay, so I got that Peter wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but did he really not remember?

“Duh,” Nadia piped in, glaring as only my sister can. “She’s allergic?”

Michael took a second bite of his wing, happy to stay out of this awkward moment.

I studied Peter, who somehow still managed to look blank. Maybe blank was his resting face. Maybe blank was just what he was all the time. He really hadn’t remembered, not even after two years, not even after Nadia had flat out reminded him. And even now, as he glanced at the table, I knew he probably would forget again, too.

Normally, I liked the fact that Peter wasn’t too into my business, wasn’t too clingy or needy, but in this very moment, when he nearly fed me a food that could kill me, I thought maybe I needed to rethink that. If he couldn’t recall basic details about me—life-saving details—then did he really care about me at all?

We had a no-fuss, no-muss kind of relationship, but shouldn’t he know me well enough by now to avoid a trip to the ER?

Michael took a third bite of chicken wing then and coughed, his excitement about finishing the wing suddenly abating as the seasoning finally hit him. “Interesting…” he murmured, frowning. “Uh, yeah… They’re interesting.” Clearly, the cilantro-honey failed to impress. Peter, however, missed the tepid compliment and just beamed with pride.

“Yeah…interesting.” Nadia frowned at the wing in her hand and then dropped it, clearly uninterested in finishing.

“Tangy?” Michael offered, but also slowly set the food back on his plate. That meant the things had to be darn near inedible. Michael ate nearly everything.

Peter was always trying weird recipes he found online. He believed he might really have a knack for cooking, and I never had the heart to tell him that wasn’t his strong suit. Come to think of it, what was his strong suit? Having a strong jaw? A killer smile?

“So, here’s what I’m thinking about tomorrow, guys,” Peter said, clapping his hands in boyish excitement. “The college game starts at eleven tomorrow. We get some subs, gather round the big screen and—boom!—football marathon.”

“We are so in!” Michael declared, grinning. Nadia glared at him, giving his shin a nudge under the table.

“We have two birthday parties tomorrow,” she reminded him.

“We are so out,” Michael said, crestfallen.

I had to bite my tongue. I’d told Peter about Dana’s wedding tomorrow. Yes, he’d said he hated weddings, but I thought I’d maneuvered him to more of a “maybe, we’ll see” kind of place. But now it seemed as if he didn’t remember having a conversation about it at all. First, the honey, then totally spacing on Dana’s wedding?

“So?” Peter asked me.

“And…we have Dana’s wedding?” I quirked an eyebrow. Remember? That wedding you said, “maybe” you’d “think about”?

“You know how I feel about weddings.” Peter sighed. He shook his head slowly as if I was the one who’d dropped the ball.

Yes, but… You said, “Maybe.” You said, “Maybe it won’t be all that bad.” But before I could remind him of this little detail, Michael jumped in. “Wait. You’re not going to the wedding?” He studied Peter, amazed.

“I don’t do weddings.” Peter shook his head. Now I realized that all the maybes and we’ll sees were just polite ways of saying no. I hadn’t actually been changing his mind at all. He’d been determined to decline the invite the entire time.

“And you’re okay with that?” Michael stared at me now, blinking.

No, I’m not okay with that, I want to say.

“Yes,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I mean, I can’t ask him to miss the games. That are on every week. That would be selfish of me.”

Peter missed the sarcasm. He nodded his head, relieved. I used to think it was kind of cute that he missed sarcasm. But lately…even his muscled, broad shoulders and dimpled smile weren’t enough to distract me from his other shortcomings.

“Seriously?” Michael was aghast now, glancing back and forth between the two of us. “How do you get out of these things?”

I knew he was thinking about the two kids’ birthday parties he had to go to tomorrow. I was sure he would rather be watching college football.

“It’s easy.” Peter shrugged one meaty shoulder. “Weddings are boring to everyone except the two people getting married.”

I mean, sure, we’d both agreed that most weddings were a waste of time. If I really searched my feelings, deep down, did I want to spend a whole Saturday night watching Dana stare dreamily into the eyes of her Mr. Schmointz?

Uh, probably not.

But that wasn’t the point, really. I had to go. Dana wasn’t only my best employee, she was also one of my best friends. And Peter should do this for me because it was important.

Michael looked astounded. “Yeah, but…that’s what couples do. They do boring things together.”

I wasn’t sure if Nadia thought that was sweet, insulting, or both, but in any case, she stayed quiet. She studied me, and I could almost read her mind. Told you Peter’s the wrong guy for you.

“We do plenty of boring things together,” Peter admitted. “Just not weddings.”

“Or family functions,” I blurted. “Or work events. Or—”

“That’s because,” Peter said, cutting me off. “Whenever you go to those functions, everyone asks you ‘so when is it your turn?’ It’s so annoying, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, trying to be flippant, airy. “I’ve never heard anyone ask me that about us.”

Nadia arched an eyebrow at me from across the table, and in that small gesture lay a novel’s worth of commentary. I realized in that moment, that it was true. No one had ever asked me when I was going to take it “to the next step” with Peter. Most people just plastered neutral smiles on their faces when I even mentioned Peter—which, come to think of it, wasn’t that often. And the idea of actually taking the next step—whatever that might mean—with Peter… Well, did I even want to do that?

He grinned at me. “They don’t ask about us because we avoid those types of situations. See? It all works.” He clapped me on the back almost like I was a teammate, not his girlfriend. An uncomfortable silence descended on our little table, which Peter, of course, failed to notice. Peter glanced up and eyed the cute girls in the Rockies jerseys across the bar once more, but then his attention settled back on me.

“Hey, I’ll get you some more wings,” Peter said, backing away from our table. “Ah! But this time…no honey.” He aimed a finger gun at me, and I managed a weak smile.

“Ah! Now who’s thinking?” Michael piped in, pointing at Peter as if he’d just hit a home run. Once Peter ambled out of earshot, Michael leaned over the table to my sister. “Are they a couple or not?” he asked in the loudest whisper I’d ever heard.

“I’m right here,” I said, glancing down at the enormous plate of honey-doused wings at the center of the table. Well, on the bright side, I guessed Dana officially had her answer about my RSVP: no plus-one for me.