“Oh, have you already seen them?” I ask.
“I own Jerry Maguire, but I’ve never seen About a Boy. Should I pour us some wine?” he asks, taking the bottle from my hands.
“That’d be nice,” I say.
He goes over to the kitchen, a sprawling alcove with a gorgeous granite-topped island and grill-top stove. There’s a small wineglass rack, which holds a dozen or so glasses, hanging from the ceiling. Brady gets a corkscrew out of the drawer and then grabs two glasses from the rack. He proceeds to uncork the bottle of Chianti.
“Dinner smells wonderful,” I say. “What are we having?”
“Hazelnut pesto lasagna,” he says, “with salad and some bruschetta pomodoro to start.”
I blink in surprise. “You know how to cook all that?”
“Si,” he says, bowing playfully. “Well, I made the bruschetta and the salad,” he admits. “The lasagna’s from Masetti’s. I am a master when it comes to ordering in.” He takes a small dish of gourmet pitted olives out of the fridge. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Why don’t we sit and relax?”
I follow him over to the living room. He sets down the olives on the coffee table and sits on the couch; I ease down on the opposite end, leaving one couch cushion between us.
“So, how have you been lately?” I ask.
“Busy. As soon as school let out, I flew to Scottsdale.”
“You said you were out there on legal business?” I say, picking up an olive.
He nods. “There were some concerns over my dad’s will.”
“You’re licensed to practice in Arizona?” I’m amazed.
“No.” Brady laughs. “But my mother wanted me to look over the paperwork anyway, to make sure the attorney wasn’t ‘screwing her over.’ ”
“Lawyers have a reputation for doing that kind of thing, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair. “I want to hear about your job. What’s it like being a Web designer? Do you use Dreamweaver and Adobe GoLive? Have you done any sites I might have seen?”
“Uh, I’m not that involved with the design end of things,” I say, feeling my skin flush pink. “My job mainly consists of writing promotional copy,” I clarify, “the text you see on websites.” Why can’t I just tell him the truth? I curse myself for not having the courage to be honest. The closer I get to it, the harder it is for me to be myself. I want to pull away, to hide. Anything to avoid being hurt, anything to maintain control.
“So, you’re a writer,” he says, leaning forward and picking up an olive.
“Not exactly. I mean, I write a lot of letters.” I feel my face flame up. What am I doing? I might as well just come right out and tell him about the Dear Brady note.
“Letters?” He looks confused.
“Uh, yeah. You know . . . letters of the alphabet. A, B, C, D. All the usual suspects.”
It’s a lame joke, a poor attempt to save face, and it falls flat. “It’s more like advertising. I have to be really flattering toward the client,” I improvise.
He chews on the olive for a minute and then swallows. “So you get a chance to be creative. And there’s lots of variety, which I bet is nice.”
I nod. “It has its moments.”
“What did you study in college?” Brady asks.
“I’ve got a journalism degree from the University of Massachusetts and a master’s in communications from Tulane. What about you? Where’d you go to law school?”
Brady finishes his glass of wine and pours himself a fresh one before answering. “Harvard.”
Brady went to Harvard Law? “Very impressive!”
He shrugs. “I had every intention of becoming an English teacher when I graduated from college. That was always my passion.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father was dead set against it,” he answers, looking uncomfortable. “He thought I was throwing my life away. . . .” His voice trails off and he shifts positions on the couch.
“So instead you went to Harvard Law?” I ask, trying to draw him out.
“Yeah.” He looks me in the eyes. “And for a long time, I thought I’d made the right decision. From the outside, my life seemed perfect. But when you fool yourself into taking the wrong path, eventually you reach a point where nothing in life makes sense anymore. You can’t keep up the act. I just didn’t want to do it anymore.”
“Was it hard leaving your law practice?”
“It was the best day of my life. The hard part was finding a teaching job. There aren’t a lot of openings in late April. That’s why I wound up at Addington. Private schools have more leeway on when they can bring in new staff.”
“It wasn’t your first choice?” I ask, surprised.
“I’d prefer to teach public school. I think there’s more potential to make an impact. I’ll start looking to move in a year or two.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.” He leans across the couch and quickly squeezes my hand. I feel a small rush. “Tell me about your hobbies.”
“Making things,” I tell him. “Like homemade cards and gifts.” Also known as breakup letters and recovery kits.
“Really?” Brady asks, interested.
I nod. “I made this terrific card in Quark for my best friend, Krista, not too long ago. On the front cover it said: “Good luck meeting your Internet boyfriend!” Then, inside were three clip-art pictures: a scary guy holding a meat cleaver, a dorky scientist with huge glasses, and an enormous beer-bellied trucker. I wrote: “Here’s hoping he’s not a psycho, a nerd, or ‘a little out of shape.’”
Brady smiles. “So how’d the date turn out?”
“It didn’t. He never showed up.”
Brady sets down his wineglass on the coffee table. “That’s probably a good thing. Who knows? He might have matched the description in your card to a tee.” He rises from the couch. “Let me check on dinner.”
I stand up and stretch as he heads over to the kitchen and begins tinkering around in the oven. I feel comfortable, relaxed. Brady’s “dining room” is actually a small table in the far corner of the loft. He’s already set it with nice dinnerware and a few candles.
“This looks about ready. Have a seat, Dani. I’ll bring everything over.”
“You want some help?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re the guest,” he says. “I’ll wait on you.”
A modern man. I like it. I arrange myself in one of the chairs. A few minutes later, Brady comes over with a platter of bruschetta topped with tomatoes. He shuffles back and forth to the kitchen, bringing in the large salad bowl, a basket of bread, and then, finally, the hazelnut pesto lasagna. I’ve never had pesto lasagna before; it smells divine.
Brady sits down across from me. “I hope it’s good!” he says.
I sample the hazelnut pesto lasagna. “It’s fabulous,” I say, and he beams. “I love your apartment, too,” I add. “How long have you lived here?”
“I bought this place a year ago,” he says, spearing a forkful of salad. “I love the area.”
The conversation shifts to architecture, and then to art. Brady’s not afraid to share his opinions, but he’s open to new ideas as well. By the time we’ve finished dinner, coffee, and dessert—tiramisu from a local bakery—we’ve bantered about everything from European travel to shopping to politics. We’ve just begun a discussion about movies when Brady says, “Speaking of which, maybe we ought to put on one of the DVDs? It’s getting late.”
I glance at my watch. “I can’t believe it’s already ten-forty-five!”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.” Brady smiles and begins clearing the table.
I pick up our empty coffee mugs and follow him to the kitchen. “Which one do you want to watch?” I ask, setting the dishes in the sink.
“Since I’ve seen Jerry Maguire fifteen times, why don’t we go with About a Boy?”
“Works for me.”
“It’s based on a Nick Hornby bo
ok, isn’t it? You helped me pick out High Fidelity when we first met. I really loved it.”
Brady and I settle down on the couch to watch About a Boy. He sits closer to me this time, with one cheek on the middle cushion. About a Boy turns out to be a good choice. Brady laughs at all the right places, gets all the same jokes I do.
When I leave that night, around one in the morning, Brady walks me downstairs to my car. As we stroll through the apartment’s parking garage, he tells me what a wonderful time he’s had and thanks me for coming over. “Or, should I say grazie?”
“Ah, yes,” I say. “I almost forgot you’re fluent in Italian.”
He laughs. “I know ten words. That’s hardly fluent.”
“So what are they?” I ask. “That P.S. in your last e-mail got me wondering.”
Brady blushes. “It seemed clever at the time. Now I feel kind of funny telling you.”
“You told me about Koogan,” I say playfully. “You can tell me anything.”
He smiles shyly at me. “One of the Italian phrases I know is La donna è bella. It means ‘The girl is beautiful.’ I was going to say that about you.”
I don’t respond for a minute. I’m speechless, breathless, and he takes it the wrong way.
“I hope that doesn’t sound like some cheesy line. I didn’t mean it that way!”
It’s not every day a man tells me I’m beautiful, and in Italian, no less. I feel my face flush with pleasure. I wish I knew some kick-ass Italian phrase I could use to impress him. “Thanks, that’s sweet,” I say, embarrassed.
“We’ll do this again soon,” he promises, handing me the DVDs as I unlock the driver’s-side door. I get in the car and strap on my seatbelt.
“Take care, Dani,” Brady says as I shut the door and place the key in the ignition. I start my car and drive out onto the street, waving at him as I go, a huge, goofy grin on my face.
28
You Were Just Being Honest
“What’s the verdict? Are you and Sean giving up the fight?” Krista asks the next morning over a prework breakfast at De-Salle’s Diner. I take a sip of orange juice. She dumps a few packets of Equal into her coffee.
I sigh. “There is no fight. We’ve already lost the battle and the war.”
“So you aren’t going to try to reunite them?”
I shrug. “How are things going with Jason?” I ask to change the subject.
“Jason talks about Lucy. A lot,” Krista says. “We get into these long, drawn-out conversations about her. Everything from where Lucy was born—Topeka, Kansas—to what kind of toothpaste she prefers—Aquafresh. I know Lucy Dooley better than I know some of my closest friends.”
“Everyone talks about their exes. It’s normal. It’s part of the healing process.”
“Does Brady do it?” She sips her drink.
“Well, no. He thinks I’m friends with Erin. He doesn’t want to badmouth her.”
“But wouldn’t that make him more likely to talk to you about her? Wouldn’t he be concerned with what she’s told you about him?”
A great point. Why isn’t Brady trying to pump me for info about Erin?
“Are you guys going for a round two?” Krista asks.
“He said he’d call.” I sigh again, and shove a bite of omelet into my mouth.
“For the love of God, Dani,” Krista says, shaking her fork at me, “join the twenty-first century and call the guy first!”
“I guess I could,” I hedge. “I’m just afraid of coming off as too eager.”
“No, you’re afraid of taking a chance, afraid of putting your feelings on the line.”
“You really think?”
“Yes, I do.” She sets down her knife and fork. “Dani, ever since you and Garrett broke up last year, you haven’t been the same. You rushed to move on, you laughed off what he did as a joke. But it’s changed you.”
I don’t say anything. Of course it’s changed me! It’s impossible to get your heart smashed into pieces by someone you love and stay the same person you were before.
“You and Garrett were engaged,” Krista continues. “He left you for a waitress. He treated your relationship like a joke.”
Engaged. I never think about that part. I block it out, push it to the back of my mind. It’s the part of the story I never share. “I didn’t have a ring,” I argue.
“It was at the jeweler’s being resized when he left,” she reminds me.
Remembering this fact makes me feel bitter all over again. I didn’t get the ring, but I desperately wanted it. I’m not sure what I would have done with it. Pawnshop? Garbage disposal? Hawk it on eBay? I didn’t hold on to anything else from our relationship. I threw out all the mementos: the photos, the CDs he’d pinched from WBCN, the presents he’d given me on Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries. I went through such a horrific time when he left me. But I worked through it, dealt with it. I never tell people this, but Garrett’s the reason I started working at Your Big Break Inc. I read about the company after he dumped me. And I saw an opportunity, a chance to make sure no one else was ever blindsided the way I was.
I take another sip of orange juice and try to steady my nerves.
I think of all the lies I’ve told since I’ve taken this job. When you lie, you distance yourself from other people. You create walls. Why haven’t I just come clean? To my parents about my job? Or to Brady, about Erin? Would it really be that difficult?
“I’ve got to get to the office soon,” Krista says, glancing at her watch. “Give me a call later if you need to talk.”
I don’t respond.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” she says gently. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “You were just being honest.”
“Hi Dani, this is your dad. I was wondering if you’d like to come over for a Fourth of July cookout Monday night. I’ll make my world-famous burgers with bread crumbs. Your brother’s working late that night, so he can’t make it. But I’d really love for you to be here. Call me back and let me know either way.”
And then he leaves his phone number on my answering machine, as though I don’t have it. As though I haven’t dialed his cell a thousand times. I can’t believe he’s called me. It’s been a long day at work, and I don’t want to speak to him—not yet.
But he’s making the effort to reach out to me.
And I know I have to meet him halfway. I could avoid my parents indefinitely. Or I could face this situation head-on. It’s better to get this over with, I reason. Just like ripping off a Band-Aid. Isn’t that what I always tell my clients? I pull my cell phone out of my purse and text Dad a short, two-word message: I’ll go. Then I decide to get in touch with Brady and see if he wants to go out again. Krista’s right, I can’t just sit around and wait for him to call. I hop online and compose a brief message.
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, June 30, 6:42 p.m.
Subject: thanks
Brady,
What’s Italian for “I had a great time last night and hope we can do it again soon”? Seriously, I did have a great time—no, make that an amazing time. And I do hope we can get do it again soon.
Dani
A few hours later, he writes back.
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, June 30, 9:51 p.m.
Subject: RE: thanks
Dani,
I’ll have to check my Italian/English dictionary and get back to you. My language skills are pretty limited to hi, bye, and “Can I have another slice of pizza?” Plus that thing I said the other night. . . . Speaking of the other night, I had a great time, too! And I’d love to see you again. Name the time and place and I’m there. ~Brady
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, June 30, 10:22 p.m.
> Subject: How about next weekend?
I’m working Saturday, but my schedule’s wide open next Sunday if you want to grab lunch or dinner.
Dani
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, June 30, 10:46 p.m.
Subject: RE: How about next weekend?
Dani,
Here’s what I’m thinking: you, me, and a picnic lunch in the Public Garden next Sunday at 1 p.m. I’ll bring the main course and side dishes (I make a mean turkey sandwich and an even meaner potato salad). You take care of drinks and dessert. You game? ~Brady
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, June 30, 11:01 p.m.
Subject: Picnic
I am so game.
Dani
29
Tired of your boring relationship?
Longing to wash that man or woman right out of your hair?
Then let us be your shampoo!
Call Your Big Break Inc. today—
We’ll dump that dead weight so you don’t have to!
I scroll the cursor across the screen, highlight, and hit delete. I could kick myself. It’s Friday morning, and I promised Craig I’d have this copy to him by the end of the day. I’ve had a week to write one measly paragraph for a flier, yet I’ve put it off until the last minute. Craig wants something “clever and cute.” All I have is “cheesy and convoluted.” I start humming that old Neil Sedaka classic, Breaking Up Is Hard to Do. It doesn’t inspire me. Writing about breaking up is even harder than doing—