Second First Impressions Page 15

I haven’t been kissed in years, and those were largely tongueless. I don’t remember how to, but Teddy does. We are suspended in this buoyant moment, knees touching. Then it’s like he remembers something, blinking out of the building haze. Now we’re floating a respectable distance apart.

  To cover up the weird mix of disappointment and relief I’m feeling, I say, “I know you just want to defend your couch and cheddar territory.” I’m getting fatigued and am sinking down to my chin in the water.

  “According to your own Week 1 worksheet, which I photocopied and is now in the back pocket of my jeans, your dream guy is nothing like me. You want someone who’ll stick around. Mature, generous, principled.”

  His fist is solemnly offered to me; I don’t check which hand it is. I just rub the knuckles like a comfort. “You didn’t have to make an ass of yourself just now, but it made their day. You just made a difference to a lot of people.” I watch him turn over my words. “You’ve been interested in what goes on inside my head, and that means more than I can say.”

  “What’s going on here?” Renata bawls from the sideline. “What did I talk to you about, at length, Theodore Prescott?” She gets to her feet and walks to the edge. I stare at the wet tiles beneath her feet with my heart even further up my throat.

  Teddy looks back into my eyes. “Don’t seduce Ruthie if I don’t plan on sticking around, because she’s a tender treasure that must be protected at all costs.”

  Renata barks: “Correct. And what are you doing right now?”

  “I’m explaining to her that I’m not her type,” he says easily as he strokes through the water, away from me.

  “Damn right. Get out of the pool. Now.” Renata says it in a voice that cannot be disobeyed, and just like that, Teddy’s up the ladder, leaving me to eventually climb up myself. Out of that cold water, on dry land, I sweat and shiver for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  You did good,” Melanie says with her head inside my closet. “Your first worksheet was excellent. You were really honest about your dream man.”

  (Was I, though?)

  “Thanks, Mel. And yours looks good too.” I am sitting on my bed, reading her version of the worksheet: the dream job edition. “I think what I’m seeing here is that you don’t like any job where the days are the same.”

  “Yeah. It makes me start to feel like I’m decaying.” She tosses a handful of clothes on the bed, still on their hangers. “But don’t try to distract me. We’re talking about you. Bring on the Sasaki Method, Week 2.”

  My swimsuit is on a hanger from the curtain rail. It’s been dry for three days now, but I haven’t put it away because it’s a reminder that what happened between Teddy and me was real.

  I changed when I jumped in that pool. I got younger.

  I’ve soaked myself in something that has made my skin sensitive. I’ve been breathless ever since we swam in the same water and he told me words like sublime, sizzle, magnetic. I need to walk around naked for a few minutes to recalibrate myself, but the moment I even touch a button or zip, he’s knocking on my front door, asking to borrow something.

  A knife, fork, plate, and frying pan have all gone next door. After dinner, he appropriates a squirt of washing-up detergent. He leans in my doorway drying my things with my dishcloth, telling me about the ridiculous tasks he performed for Renata, and I can’t stop staring at the toes of his boots on the threshold to my apartment. He’s creating a boundary for us. The fact that he sees a need to? I get a delicious shiver in my stomach.

  Without thought I tell Melanie, “Teddy’s made me doubt this whole project.”

  “Did you just tell me to my face that Teddy Prescott is making you doubt me and my Method?” Melanie throws a tweed blazer onto the bed with violence. “You’re going to take advice from a man-child like him?”

  I am compelled to defend him. “That’s harsh.”

  “It’s accurate.” She holds up a blouse and makes a face. “Remember, he’s a test. You need to stay strong and resist the urge.”

  “There’s no urge,” I begin to lie, but she holds up a hand.

  “My mother says in any relationship, there’s an adorer and an adoree. One who loves, and the one who is loved. You’ll need to know which one you are.”

  “Adorer. Adore-ee.” I sound out the unfamiliar made-up word. I think of my mom and dad. That’s pretty clear-cut. He doesn’t even buy her a birthday present; she bakes him a triple-layered cake. “Give and take.”

  “Exactly. Theodore Prescott is permanently on the hunt for an adorer. And he will take all the adoration until you have no more. Then, like a big old honeybee, off he’ll go, buzz, buzz, buzz . . .”

  Teddy’d probably agree, but I wish she’d stop. “Just warning you, if he’s home, he can hear you through the wall. He says bless-you when I sneeze.”

  Melanie makes a dismissive sound like pfffft. “If he were home, he’d be here right now, lying on your bed with his head on your knee, trying to get you to notice how good-looking he is.” She considers what she just said. “He lives to make you laugh. That’s a direct quote.”

  I’m desperate to talk through this situation with someone. Is this my segue? “I wonder if he means the things he says to me.”

  Like a karate instructor, Mel barks: “Who cares. He’s not your type.”

  So I’ve been told, by the man himself. “Is he . . . your type?”

  (I mean, come on. He’s everyone’s type. Except mine, apparently.)

  She considers it briefly, and I feel like something important is hanging in the balance. If Melanie decides she wants him, I will have to . . . I don’t know what, exactly. Step aside? But I’m not standing in her way. I’ll have to go dig a hole with my bare hands under Renata’s lemon tree and attempt to bury this dazzle, two feet deep.

  And I would do it, despite how much it would hurt. But only for Mel.

  She shakes her head. “I mean, he’s gorgeous, but the moment I met him I knew there’s only room in my world for one gorgeous high-maintenance princess. And that’s me. I’m looking for an adorer.” She runs her fingers through her ponytail. “We’d have too much resentment between us. Hey, what’s that ugly old bike parked out in the courtyard? I can’t imagine he’d be caught dead on that.”

  “Don’t let him hear you talk like that. He calls it the Dream Girl.” Jealous of a motorbike: an unexpected personal low. “He got it out of storage. It’s a 1939 Indian he inherited from his grandpa. They restored it together before he died, but Teddy needs to fix a few things on it. I’m pretty sure if it starts raining he’ll bring it into his living room.” I check the weather app.

  He’s working on it because he said he needs to keep busy at night. To keep himself out of my cottage. Said to my face so honestly, with a gleam in his eye.

  “You sure do seem to know everything about him,” Melanie remarks as she continues to judge all my clothes. The evaluation can be summarized as: nope, yuck, granny, hmm, maybe, why.

  “He tells me everything.” I am thinking over what she said. “You really think he’s high maintenance? In terms of his needs, they’re pretty basic. Just laugh at his jokes, make a lot of eye contact when he’s telling you stories, and let him eat that container of leftover pasta in your fridge.”

  “Spoken like a true adorer.” Melanie smells the armpit of my winter coat, like that’s a normal thing to do. She checks the care label and the coat is put on the bed. “Don’t let him take too much from you. He’s shameless.”

  “He borrowed a drop of olive oil last night. I have no idea how I’m getting that back.” I’m beginning to think life would be easier if I left my front door unlocked. “But he gives me things, too, all the time.”

  Flat, she challenges: “Like what.”

  Melanie will be hard to impress with any of the ephemera that Teddy presents me with. He picks me dahlias from the bank of the lake. Sure, I planted them so they’re sort of mine already, but he doesn’t know that. He drew red lipstick hearts
on my rehab tortoises. He swept the leaves from the courtyard. Gingersnap cookies, still warm from the Parlonis’ oven.

  My favorites have been the little artworks he’s created for me on the backs of receipts and menus. In the blank space in between Hawaiian Supreme and Mega Meatlovers, he drew a girl in a bathtub. I’m gonna design you the perfect tattoo, it’s just taking a while.

  He’s a beautiful black cat, dropping feathers and ivy leaves on my doormat. He’s given me nothing but kindness, friendship, and the diamond sparkles in his tortoiseshell eyes. In my tiny universe, he’s showered me in riches.

  “Still waiting to hear one single thing he’s given you. Something that cost money in a store.” When I hesitate, Melanie throws her hands in the air. “Ruthie, this is why I worry about you. You’re too charitable, and he’s going to be gone sooner than we think.”

  My stomach dips unhappily. “Did he say something?”

  “No, but we know by now he lands on his feet. Knowing him, he’ll find the exact money to buy into the tattoo studio on the street in a paper bag.” Melanie opens my underwear drawer. Then closes it with a rueful headshake. “I need you to not get your feelings hurt by him, Ruthie. Don’t forget, his family’s company might be coming for this place, and he won’t do a thing to help.”

  Anxiety spikes in me. “We don’t know that PDC is going to be trouble.”

  “I read that binder of boring media printouts about PDC you gave me ages ago. I also found an interview with Jerry online. He was talking about that life is change crap he gave us in the first meeting. I thought he was just giving us an old-white-boss pep talk, but he really believes it. They don’t buy sites and keep them the same.”

  To keep calm, I pick up a silk blouse off the bed and fold it carefully on my lap. “Providence is special, though, and it’s managed perfectly. They’ll see.”

  “I’ve worked a lot of places and the writing is on the wall. This place is going to change. You might get evicted. Teddy will be gone, and so will I. I mean, I’ll only be a phone call away, and we’ll still hang out. But I need to make sure you’re going to be okay. Because I am your adorer.”

  In my tiny universe, I have never been this lucky.

  Before I realize it, I’ve put my head down and I’m praying. The old reflex comes usually at selfish times—Please God, let me get a good parking space. But now I’m moved out of gratitude. For the first time in years, I’m thanking God for bringing these two people to me. I don’t care that one day I will be sad. I have so much.

  The silk shirt on my lap has a few hot wet dots on it now.

  “According to your worksheet, you want someone strong and mature. Someone to show up for you and to support you when things get hard.” Mel takes the folded silk shirt away from me, patting the tears. “It’s your turn to get taken care of now. You deserve it.”

  With an emotion-thick voice I manage to say, “Maybe you should study to become a therapist.” I make a note on her worksheet.

  “Add it to my list of possibilities.” She hums around for a few minutes until she seems to have finished in my wardrobe. “Okay. So this is the keep category.” Just as I melt with relief—the pile on the bed is huge—she points backward at the tiny capsule collection that remains hanging in my closet.

  “Mel, are you telling me that I cannot keep all my stuff?” Each has a memory attached; a moment of triumph when I found each on the thrift store rack. “This is a pure silk shirt. It had its tags.”

  She doesn’t remotely care. “It’s all going back where you found it. Everything here is just . . . old. These browns and yellowy-creams are not your colors. No offense.”

  I do take offense at the way she lifts the waistband of a wool skirt on one finger like disgusting seaweed. “I don’t get paid enough to replace an entire wardrobe in one day. I can say that everything on this bed was a good purchase.”

  “You don’t even own jeans, do you? You can wear this tonight”—she unhooks a black funeral dress out of the wardrobe and holds it up—“for your second-week activity.” With ceremony, she takes a sheet out of her folder. Then she withholds it.

  “Teddy tried to get an early look at the full Sasaki Method. I caught him trying to log into my computer. He played the son-of-the-boss card. It was so undignified.” She pulls a face at the memory. “He was all sweaty, trying to work out what we’re going to do next.”

  “That reminds me. I know he got a copy of my first worksheet from you.”

  “I truly don’t know how that happened. He asked to read it, I told him to get lost. Then there was a giant Snickers in front of me. Then he was gone. I’m slightly sure he’s a wizard or a vampire.” She shakes herself out of the memory fog with some difficulty. Poor kid.

  “I’m sure he came and saw you midafternoon, too, right when you’re weakest. He’s hard to resist.”

  “But you do.” She considers that. “It’s why he can’t stop hounding you. He’s never had a challenge before. From now on, let’s get secretive so he doesn’t sabotage everything.”

  I scan through the new Week 2 worksheet, which is largely blank, with lines added for writing. I look up at her. I’m not sure I completely understand the point of this. “All I have to do is go sit somewhere by myself for an hour and fill this out?”

  “A place where people your age hang out. That’s it. And while you’re there, you’re going to write about who Ruthie Midona is. I want you on a page. On dates, you need to be able to describe yourself quickly and positively. Like a job interview.”

  “You haven’t organized some sort of surprise, have you? Is a male stripper going to come up to me?”

  She laughs until she has to wipe her eyes. “I’ll save that for Week 3.”

  “Sit by myself and fill out a worksheet.” I ponder this. I don’t know where I’ll go. “Am I actually this sad?”

  “You’re not sad. You’ve got anxiety issues about leaving Providence and you’re a door locker. Yes, I’ve noticed, and no, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You like checklists and lists, so I thought this way would distract you. But being alone and off-site will be enough of a push outside your comfort zone. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I know you can do it.”

  She’s really firm about this, holding my gaze, and I get that same rush of relief when I received my first worksheet. She’s tailored it to my abilities with such care. “I’m really grateful you’re taking the time—” I try to begin to describe my feelings, but she just waves her hands like my words are smoke.

  “Don’t forget, you’re helping me back. What should I do?” She takes out a second copy of the worksheet and hands it to me.

  I take a pen and amend the paragraph of instructions slightly. “I’d like to read about what you want your life to look like in ten years. I think maybe if we know where you want to end up, we can start to work backward.”

  “Ten years,” she marvels. “I’ll be thirty-two. Ancient.” She hasn’t looked around Providence lately if she thinks that.

  “Put thought into where you want to live, what kind of house you have, whether you work full-time, part-time. Pretend that you’re in an interview session in ten years, and they ask you about yourself.”

  She nods and puts the sheet away carefully. As she gathers up her things to leave, she says, “I’m going to give you a spoiler for next week. We’re going clothes shopping at the thrift store, so put that in your diary for next Friday night. We are picking out some things that are more age-appropriate. Start to bag these up, okay? No cheating.”

  She turns and takes a photo of what remains. She counts the hangers. Nothing gets past her.

  “No cheating. I promise.” I am completely indoctrinated into her Sasaki Method cult.

  “I’ll have a draft of your new dating profile ready by Monday, so buckle up, buttercup. We are going to push the button on that, and we’ll be off to the races.” Over her shoulder she says, “And for the love of God, buy some new underwear.”

  Off she goes and I’m
struck by how she has a bounce in her step. I think Melanie innately knows what Teddy told me: Walk around like you’re the shit. Feel beautiful. Be sure of it. I can only dream of being as young as Melanie Sasaki.

  But with her on my side, maybe I can get back to twenty-five again. She has put so much effort into helping me, more than anyone ever has. I owe it to her to apply myself to this process of self-discovery. There’s no way she wouldn’t be warning me so strongly off Teddy if it wasn’t a total disaster on my horizon.

  I go back inside, pick up her completed career worksheet, and begin to research careers to make a short list for her, so I have some hope of repaying her kindness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  This building has a chalkboard sign by the door that has a hand-drawn picture of a plate. Stacked on top is a mess of chalk lines, some curved macaroni bits, and a protruding and phallic hot dog. Above it, in bold letters is: COME AND TRY OUR FRANKENFRIES.

  It took me just over an hour to make it to Memory Lanes Bowling Alley. That sounds bad when you learn that the bowling alley is a sedate seven-minute drive from Providence, but my hatchback was surprised to see me and slow to start.

  Then I had to dash back up to check my cottage door. Then I sat in my running car and approved some new forum members. I listened to a five-minute meditation. I left and drove back (twice). But I’m here now, and I consider this evening to be a victory.

  I get a text from Teddy: Where r u? I’m lonely. I suspect he is hungry. Before I can reply, he begins compulsively texting, and the following are received in the space of a minute:

  My 1939 Dream Girl won’t talk to me

  I am forming a search party with hounds

  Your little Turtle Mobile is gone

  Are you on a date????

  Drowning myself immediately in my bathtub

  Update—drowning in YOUR bathtub, I like it better

  I’m laughing in my car like a dweeb. What was his original question? Where am I? I’m lonely for him, too. Before he can do anything rash, I reply: I’m out doing my homework. I send him a photo of the chalkboard.