He pauses. “Do I intimidate you?” He sounds sad about that.
I immediately feel bad. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean, before I got to know you, you might have been a little bit intimidating, but now that I know you, you’re not intimidating at all.”
He smiles. “I’m pretty sure that was supposed to make me feel better.”
I lean over and shove his shoulder. “Stop. You’re making me feel bad. You know what I meant.”
He’s a good sport and tips over, making it look like my shove actually had an effect on him. He’s smiling. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”
My face is getting warm again. I could keep messing around with him and turn this into a serious flirting session, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. I know he’s just being a nice guy like he is with everyone. My sister May really likes him, and now I can see why. He’s more than just a little bit adorable.
I search for a way to get back on track and away from this schoolgirl silliness that wants to overtake me. “You said that there were two reasons why you couldn’t really participate. What’s the second reason?”
He chews his food, his eyes roaming around the table, the room, and then over the boxes. He takes a moment to poke pepperonis falling from his pizza sandwich back inside. “I have responsibilities at home that are a little more involved than the other guys on the team.”
“Do any of them have kids?”
He shakes his head. “None of them are married either.”
“But you’re not married, right?” My heart squeezes in my chest a little as I wait for his answer. I don’t see a wedding ring on his finger, and he told me that his son’s mother left right after he was born, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t with someone. I guess I just assumed he wasn’t. I hope I’m not wrong about that. Not that this is a date.
“No, I’m not married. But having a young son is a lot of work.” He shrugs his shoulders, and there’s a hint of melancholy there.
I nod deeply, because I feel his pain. I feel it, I live it, and I breathe it. “I hear you. It’s like your work is never done. You work all day, and then you come home and there’s more work waiting for you. Even when the kids are sleeping, it still feels like it’s never going to end. I work until I collapse, every single night.”
He looks up at me. “I know, right?” He puts his pizza down and brushes his hands off over the box, then reaches over and grabs his soda and leans back on the couch, throwing his free arm over the cushions. He lifts his leg and rests his ankle on his opposite knee. “My son can be sound asleep, and I’ll be in my bed down the hall, and I swear, I hear when his breathing changes just the tiniest bit.”
I bounce up and down on the couch a little, excited to be talking to another parent about something I know only too well. “Same for me! It’s crazy. If I hear anything that sounds out of the ordinary, I spring up out of bed because I have to go check to see what it is. I don’t know what I’m expecting; it’s not like some kidnapper is going to crawl into my kid’s window on the second floor and snag her. Of course, I get there and find out it was just a change in her breathing pattern or whatever, or one of my son’s action figures has fallen out of his bed onto the floor.”
He laughs. “I check the locks on my son’s window twice before I go to bed. Every night. I’m so paranoid somebody’s going to try to get in there or he’s going to fall out.”
It feels so good to be sharing mutual parental paranoia with another person. “Ha! And here I thought I was the only one with OCD tendencies where my kids are concerned.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re not alone. Trust me.”
Neither of us says anything for a long time after that. The silence should probably be awkward, but it’s not. I’m just enjoying being in the same room with somebody who hears the whack-a-doodle things that I do and doesn’t think I’m whack-a-doodle for doing them.
“We should get our kids together someday.” I smile at him. “Our sons would probably bring the walls down and have a ball doing it.”
Dev’s reaction is not at all what I expect. Instead of nodding and smiling and saying that might be a lot of fun, his face falls and he turns back around to face the pizza boxes. Both of his feet go to the floor and he leans forward, putting his forearms on his knees. After about five seconds he leans over farther, flips up the top on another pizza box, and grabs another piece of pizza. “Yeah. Maybe. Someday.”
It’s like a knife has been shoved into my chest. Did I totally misread the situation? Did I overstep my boundaries somehow? Does he hate my kids without even meeting them? I replay the moment in my head, along with the moments before, trying to find out where I slipped up, but none of it makes sense. I don’t think I said anything rude. Is it just that he doesn’t want to get to know me any better? If that’s the case, what is he doing here having pizza and wine in my family room?
Instead of asking more questions and risking saying something even worse, I focus on finishing my crust. I keep my cup in front of my face, taking a sip after each bite in an effort to hide my expression. I’m afraid that too many of my feelings are showing.
“It’s too bad that you can’t do that freelance work for the team,” he says.
I blink a few times, realizing that he’s changing the subject and putting us back on the footing of being potential future coworkers. I don’t think a cold shower could’ve been more effective at calming whatever ardor might have been growing in my heart for him.
I put my cup and the pizza crust down on the table and stand. Brushing my hands off on my pants I look down at him. “You know what? I just realized I have a lot of work I need to get done.”
He looks up at me, his chewing slowing. He frowns a little but doesn’t answer right away.
I take a step toward my home office. “I’m just going to hook up my laptop while you gather your stuff together.” I gesture at the pizza boxes.
He nods. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Don’t mind me.”
I walk away toward the kitchen to retrieve my laptop, sad that something fell apart and I have no idea what the cause was, but glad to be getting back on regular footing again. Having a man in my house, sharing a meal with a cute guy . . . this is all too strange for me. I’m ready to get back to my normal, boring, lonely life, where my kids go away on rare weekends with their father and I catch up on work at home. I’m not even in the mood to pop popcorn and watch a chick flick anymore. This sucks.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I take my laptop into my home office, forcing myself not to glance at Dev still sitting in the family room as I walk by. I’m hoping he’ll take the hint, pack up his stuff, and leave. There’ve been too many awkward moments between us, and I’m worried that the longer he stays, the more I’m going to continue trying to find ulterior motives on his part for being here.
It’s a simple enough task to put my laptop down on the desk and plug in the cords that are waiting. I bring up the Internet and stare at a blank page. The search engine window is calling out to me, asking me what I want to do, where I want to go, and what I want to look for.
I’m trying to ignore the rustling sounds I hear in the other room, assuming it’s Dev getting the pizzas together so he can take them home. I should be happy that he’s following my instructions to leave, but I’m not. He’s such a nice guy, and he seems like a dedicated dad. Maybe even a good dad, a rare beast in my world. Like the amur leopard. One day I will do the dating thing again. It’s not going to happen with him, obviously, but it will happen. I don’t plan on dying an old maid.
The search window is staring at me. I could go on one of those dating websites. Check it out . . .
The minute the thought flows through my head, I can feel my face starting to burn. No, that would be silly. I’m not dating material right now. I’m too newly divorced. Too . . . mothery.
Instead, I go on one of the freelance sites I’ve heard about from my coworkers. Apparently I can put up a profile that lists
all my skills, and anybody looking for a freelancer like me could find me.
I go to the website for a look but all it does is depress me. I already have so much stuff I have to get done at my current company, I can hardly keep up. Sammy was sick last week, and I missed an entire day of work because the daycare wouldn’t take him, so now I have to do all the things that I missed in half the time. They run a very short-staffed operation there, so there’s no hope of anyone helping me out.
Nope, I can’t take more work onto my shoulders. My kids would never see me. Not that they’d mind, probably, because while the cat is away the mice definitely play in this house. The last time I left them to their own devices and tried to do some work at home, the girls covered Sammy in greasy diaper rash ointment and then topped it off with talcum powder. They said they wanted to make him look like a ghost to practice their Halloween costumes. He looked like a ghost for the entire two hours it took me to wash it all off of him. That stuff sticks like nobody’s business, and its base is fish oil, so our bathroom and a couple of our towels still smell like anchovies.
I’m always torn when I catch the kids doing things like this. I can’t decide if it’s sibling love and the girls inviting Sammy to be a part of their games, or sibling torture with him as the easiest victim. I’ve fallen back on the theory that if it were the more vicious type of play, Sammy would let me know, and he never seems to mind, so I don’t get too upset about it. Besides, they did do a really fantastic job of covering every square inch of his skin. If he decides he wants to go out on Halloween as a ghost, I’ve got the costume part covered.
That’s a whole other thing I have to deal with. Halloween is just weeks away, and the kids are already harassing me about costumes. I jump on my keyboard and do a quick search on Amazon for potential ideas. There are at least fifty pages of options, so I close the window down and take a breath. Maybe I could get them to go as the Three Stooges. It would fit my life pretty perfectly. I write on a little notepad next to my computer to remind myself to ask the kids what they want to be so I can get the costumes in time.
I put the pen down and, once again, find myself staring at my search engine window. Where do I want to go from here?
A door opens and closes somewhere out beyond my office, interrupting my train of thought. I’m sad that Dev is gone, but I can hardly complain, since I’m the one who asked him to leave. I totally and completely suck at interacting with the opposite sex.
I bite my lip as I stare at the computer. It’s nuts that a near stranger leaving my house makes me so sad. Crazy. I seriously need to get a life.
It’s that thought that sparks my inspiration. I could go on a dating website. It doesn’t mean that I’m actually going to look for a date. Browsing is not the same as being desperate for a man. I could just see what’s out there, right?
I do a quick search and click on the first service that pops up. I assume if they’re on the top of the search results, they’re either spending a lot of money to be there or they’re really popular. That means there will be a lot more candidates to choose from, and having a greater pool of candidates sounds like a good idea. I click the mouse around the site, trying to get to the meat market area. Time for Momma to go shopping for some prime beef. Wakka wakka.
Unfortunately, it won’t let me search for anyone unless I have a profile started. Knowing what I know about marketing and getting website users to engage, I’m not surprised. They want you to stick around, and in order to do that, they ask for a little commitment.
I shrug. What the heck? What’s the big deal? I can just put up a little profile. No harm in that. I don’t have to make it public so people can see it. I’ll just use it to do a little surfing.
I start the process by giving my name. They promise to only reveal the first initial of my last name. W. Then I get to the part where they ask for a credit card. I’m wary about putting my financial details anywhere online, because being a computer engineer puts me in the perfect position to know how easily that information can be accessed by the wrong people.
I could take the time to test the vulnerabilities of this site to hackers, but why bother? I have my own less-intrusive and less-illegal way of handling those turds. I’m using my special credit card—the one that has a minuscule credit limit, the one I use for all of my online purchases. If somebody gets the details of this card, they’re not going to get very far. They might enjoy a night out on the town at the dollar movie theater with a box of popcorn and a Coke if they’re lucky and I’ve paid it off recently.
Now that I’ve entered my information, I have full access. I’m being asked whether I’m looking for a man or woman, whether I’m a man or woman, the age of the person I’m interested in, and whether certain peccadilloes bother me, like smoking or being overweight.
I snort. So many choices. What the heck. I’m used to sizing a guy up with a glance and deciding whether he attracts me or not. I’m not sure there is a profile I could choose on here that would result in a list of men who’d definitely be my cup of tea. Shouldn’t personality figure in here somewhere?
I don’t know what I’m looking for other than, yes, a man. I scan my choices. Should I be a cougar? Should I look for somebody young, who wouldn’t mind playing with my kids because he’s a kid himself? That seems like a bad idea. The last thing I need is another child in my household. How about a guy my age? We could be at the same point in our lives. Maybe he’ll have kids like me. That could work. Or it could be complete and utter chaos that pushes me over the edge into insanity. Maybe I should go for an older man. A guy who’s already fixed financially. A guy who’s been there and done that, who can teach me the ways of the world. A guy who has high blood pressure and an AARP discount.
This whole process is already frustrating. I click over to the part of the site that allows me to put in my own profile, thinking maybe I’ll have more luck with that. Several boxes are presented to me, and all I have to do is click on the ones that describe me.
So far so good. I am a woman—click—and I am between thirty and thirty-five years old—click. Now the computer wants to know if I’m fit, if I’m athletic, or if I’ve gone a little soft around the middle.
Ack! This is horrible. Soft around the middle? I look down at my waist and then risk pinching the front of my belly. Egads! Soft? I might as well call myself Pudding Wexler! Why did I think this would be a good idea?
A noise in the doorway behind me makes me jump. I turn around, shocked to find Dev the giant standing there.
I speak before thinking. “I thought you’d left.”
“Oh.” He tilts his head in confusion. “Did you tell me to go? I must have missed that.”
I have to think about that for a second. “Well . . . I guess I didn’t specifically say it, but I did say that I had some work to do.” Now I feel terrible that I’m having to explain that I attempted to kick him out and he didn’t take the hint.
“Oh. Damn. Heh-heh. Awkward.” He reaches up and rubs his bald head.
“No, no, don’t worry about it.” On top of feeling bad about making him feel so embarrassed, now I’m not even sure I want him to go. “Stay if you want. Just . . . I’m . . . in the middle of something.”
He steps farther into the room. “What are you working on? Stuff for your regular job, or freelance work?”
I quickly minimize the dating site window. How embarrassing! He totally just caught me on a singles site, and I’m doing it right after having pizza with him. Will he think that he inspired this activity? I wish I were one of those turtles on Animal Planet. I’d pull my head into my shell and not come out until he was gone.
Unfortunately, I’m not a turtle and I have nowhere to go. “No. It’s neither of those things.” I want to roll my eyes up into my head at how stupid I am. I totally could’ve just lied and thrown him off the scent, and he would’ve left me alone. Now I see the light in his eyes that tells me he’s not going to just let this go.
“Why are you so embarrassed?”
<
br /> I breathe out a long sigh of defeat. He’s smiling. Does he know how powerful that dimple is?
“Okay, fine. If you must know, I was on a dating website.” I look away, tapping the shift key over and over again with my thumb to cover up my embarrassment.
“Cool. Can I read your profile?”
My jaw drops open. Is he serious? Does he honestly think this is some kind of spectator sport? That I want him to watch me wallow in my loneliness? “Uh, no. You can’t.” My face is so pink right now.
Undeterred, he grabs an extra chair and drags it over, placing it next to me. Turning it around, he straddles it and sits down, his arms resting on the top of the seat back. “Which site is it?”
I don’t say anything. I just open up the window and gesture at it.
“Oh, I’m on that one,” he says matter-of-factly.
“You are?”
“Yeah. Why? Does that sound so crazy to you?”
“I have no idea, actually. I guess I didn’t picture you as the type.”
He’s smiling, apparently enjoying my discomfort. “What’s the type?”
I try to smile but it comes out more like a grimace. “Desperate?”
He frowns at me, reminding me of a teacher I once had who was really good at scolding students with a mere furrowing of the brows. “If desperation is what brings people to dating sites, there are an awful lot of desperate people out there.”
“There are. Look at this.” I click on a few buttons to give him some statistics that are right there on the website for everyone to read. “Did you see this? They have over a million users.”
“Sure. That’s no surprise. There are a lot of single people out there. It’s a big world we live in.”
I turn to face him, even though he’s really close. “So, you don’t think it’s a desperate move to join a dating website?”
“No. No way. I think these sites are made up mostly of single people who don’t like going out to bars and who maybe have kids or jobs that keep them from going to parties and other places where they might meet single people. What else are they going to do? Go to the grocery store and scope people out in the produce department?”