She answers with a cheerful, “Hey, stranger!”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I say, “Hey, Annie. I got your invitation, and I wouldn’t miss it Mind if I bring someone?”
* * *
seventeen
I feel a little guilty about using Richard to get at Ben. Or using Richard to make myself look good in front of Ben. Or using Richard at all. But Jess points out that I’m not really using him because legitimately liking someone negates the concept of using . She asks me whether I’d bring Richard to her theoretical baby’s baptism. I answer yes as quickly as possible because I don’t want her to dwell on the baby she’s not going to have with Trey and because I know exactly where she’s going with her reasoning.
Sure enough, she smiles as if she’s just proven a complicated theorem and says, “Well, then. You should have a perfectly clear conscience.”
I shake my head and laugh as she slaps me a high five. It sure comes in handy to have a master rationalizer as your best friend.
So a few days later, I’m over at Richard’s apartment, and we’re making dinner. Or more accurately, I’m watching him make dinner and accepting small, uncomplicated assignments, like “wash lettuce” and “dice onion.” I’m okay with the lettuce-washing; I take my time spreading the leaves on sheets of paper towel and then dabbing them dry before putting them into a big wooden salad bowl. Yet when I start slicing the onion in the wrong direction, Richard laughs and says, “Seriously, Parr, how can you not know how to cut an onion?”
“I know,” I say, feeling a little chagrined. “I’ve learned a bunch of times and then can never remember. It’s the same with tomatoes.”
He gently takes the knife from my hand and says, “Allow me.”
I play helpless, which I guess isn’t too much of an act and watch his perfect slicing technique and fast, effortless chopping.
“Is it weird that that totally turns me on?” I ask. I’ve always had a thing for people with unexpected talents, and I wouldn’t have pegged Richard as being particularly adept in the kitchen.
He laughs as I admire the crinkly lines around his eyes. He must have just showered before I arrived because his hair is still damp in the back and his cologne is a bit stronger than usual. He is barefoot, wearing dark jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I watch him scrape the onion with the backside of the blade, transferring it from cutting board to his frying pan of olive oil. It makes a satisfying sizzling sound as he smugly says, “Voilà!” Then he wipes his hands on a dish towel, opens a bottle of wine with a professional corkscrew, another thing I can’t do and pours two glasses. He hands me one, and we clink glasses without making a toast. I’m a fan of the no-toast, unless you have something really worthwhile to say. The here’s to tonight or here’s to the chef ox here’s to us brand of toasting has a way of diluting the moment. Or worse, creating an awkward lull, sort of like the question, “What should we talk about now?” Besides, if a man really looks in your eyes at the second your glasses meet, as Richard just did, it can be far more enticing than words.
I smile as Richard steps toward me, leans down and kisses me. He is a good head taller than Ben, which makes kissing while standing more difficult. Most girls prefer tall men, but I’ve always liked the intimacy that comes with compatible heights. It makes for more intimate slow dancing. Among other things. Not that I would change a thing about Richard. I kiss him back and taste wine. I decide that the first kiss of the night is always the best. Maybe Richard is thinking the same thing because we linger for a moment before he turns toward the stove and stirs his onions.
“Now. Don’t distract me,” he says. “This is serious business.”
I study his back and the way his neck looks bent over the stove and decide that it’s as good a time as any to ask about the baptism. I will be casual, just float it out there. No need to beat around the bush with Richard. That’s the beauty of our relationship. Or whatever it is that we have going on. No pretense necessary. So I blurt out the bald facts: Good friends had baby; baptism next weekend; Ben will be there; will you come?
He spins around, grinning. “So you want to make your ex-husband jealous?”
I start to stammer a denial but he interrupts and says, “No problem. I’m in. And don’t worry.” He holds up his wooden spoon like a sword. “I’ll do you proud.”
“That’s not why I want you to come,” I say. “I just thought it would be nice for you to meet my friends.”