Sometime Soon

twenty-one



It has been weeks since my fateful date with Ryan, but a smidgen of hope still bubbles to the surface every time I see the message symbol appear on my cell phone. Of course, he hasn’t called. Why would he? Now, I also find myself logging into my personal email account on and off, looking for a message from Karthik. What could he possibly want to email me about? Why couldn’t he have spoken to me about it when he saw me? I was only with Bryn, and she certainly isn’t involved in any BTS business. There was no reason for him to feel hesitant about talking to me in her presence. Of course, no email from Karthik has materialized, causing my nerves to fray a bit.

What does arrive is a voicemail from David Rose. His familiar high-pitched tone is asking me if I want to do something on Friday night. Not Saturday night. For some reason, he feels the need to clarify that in the message. Why would he specifically say that he isn’t asking me out for Saturday night? Maybe he wants me to think that he’s such a popular guy he’s already booked his Saturday night. So far, I am neutral to not interested where David is concerned. This is exactly the type of situation for which the three date rule was created.

My first week as project lead passes in a haze of frenzied work, trying to get the sales collateral done and becoming frustrated with the amount of coddling that is needed to ensure that my team members get their work done. At my previous job I had one marketing writer, Chloe, working under me. She was not someone I had hired myself, nor was she someone I would ever have hired. I managed her work, similar to my new project lead position here, but I was not her actual manager, so I did not deal with human resources issues where she was concerned. But it was my experience with her that gave rise to my suspicion that I am not cut out for management. Her attitude was terrible. She frustrated the hell out of me, and I actually came to hate her by the time I left. She did not take her work seriously. She talked endlessly about her boyfriend who was either the best or the worst, depending on the day. She always strolled into the office just after nine and was out the door like a shot the minute five o’clock rolled around. Because I had no actual authority over her, I could do nothing when her work was turned in late or shoddily done.

The tipping point for me came the day she ambled over to my desk and told me that she’d found a spelling error in the text I’d written for a product brochure. She seemed very pleased with herself, too.

“What’s the error?” I asked.

“Onus,” she said, pronouncing it as awnus, turning a printout of the page toward me and pointing to the word.

“What about it?” I asked, perplexed now.

“It’s a mistake, right? You must have meant only or something.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Do you think only makes sense in that sentence?”

She turned the paper back toward herself. “I don’t know. I guess not.”

“Chloe, the onus is on you to look up words that you don’t understand.” I sat back, pleased with my sentence.

She appeared confused for a moment. Then she scowled at me. “Is that your way of telling me that onus is actually a word?”

I nodded.

She pursed her lips together as her expression soured. “And you’re an anus.” I heard her mumble as she turned and stalked away.

I left the company soon after that. Not because of Chloe, but because I simply wanted to be an individual contributor without any management responsibilities. I wasn’t interested in the hassle. But that was over three years ago. I still like being an individual contributor, but I don’t want my career to stagnate. So I accepted the project lead position without much thought of Chloe and my past experience as a manager, until this week. Chloe has been on my mind quite a bit as I continue to receive emails from my team members concerning their inability to either get information from engineering, contact the customer in question, or meet the imposed deadlines. Nate is the only person keeping his head down and getting his work done alongside me. I feel more like a babysitter than anything else. Don’t these people have their own resources? Am I supposed to hold their hands?

I do the best I can with each fire as it arises, but my own work time has completely disappeared. Completing my assignments requires extra hours every day. I even find myself doing the work of some of the others because it’s just easier than chasing after them to do it. How has Rob handled these people in the past? Are they taking advantage of me, or do they behave this way with him? The next time I run into him, I’ll have to ask.

In a fairly immature move, rather than call David back, I get his email address from Laura and I contact him that way. When he receives my email, he replies right away, seemingly happy with this form of communication, as well. We spend the latter part of the week exchanging emails, making our plans for Friday night. Per his suggestion, we decide on a movie. I don’t know if he’s trying to impress me, but he suggests a French film playing at a small independent theater downtown. I haven’t heard of the film and I don’t prefer to read my movies, but I don’t want to shoot down his plans either. So, I easily agree. He also suggests a late dinner afterwards at a place a friend has recommended to him. He has thought the evening out carefully, and I can’t help but be flattered and impressed by that. Then, the last email he sends on Thursday, ironing out the time, changes my mind.

He intends to take the train into the city and wants to meet me at the theater. He is not going to pick me up. I recalled him telling me that he preferred not to drive when possible, but this is supposed to be a date. I call Laura to gripe about it.

“Well, he really doesn’t know his away around Boston very well.” She reasons, obviously disapproving, but not wanting to berate the guy she has hand chosen for me. “You could take the T, too. It’s a short walk from your house. Or you could park at the T stop.”

“That stop doesn’t have any parking. I won’t be back until after midnight. I don’t want to walk half a mile home by myself at that time of night.”

“No, you shouldn’t do that.” She agrees. “Well, I guess you’ll have to drive into the city and pay for parking. It’s not that big a deal. I’m sure once he gets his bearings, he’ll drive more.”

“We’ve lived here all our lives and we still don’t have our bearings. You just say a prayer and hope the road you took last time is still there. That’s how it works around here.”

The Big Dig, the biggest public works program of its kind when it was taking place, has spent over a decade routing and rerouting the roads of Boston to supposedly make driving through the city easier and to accommodate the growing volume of traffic. Boston, a city whose roads were an unplanned system of paved-over cow paths, has always been a hard place to navigate by car, but at least we natives knew where we were going. Now, no one does.

“Just make the best of it, Andy. Try to have fun.”

“If you hadn’t fixed me up with David, would you be so judicial about this development?”

“I think so,” she says. “We’re just too judgmental in general when it comes to this stuff.”

“So the guy shouldn’t always pay?” I ask.

“No,” she replies quickly. “You know what I mean. Just go out on Friday and have a good time. Don’t over think things. Okay?”

“Okay.” I hang up and glance at my schedule for Friday. In order to get home in time to change my clothes and feed Tiger and then drive into the city for a seven-thirty movie, I’m going to have to leave the office fairly early, and I can hardly afford to this week.



I’m a tense, disgruntled mess when I finally pull into a parking garage around the corner from the theater. Escaping the office had been nearly impossible with both Anand and Ken emailing me constantly from their desks ten feet away. Finally, I got up and walked over to them. Their surprise at seeing me standing there was amusing, but the in-person visit hadn’t really helped.

When I got home I threw some food in Tiger’s bowl, threw on a long skirt with boots, kept my black sweater on, touched up my makeup, fixed my hair as best I could, and flew back out the door again. The upside to this is that I was so rushed, I didn’t have time to feel nervous.

David is waiting for me outside the theater entrance when I arrive. The days are getting shorter, and it’s already dusk as the yellow and red neon theater lights provide a bright contrast to the muted purple horizon behind them. He smiles when he spots me and hugs me hello. Again, I notice his slightness and the fact that we’re just about the same height. He has on cologne that tickles my nose with its musky fragrance.

“I’ve got the tickets,” he announces, holding them up. “Should we go in?”

“Let’s go.” I smile. The theater is busy but not too crowded. It’s a small intimate place that never plays the top box office offerings. Small foreign films run on compact screens here.

As we pass the concession stand, he asks me if I want anything. I shake my head and we pass by, continuing into the dimly lit theater. He allows me to choose our seats, and I pick two that are situated on an aisle in the middle. Sitting close together in the dark we exchange stories about our weeks. David had more than a dozen closings, and he apparently took the T to nearly all of them. I think I’m even starting to get used to the sound of his voice as I relate some stories from my own hectic week.

When I ask him about the restaurant we are going to later, he gets this strange expression. “I wanted to find a place that was good, but not too daring with its menu,” he explains. “So I told my friend, who knows Boston far better than I do, that I’m taking out a woman who has plain taste in food even though she’s far from plain herself.” His eyes meet mine and hold them.

I blink, and suddenly I feel like laughing. Was that a compliment? It sounded so stilted and practiced that it took me a moment to realize what he actually said. I hardly know how to react, and I feel myself smiling involuntarily at him. His answering grin is shy as he turns to look at the screen which is flashing movie trivia at us until the movie starts.

Feeling awkward, I too turn toward the screen as the lights begin to dim. The film, entitled Ramone and Juianne, turns out to be a modern remake of Romeo and Juliet, all in French. It tries to be gritty, using a drug underworld subplot, and borrowing the theme of rival gangs from West Side Story. Most of the movie takes place at night, and the majority of characters look like they could use a good shower, but it’s entertaining enough.

Throughout the film I feel as though David is aware of me, noticing my reactions, which in turn makes it hard for me to relax and causes me to be hyper aware of him sitting beside me, his arms occupying both of his arm rests.

When the credits finally roll and lights come up, he turns to me. “I’m sorry,” he says.

This surprises me. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was trite, at best.”

Trite? “The acting was good,” I offer.

He shakes his head. “If you spoke French you wouldn’t think so.”

I had completely forgotten he speaks French. Now his movie choice makes more sense. “I’m sure your take on it was much different than mine,” I agree.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

David motions for me to precede him, and he follows me with a light touch to my lower back.

The restaurant is a pleasant three block stroll. I’ve been in the city far more than normal in the past few weeks, and I feel at home as we blend into the urban scene. David is making a joke when he guides me toward the doors of a McDonald’s. I gape at him, watching him laugh and shake his head as he points to a steak house on the corner. “That’s where we’re really going. I know you like steak.”

A woodsy aroma of food grilling greets us as we enter the lounge-like atmosphere. Like the theater, the restaurant is busy but not overly noisy or crowded. It’s actually a very cozy place. I give David an approving smile as we’re led to our table. We slide into a red leather corner booth and sit beside each other at the square table.

“Good choice?” he asks, taking his napkin and spreading it over his lap.

“So far. So good.” I am, in fact, enjoying the evening.

“Do you like red wine?”

“What’s not to like?”

“I could suggest a good Cabernet.”

“Okay.”

When the wine arrives, it’s delicious. For dinner, we both order steak. He wants his rare, and I see him attempt to camouflage a cringe when I ask for mine to be burnt to a crisp. I don’t ordinarily eat this much red meat, but we are at a steak house after all.

“What are you doing next Friday?” he asks me when we’re halfway through our dinners.

This surprises me. Is he asking me on another date before we’ve even come close to finishing this one? “I’m not sure.”

“Because a friend of mine has some extra tickets to the Red Sox game if you’d like to go with us.”

I haven’t had time to process this date yet. I’m still not sure if I’m attracted to David. I’m hoping a kiss at the end of the evening will help me to decide. “That sounds fun,” I answer noncommittally. “You’re big on Friday nights, huh?” I joke, recalling the message he left me.

“Well, all my Saturday nights are busy through Thanksgiving.”

“Oh,” I say surprised, a forkful of steak pausing on its way to my mouth.

“It’s this side business I’m involved in,” he explains somewhat hesitantly.

I nod, not sure why he would need a side business or why he seems reluctant to tell me about it.

He continues eating and I’m about to question him when he asks, “Have you heard of LARP?”

I shake my head.

“It’s an acronym for Live Action Role Playing. Does that ring a bell?” He’s watching me as he speaks, seeming to gauge my reaction.

I shake my head again. “Nope. No bells.”

“Basically, it’s an organized game. We call it “The Game” actually, my buddies and I.” He puts down his silverware so he can use his hands as he speaks. “We have a theme and a bunch of stories we use. People come every weekend to this campground we rent out, dress in costume, and act the stories out.”

I just look at him as I’m processing this. “So, “you put on plays?”

“No. Not exactly. There’s no audience. We act the stories out. Similar to history buffs dressing in period costumes and reenacting wars.”

“Oh,” I say, although I still don’t get it.

He obviously realizes this and continues patiently. “We have a specific theme for our game, although different people running other games use all kinds of themes. But ours is a medieval fantasy theme. So, people interested in that come to play our game.”

“In costume? Pretending?”

He nods.

“These are grownups running around outside in medieval costumes acting out stories?”

The sides of his mouth curve up marginally. I think he’s somewhat embarrassed, but it isn’t preventing him from telling me about it.

“And people pay you to come every weekend to do this?”

“They pay very well, actually.”

“Hunh,” I reply. If he’s raking in the money, I guess I can’t really blame him. “Do you play, too?”

“Well,” he runs a hand over his cheek. “I do. I’ve kind of been into this since college, and there weren’t really any games being hosted around here. So, I met these guys in an online LARP group and we decided to start our own game. It’s taken off far better than we ever imagined, and we have enough people signed up to run it every weekend. At least, until it gets too cold to continue.”

“Wow.” I’m picturing David running around in the woods wearing tights and a tunic with a sword at his side, and I try really hard not to laugh. But I don’t succeed well enough.

“You think it’s strange, don’t you? That’s awfully judgmental, Andrea,” he chastises, his expression serious now.

“No, I don’t.” I answer quickly, surprised by his reaction. Surely, other people have thought this is an odd activity.

He looks as though he doesn’t believe me.

“Well, maybe I do. I’m sorry for laughing.”

“You should play one weekend.” He relaxes again, picking up his fork, resuming eating his steak. “You wouldn’t even have to pay. You’ve got a connection now.”

“It’s all about who you know.” I smile weakly, not directly replying to the invitation.

“We don’t have that many women who play.”

“There’s a surprise,” I mutter.

He eyes me while he chews. “It’s not really a female thing, huh?”

I pick my words carefully. “I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it.” But I’m really thinking that it’s not a normal thing. Between the little boy voice, his reluctance to drive, and now this weird costume live action activity, it’s just too much. I don’t want to be judgmental, but clearly, this is not someone I’m going to click with.

I make it through the rest of the evening as David insists we split a dessert and order coffee. I feel badly, letting him pay what has to be a substantial dinner bill, because I’m nearly positive that I don’t want to see him again. But etiquette dictates that I do not insist on paying my share after he refuses my wallet reach gesture.

After dinner, when we step outside into the cool evening, David turns to me. “Would you like to take a walk to the commons?”

I check my watch. It’s nearly midnight and the last train stops running around 12:30. I tell him this and he shrugs as though it doesn’t matter.

“You did take the T in right?” I ask.

He nods. “Did you?”

I shake my head just as a sinking feeling begins in my stomach. Does he expect me to drive him home or, gulp, take him home with me? “I think we’d better head back so you won’t miss the last train,” I tell him.

He stares at me for a beat, seeming to try to read me, before nodding his agreement and turning back the way we came.

I’m exhausted from my week and I’m looking forward to getting home, but I keep pace with his slow, not-a-care-in-the-world, ambling stride, hiding my impatience.

“Where are you parked?” he asks after a block.

I point to the garage on the corner near the theater. Clearly, he intends to walk me to my car. I can’t help but feel disappointed that David is doing everything right this evening, but he himself just isn’t right for me.

We finally reach my car parked on the ground floor and I turn to him, keys in hand. “Thank you,” I say. “I had a really nice evening.”

He’s standing close to me. His eyes are level with mine as they lock on me. His hand finds my waist as he leans in and touches his lips to mine. I don’t feel anything other than the desire to pull away. But I respond. It would be way too awkward to refuse the kiss. I’m going to take the coward’s way out and tell him later on the telephone that I don’t think there’s any chemistry between us. Actually, that isn’t the real coward’s way out. When I’ve been on the receiving end of rejection, it generally came in the form of an email or text, or it was made apparent by the black hole the guy in question suddenly disappeared into. But I don’t operate that way. I prefer the honest and direct approach. Not so much in person though.

When David tries to deepen the kiss, I do lean back, noticing an older couple walking in our direction. I take the opportunity to cut my eyes to them, hoping David will assume I’m just embarrassed to be seen smooching in public. Whether he does or not, I’m not sure, but he gives me a good-natured hug goodbye and tells me he’ll call me tomorrow. Now I feel badly. He is a genuinely nice guy. Perhaps I am counting him out too quickly?

I cringe at my wishy-washy attitude, realizing that if I’d had met David a few years ago, I would have easily discounted him. I decide not to decide anything about David yet as I turn on the radio and point my car toward home.