At least that’s what I told myself. Tuesday night finally came around, and at eight p.m., I began preparing to do something that High School Davie could never have imagined herself doing in a million years plus: stand up James Farrell.
I turned off my cell and put it in the far back corner of my closet, so that I wouldn’t be tempted to check it every five minutes.
Then I turned off the AirPort wireless on my laptop, and put on Tina Turner’s Greatest Hits, Volume 1.
After that, I ran a bath, and pulled my hair into a lopsided Afro puff at the side of my head, before climbing into the water with a book by a Pulitzer Prize winner from the nineties. The plot was so unromantic and outside my life experience that I was actually able to concentrate on it. I read the first few chapters, occasionally taking breaks to run hot water so that the bath didn’t get cold.
Reading in the tub was nice. Like a yoga session in water. And I felt good when I got out, because not only had I managed to avoid James Farrell, but I had also had a very relaxing evening so far.
That is until the doorbell rang.
I rolled my eyes. Nicky, bless his little heart, had a real bad habit of dropping by unannounced on the club’s dark nights. Truth be told, he really didn’t know what to do with himself when free time was involved.
I opened the door. “You know, you need a hobby or something, Nicky,” I said.
But it wasn’t Nicky. It was James, standing there in checkered gray slacks, a short-sleeved blue shirt, and a white vest. He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad come to life and, if possible, even more classic and flawless than I remembered.
I stared at him, pretty dang agog. And he stared back, his eyes taking in my bathrobe and lopsided Afro puff.
“You weren’t at the restaurant,” he said, his voice dark and confused.
“Well, no. I wasn’t,” I answered. I was confused by the situation my own self. “I stood you up.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I stood you up,” I repeated.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked. “Or answer your phone? I was scared something had happened to you.”
“Because I was standing you up,” I explained. “You don’t call or answer the phone when you’re standing somebody up. That’s just how it works.”
Something flashed in his eyes. “Can I come in?” he asked.
“Um, do you understand that I didn’t show up at the restaurant because I didn’t want to go on a date with you?”
Apparently he didn’t, because the side of his mouth actually hitched up into a smile. “So you’re saying I can’t come in?”
“Yes, I’m saying that. And I’m also saying that this thing you’re doing, showing up at my apartment and asking to be let in? It’s creepy.”
His face suddenly lit up. “Hey, you’re from the South, aren’t you? What part?”
“Mississippi,” I answered. “That ‘creepy’ insult just went right over your head, didn’t it?”
“No, but keep on trying. Something might stick and hurt my feelings. What part of Mississippi? I did a year of high school out there.”
“I know. And your father’s a congressman.”
He folded his arms. “So you did your homework? What, did you Google me or something?”
I had already said too much. If James still didn’t recognize me from high school, even though I wasn’t wearing any makeup now, great. But I had no intention of getting into the particulars of just how much I knew about him and how I knew it.
“Thank you for stopping by, but I’ve got to get back to my book,” I said.
I tried to close the door then, but he blocked it with his hand before I could get it shut.
“Can I ask what turned you off?”
The expression on his face still wasn’t hurt or angry. He really seemed just honest-to-God curious about my motivations.
And it dawned on me that James didn’t quite understand rejection. Didn’t fathom it the way a normal person would because he was, well . . . a golden boy. And nobody ever turned down gold. Everybody liked gold.