“Yeah, I have heard him mention something about the ‘comfortable-shoe, Subaru-driving girls.’” Shawn makes air quotation marks and does a passable impression of Lawrence’s lilting speech pattern, complete with a femme-y eye roll.
We all laugh, and Marcy continues to pick things off my plate, while the three of us hang out. Shawn, as it turns out, is a former client of Lawrence’s; he had him design his condo when he moved to Chicago three years ago from California. Shawn is also a doctor, orthopedic surgeon to be specific, and apparently one of the go-to guys for not only the Bears but the Bulls as well. He is part of a sports medicine private group operating out of Northwestern. Very impressive. This is his first Lawrence party, so he really doesn’t know anyone here, and seems grateful for me and Marcy and a quiet place to hang out. Guess the husband couldn’t come.
“I have to go check on Alex, I’ll be right back,” I say, figuring the two of them can manage without me, and I head to the kitchen.
“Chef,” I say to Alex, who is sending out a server with a fresh batch of chicken and waffles.
“Chef, you look awesome!” Alex says, winking at me.
“You are killing it in here,” I say. “Everything is completely soigné.” Alex laughs at my use of the French term, which means cared for, and which for a while was terribly overused by chefs to mean that food was really on point. I had a professor in culinary school who said it probably forty times a day.
“I’m just your hands; you’re the one who killed it with this menu. And I hope you know I’m stealing the mac and cheese recipe.”
“I’m happy to share. You need anything in here?”
“I think I’m good. I’m sending out the Frango mint brownies and the Dove ice cream sandwiches in a little bit.”
“Perfect. Just yell if you need me.”
“Stop. Go to your party. I got this.”
“So you do.”
I leave the kitchen and stop at the bar to get another round of Negronis, and somehow I manage to carry all three back to the corner we’ve staked out.
“My savior goddess!” Marcy says, accepting the glass happily.
“Thank you, Miss Eloise. You should have let me take care of that,” Shawn says.
“Not a problem, I was right there at the bar.”
Marcy gets pulled up to dance with a tiny little guy dressed as Al Capone.
Shawn and I make eye contact.
“I don’t dance,” we both say in near-perfect unison, which makes us crack up. We sip our drinks.
“Why don’t you dance?” he asks me.
“Bum knee, Doc. Blew it out in high school.”
He nods. “Basketball?”
The natural guess, given the size of me. “Nope, shot put. Pre-Olympic.”
“Wow. You know, that is kind of badass.”
“Yes, yes, it is. And you?”
“Two left feet. I have rhythm, you know, being a brother and all,” he says in a jokey, extra-deep Barry White voice, “but I cannot seem to translate it to the dance floor.”
“No dancing for us, then. What about you—dare I ask if you played football?”
“Guilty as charged. High school, college, got drafted, and then took a bad hit during preseason and busted out my shoulder. Two surgeries and a year of physical therapy and my time was officially done. Never played a single regular-season game in the big show.”
“Ugh. Were you drafted here?”
“I wish. Vikings.”
“Oooh. Rivals. Still, very impressive.”
“Yeah, you’ve never heard the crunching noises my joints make when I move. Anyway, I really liked the docs who put me back together, figured it would be cool to do what they did, and I’d been a biology major undergrad. Thought I might do research stuff, when I was in school, you know, not figuring on football being any sort of guaranteed actual career path, but then the surgery made me think that maybe actual doctoring might be good.”
“That is amazing. Seriously. I mean, I knew that a life of professional shot-putting would be glamorous and make me wealthy, so it was hard to let go of the dream, but I did have some cooking skills to fall back on.”
“Hey, you knew how and when to pivot. That is half the battle in life.”
Shawn is easy to talk to, and while periodically people come up to say hello to me or comment on my costume, and Marcy comes to check in between bouts of shaking her groove thing on the dance floor, we stick pretty much to ourselves. He just makes me feel completely at ease. So when he asks for my number, suggesting we hang out sometime, I’m delighted, figuring that a new friend will help me check off some of my social bet obligations. Shawn seems like he would be up for going to a class or something. He hasn’t mentioned his significant other, so maybe things are rocky there. I don’t feel like I should pry.
Marcy bops over. “Hey, my good man, can you cover me with this tall drink of water if I take off?”
“What, abandoning your date? I’m hurt and shocked.” I’m neither, just mostly amused.
“Yeah, sorry about that, lovebug. But I just got a ping that there is some after-hours madness going down with the Bannos boys at the Purple Pig, and I know you are not going to let me drag you down there, no matter how I beg.”
I shake my head. “You tell Jimmy Senior and Junior that I adore them, and that I am expecting an invite to ziti night at the house one of these days. Have a great time.” I tend not to go to too many chef events around town. I think I’m always a bit sheepish that I have spent so many years away from restaurant kitchens, off the line, cooking quiet and private.
“Not to worry, Marcy, I’ve got you covered here. I will get your mermaid home in one piece.”
“I owe you one.” Marcy bows to him, nearly having a wardrobe malfunction, and kisses my cheek before heading out.
“She seems fun,” Shawn says, watching her take three twirls across the dance floor during her exit.
“She’s a great girl.”
“And you really didn’t want to go out with her? I go to the Purple Pig all the time—the food there is amazing. I would have thought you’d want to go, especially if you know the chefs there.”
“Yeah, the late-night chef scene can be a little much—too much booze, too much food . . . I’m sort of a boring house mouse, really. I love this party of Lawrence’s. It’s a fun night, but really, I’m a total ‘Netflix and hang out with my dog’ kind of girl.”
“I appreciate that. My ex was very much about the social scene, the right parties, endless charity events. I have to say, I don’t miss that about L.A. at all. I’m glad to be back in Chicago, where people like dinner parties better than house parties, and I only have to break out my tux for rubber-chicken dinners three or four times a year instead of three or four times a month.”
Hmmm. So it’s an ex after all. Poor guy. Wonder if he left the former hubby in sunny California.