280 Jennifer weiner
Lewis, Dommel, and Fenick on the days that didn't require a team jersey. Unfortunately, he hadn't grown eight inches and become handsome and broad-shouldered since she'd seen him last. But he was holding open a cab door in a very polite manner. "Hi," he said, and looked her over approvingly. "Pretty dress." "It's a skirt," said Rose. "Where are we off to?" "Surprise," said Simon, and gave her a confident nod. A practiced, lawyerly, brisk little everything's fine nod. A nod that Rose herself had once deployed to great effect. "Don't worry. I'm not going to kidnap you or anything." "Or anything," Rose repeated, still shocked at the sight of seeing her nod performed by Simon Stein. The cab pulled to the curb on a suspect-looking block of South Street. There was a chain-link fence holding back an overgrown tangle of weeds and grass on one side of the street, a burned-looking house with boarded-up windows on the other, and at the corner, a little concrete storefront, painted green, with the words Jerk Hut in neon over the window. "So this is where all my boyfriends have been coming from!" said Rose. Simon Stein, to his credit, gave a Petunia-ish snort, and held the door open for Rose to climb out, his blue eyes alight with amusement—or maybe just excitement about dinner, Rose thought. He had a brown paper bag tucked under one arm, Rose noticed. She glanced around uneasily, noticing a cluster of men leaning against the boarded-up building, passing a bottle back and forth, and the litter of broken glass on the sidewalk. "Not to fear," said Simon, holding her elbow and steering her toward the storefront . . . then past it, where there was a painted wooden door, standing in the center of the sidewalk, with nothing on either side of it but the ratty-looking tangle of green. He put his hand on the door and looked at Rose. "Do you like Jamaican food?" "Do I have a choice?" asked Rose, glancing back over her shoulder at the men as their cab pulled away. If it wasn't for the square glittering mica-flecked gray stones that formed a path through the tangle of city growth—empty In Her Shoes 28
botties, half-rotted newspaper, something that looked a lot like a used condom—Rose would have been certain they were wandering toward another vacant lot. The grass was knee-high, seemingly untended, and she could hear what sounded like steel drums in the distance. Then they rounded a corner, and Rose could see a multilayered deck behind the tiny storefront, a deck tented in orange cloth, and lined with tiny white lights like stars. The edges of the deck were ringed with lit torches, and there was a three-piece band on one of the platforms. She could smell cloves and chilies and wood smoke curling from the grill, and above her head, even on this lousy block of South Street, the sky was full of stars. Simon led Rose to a wooden table on the deck and pulled out Rose's chair. "Isn't this great?" he asked, looking pleased with himself. "You'd never know it was back here." "How'd you find it?" asked Rose faintly. She was still looking at the sky. "Instinct," Simon said. "And it was reviewed in the paper." He pulled a six-pack out of the brown paper bag and peppered her with questions. Did she like spicy food? Was she allergic to nuts or shellfish? Did she have any philosophical or gustatory objection to eating goat? It was like giving a medical history, centered solely on food, Rose thought, smiling and telling him that yes, she liked spicy, no, she wasn't allergic, and that she supposed she could taste the goat. "Good," said Simon, closing the menu. Rose felt relieved, as if she'd passed some kind of test. Which was ridiculous, she thought. Who was Simon Stein to be giving her tests, and what did it matter whether she passed them? After the curried goat and the spicy shrimp, after the beef patties and jerk chicken wings and coconut rice, and after Rose had an unprecedented three beers, plus a swallow of a fourth, Simon asked Rose a question. "Tell me something you like," he said.
282 Jennifer weiner
Rose hiccupped. "A person?" she asked coyly, "or a thing?" She was thinking that he would say, "a person," and she would say, "you," at which point, she figured, he would decide that it was okay to kiss her. She'd played the kissing-Simon scenario in her mind somewhere after the third beer, and had decided that if the night ended with her being kissed by Simon Stein, it would be okay. There were worse things, she reasoned, than sitting underneath the stars on a warm spring Saturday night, being kissed by a man, even if the man was a good three inches shorter than she was, and obsessed with food and the law firm's softball team. He was nice. Really nice. So she'd kiss him. But Simon Stein surprised her. "A thing," he said. "A thing you like." Rose considered her options. Your smile? This place? The beer? Instead she fished in her purse and produced her key chain, her new key chain that she purchased at the dollar store on Chestnut Street after she started acquiring people's keys. "I like this," she said, and showed him that at the end of the key chain there was a tiny flashlight, no bigger than a wine cork. It took her a few tries, because her fingers were thick and somewhat clumsy from the beer, but she managed to turn it on and flash it at his face. "This cost a dollar." "A bargain," said Simon Stein. Rose frowned. Was he making fun of her? She took another swallow of beer and tossed her hair. "Sometimes," she said, "I think about getting on my bike and riding across the country." "By yourself?" Rose nodded. She could picture, it, too—getting a set of panniers to clip over her back wheel, and one of those little trailers that long-distance cyclists tow behind their bikes, getting a one-person tent and a sleeping bag, and sticking Petunia in the trailer and . . . going. Riding in the morning, stopping for lunch at a diner or cafe, pedaling a few more hours, then setting her tent up by a stream, writing in a journal (in this fantasy, she kept a journal, though she didn't in real life), reading one of her romance novels, and falling asleep under the stars.
In Her Shoes 283
It was like the fantasy she'd had in the years after her mother had died, of getting a motor home, one of those Winnebagos a lane and a half wide with all of the modern conveniences built right in. She must have seen a picture somewhere, or maybe even been inside of one. She remembered how they were like little self-contained worlds, with the beds that folded out of the walls, and the tiny two-burner stoves, the shower stalls barely big enough to fit into, TV sets hidden in the ceilings. Her dream had been to get her father and Maggie and just drive away. They' d leave their place in New Jersey and go somewhere warmer, somewhere where there was no wet road, no gray headstone, no trooper at the door. Phoenix, Arizona; San Diego, California; Albuquerque, New Mexico. Someplace sunny, where it was always summer, where it smelled like oranges. She'd lie awake in bed and roll those names on her tongue, imagining the trailer, imagining Maggie tucked tight into the bottom bunk bed, imagining herself brave enough to sleep on top, and their father at the wheel, his face handsome and happy in the light of the dashboard. They'd get their dog, Honey Bun, back, and their father would stop being allergic, and Honey Bun would sleep on a pillow in the passenger's seat, and their father wouldn't cry anymore. They'd drive and drive until they were far away, until they'd outrun the memory of her mother, and the kids who'd tormented her on the playground and the teachers who shook their heads at Maggie. Then they'd find somewhere to stay by the ocean. She and Maggie would be best friends. They'd swim every day, and cook their food on a campfire, and sleep snug in the mobile home every night. "Thank you," her father would say. "This was such a good idea, Rose. You saved us." Rose would feel the truth of it, like sunshine, like the feel of her own skin, the weight of her own bones. She would save all three of them, she'd think, and finally fall asleep, dreaming of bunk beds and turning wheels and the ocean she'd never seen. "Would you be lonely?" asked Simon. "Lonely?" Rose repeated. For a moment, she wasn't sure what
284 Jennifer weiner
he was talking about. She was still lost in the fantasy of the mobile home, which she'd embroidered and amplified over the years, even when she realized it would never come true. The one time she'd come across an ad for a used Winnebago in the neighborhood shopping circular and hesitantly pointed it out to her father, he'd squinted at her as if she'd started speaking Martian, then said, kindly, "I don't think so." "Don't you think you'd miss people?" asked Simon. Rose shook her head instantly. "I don't need ..." She took a deep breath, stopping herself before she said it. Suddenly she felt hot, unbearably hot and uncomfortable. The music was too loud, and her face was flushed, and the spicy food was forming an excruciating knot in her stomach. She gulped at her glass of water and started again. "I'm very independent," she said. "I like being alone." "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you okay? Do you want some ginger ale? They make their own here; it's great if your stomach's upset. ..." Rose waved him away, then buried her face in her hands. With her eyes closed she could still see the Winnebago the way she'd imagined it, the three of them beneath an awning that would extend from the wall, holding hot dogs over a campfire on a beach, sitting up in their sleeping bags, safe and snug in their perfect little home like caterpillars in a cocoon. She'd wanted so badly for it to be true, and instead she'd lost her father to Sydelle, and to a world of box scores and stock tickers, where the only subjects he could Safely discuss were free-throw percentages and the stability of the bond market, where the only things he let himself feel were excitement when the Eagles won and disappointment when his investments lost. And Maggie . . . "Oh," she moaned, aware that she was probably scaring Simon Stein, but unable to help herself. Maggie. She thought she'd be able to save Maggie. And look how that had turned out. She didn't even know where her sister, her own sister, was living. "Oh," she said again, softly, and now Simon Stein's arm was wrapped around her shoulder.
In Her Shoes 285
"What is it?" he asked. "Do you think you've got food poisoning?" He sounded so solicitous that Rose started to laugh. "Can you drink some water?" He reached for his pocket. "I've got Pepcid, Alka-Seltzer ..." Rose raised her head. "Does this happen a lot to you on dates?" Simon Stein pursed his lips. "I wouldn't say it happens frequently," he finally said. "But maybe on occasion." He looked at her carefully. "Are you okay?" "Insofar as I don't have food poisoning, I'm fine," said Rose. "Then what is it?" he asked. "I just ... I was thinking of someone." "Who?" And Rose blurted the first thing that came into her head. "Petunia. This dog that I take care of." And Simon Stein, to his eternal credit, did not laugh or so much as snicker, or look at her like she was crazy. He simply stood up, folded his napkin, left a ten-dollar tip on the table, and said, "So let's go get her."
"This is crazy," Rose whispered. "Shh," said Simon Stein. "We could get in trouble," Rose insisted. "Why?" Simon asked. "You're supposed to walk the dog on Saturday. Well, it's Saturday." "It's Friday night." "It is," said Simon, consulting his watch, "five minutes after midnight." Rose rolled her eyes. They were in the elevator of Petunia's apartment building, which was empty except for the two of them. "Do you always have to be right?" "I prefer it," Simon said, and this struck Rose as hysterically funny. She started laughing. Simon put his hand over her mouth. "Shh," he whispered. Rose fumbled with her flashlight key chain, found the key whose masking-tape label read, "Petunia," and handed it to Simon.
286 Jennifer weiner
"Okay," said Simon, "here's how we're going to pull this off. I'll unlock the door. You turn off the alarm. I'll grab the dog. Where do you think she'll be?" Rose considered this. Her brain felt fogged. After all of the beers at the Jerk Hut, they'd gone to a bar to perfect Operation Petunia; there had been some vodka involved. "I don't know," she finally answered. "When I come get her, she's usually on the couch, but I don't know where she sleeps when her people are home." "Well, leave that to me," he said. Rose was inclined to do just that. She hadn't been keeping score, but she was almost positive that he hadn't had as much vodka as she'd had. "Leash?" asked Simon, and Rose reached into her pocket and pulled out the two shoelaces that they'd pulled out of Simon's shoes and tied together at the bar. "Treat?" Rose fished in her purse and came up with a napkin-wrapped beef patty, the grease staining the napkin. "Note?" Rose produced another napkin. After three drafts, they'd decided that "Dear Shirley, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd give Petunia an early walk," sounded the most plausible. "Are you ready?" asked Simon, grasping Rose by the shoulders and looking deeply into her eyes, smiling at her. "Are you set?" asked Simon, and Rose nodded again. Simon leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the lips. "Let's do it," he said, only Rose was so shocked by the intensity of the kiss that she stood there, frozen, as Simon unlocked the door and the alarm started howling into the night. "Rose!" he hissed. She rushed into the apartment, stabbing at the alarm keypad, as Petunia scuttled into the living room, barking frantically before she slid to a stop on the hardwood floors and started wagging her tail. Shirley hurried behind the dog, portable phone at the ready. "Oh," she said, peering at the two of them. "Simon. You don't knock anymore?" Rose gaped, staring from Simon to Shirley to Petunia, who was currently trying to launch herself into Simon's arms. And Simon
In Her Shoes 287
was smiling at her. "Rose," he said, "this is my grandmother. Nanna, you know Rose, right?" "Of course I know Rose," Shirley said impatiently. "Petunia, cut that out!" A chastened Petunia stopped jumping and sat on the floor, her stump of a tail moving in frantic circles, her pink tongue lolling. Rose stood as if she'd been frozen, staring and trying to make sense of it, but sense was not forthcoming. "So . . . you know Petunia?" she finally asked. Simon nodded. "I've known Petunia since she was this big," he said, holding his hands in the shape of a teacup. "And you know Simon," said Shirley. "We used to work together," said Rose. "Great," said Shirley. "So now that everyone knows everyone, can I go to sleep?" Simon walked over and kissed his grandmother's forehead. "Thanks, Nanna," he said sweetly. "Sorry we woke you up." Shirley nodded, said something that Rose couldn't quite hear, and left them alone in the hallway. Petunia, still on her haunches, still with her tail wagging happily, looked from Simon's face to Rose's face and back again. "What did she say?" Rose asked faintly. Simon smiled at her. "I think she said, 'It took you long enough.' " "What did ... How did ..." Simon pulled Petunia's leash out of the drawer where Shirley kept it, and smiled at Rose. "Let's go for a walk," he said. He held Petunia's leash in one hand, and Rose's hand in the other, and led them up to his apartment, where Petunia curled up at the foot of the bed, and Rose and Simon lay together on top of his blue comforter, whispering and kissing and sometimes laughing so hard that Petunia woke up and snorted at them, until the sun came up.
