My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (21 page)

“Tried?”

“It gets pretty intense, and I usually turn on the radio when I'm trying to wind down.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it gets intense. But I love passion. I'm a passionate person, and I love talking about passionate topics. I just need to work on keeping my cool when people are really pushing my buttons.”

I nodded, but all I could focus on was the flutter in my stomach every time he used the word
passion.
There was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. I'd seen it the first time we met. It was what made me squirm when I was around him. That and the way he didn't seem capable of mincing his words. Plus, he had gorgeous eyes.

He looked down at his menu. “So, we get to experience a new restaurant. I love trying new things. Do you?”

Flaming pancakes came to mind. “Sometimes.”

We took a moment to read over the menu, and then he said, “Let's try something crazy. What do you say? To celebrate our victory.”

Try something crazy. I already was.

Chapter 17

[She turns, addressing him.]

M
y choice wasn't out-of-this-world experimental, but I tried the Caribbean fish with fruit I'd never even heard of. Cinco ordered mahimahi, and we each agreed to taste the other's dish. While waiting for our dinner, Cinco asked, “So, I've always wondered where the word playwright comes from. I have to admit, I don't go to the theater much, but I do find it interesting.”

Now, that was a good question. “Well,
wright
comes from the word
wrought,
meaning to craft or work into shape. I love one definition of
wrought
—‘to beat into shape by tools.' That's what I do. I beat my story into shape with my tools.”

“And your tools are your words.”

I couldn't help the smile that came. “That's right. It's been said that poems and novels are written, but plays are built.”

“I've never known a playwright before.”

“Our jobs aren't all that different, are they? You, after all, beat
people
into shape with your words.”

Cinco laughed. “You know, I didn't realize you were so funny. You're very reserved at the group.”

“It's uncomfortable; what can I say?”

“I noticed. You're really uncomfortable every time you're there.”

“Thanks for pointing that out. It makes me feel more comfortable.”

“Sorry. But it does interest me. You're an attractive, bright, obviously successful woman. Why is it hard for you to assert yourself?”

I could feel my ears burn, and I was thankful my hair was down to cover them. I tried to smile and pretend I was unaffected by the fact that we were talking about my greatest weakness.

“I'm making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm not . . . I'm just trying to . . . to . . .” My words hung in the air. What excuse could I make? I glanced at him, and he looked like the kindest person in the world. He had the darkest brown eyes I'd ever seen, lined with dark lashes and topped off with unruly eyebrows. Something made me want to be vulnerable. The skin on my neck was begging me not to, but before I knew it, I said, “Yeah, okay. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't like talking about myself, and I don't like the attention on me. That's why this class is—”

“Good for you.”

I smiled and looked down. “Right. Good for me.”

“And good for me. I need to learn to stop saying everything that comes to mind. Maybe it's okay on the air, but sometimes it leaks into my personal life too. It's how I was raised. My father taught me to speak my mind, so I always have.”

“My parents taught me not to, so I don't.”

“That can be a good thing. Because my father taught me to speak my mind, I did, and for a while in my twenties, we didn't have anything to do with each other. But we're okay now. I regret it, because I missed learning a lot from him. At the time I didn't want anything to do with him or what he did. I think I could've learned so much from him during those years.”

This man spoke calmly and quietly, as if he knew that all the sounds around him would settle down, as if his words were important enough to strain a little to hear. A gentle, genuine peace filled his eyes, and he didn't seem at all uncomfortable with telling me about his past, estrangements and all.

I reminded myself this was not a date, but if it were a date, this would be the part where the two individuals normally paint the very best pictures of themselves. Date or not, Cinco didn't seem the least bit concerned about what I thought of him. He shared openly about his life—his fears, his weaknesses, his misguided attempts at fame and fortune. I listened intently, unaware that time was passing.

“So,” he said, smiling, “now I'm here. I have my face on a billboard, and it makes about a million people cringe when they drive by.”

I laughed. “Does it make you cringe seeing your head that big?”

“From my perspective, it looks a little small.”

I cracked up. “Sorry, but you're not really selling me on the idea that you have a big head.”

“Better luck next time.” He smiled. “So, why don't you tell me about Leah Townsend.”

“But I'm really enjoying hearing you talk about yourself.”

“I know. I can tell. You could let that go on all night. But I'm starting to bore myself, so you better start talking.”

“I'm afraid you may still be bored. I live a pretty uninteresting life.”

“Uninteresting life? You're a playwright. That's a dream job.”

“It's very interesting when you've written a blockbuster and you're the It writer of the moment. But that goes away, and then you're just part of the daily grind like everyone else.” I looked into his shining eyes. “Except you don't look like you know what I mean. Your job is never a daily grind?”

“What can I say? I love it.”

“Except when you punched out that reporter in front of your home.”

“Yeah.” He smiled sheepishly. “Except that. I'll pay the consequences, but sometimes the consequences are worth it. That guy needed a beating. Period.”

I shook my head. I couldn't relate. I felt guilty about most everything in my life. If I ever punched out someone, no matter how much they deserved it, I would prob ably eventually punch myself out too, just to make sure everything was fair.

“What are you learning from the class?” I asked him.

“That a diverse group of people can all come together for the same reason.”

“So, who is your polar opposite?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “You.”

“Me?” I laughed, spewing a little water. I blotted my mouth, eying him. “How is that? Surely we're not that different.”

“I guess we'll find out.” His eyes engaged mine, and without any reservation, he held them, a small smile perched on his steady expression. Luckily for me, I'd worn a mock turtleneck. But I was feeling the heat. “So,” he continued, “how's your brother doing?”

I couldn't help but look away. I wasn't good at lying, even though I seemed to be doing it all the time lately. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, he's been through a lot.”

“He's fine.”

“And what about you? You're recovering from losing a kidney?”

“It's hardest on the recipient.”

“Feel any different with just one kidney?”

“How do I turn you off?” I finally asked.

He grinned, then threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. What can I say? I'm curious.”

“I'll say.”

“You want to switch topics, then?”

“That would be nice. I'm not one for dinnertime discussions of bodily organs.”

He laughed hard. “Good point.”

“So, yes, let's change the topic.”

“Okay. Are you dating anyone?”

My jaw dropped open, and I couldn't hold in the shocked laugh that always escaped whenever I was feeling uncomfortable or vulnerable. He sat there, obviously fully aware that the sudden silence was doing a great deal of explaining.

Thankfully, the waiter saved me. He brought our food to the table and was asking if there was anything else we needed. I was about to make a bold move and preorder dessert. But in that moment I was struck by the realization that this was not truly a celebration dinner, and I wasn't here just because I had nothing better to do. My father was lying ill in a hospital bed, my boyfriend was at home believing I was out with my class, and I was here with Rupert Dublin V—Cinco. And I was enjoying every uncomfortable moment of it. I didn't need Jodie to tell me that. My fluttering heart was doing a fine job on its own.

Then enjoy it. Let everything else around you go, and enjoy it.

One of Jodie's stronger qualities was not compassion, but on occasion she would drop her facade and actually show a bit of wisdom.

My head was spinning, and yet there was only one image that kept showing itself front and center: baked cod in a Piperade sauce. I loathed baked cod. Why had I ordered it? Because Edward suggested it? Why didn't I just order flaming pancakes? I wanted flaming pancakes. There was nothing wrong with flaming pancakes. I looked at Cinco across the table, who smiled gently, confidently, like he assumed there would be no other place in the world I'd rather be. Maybe this was the spice. And when you find a good spice, you should use it a lot. That's what Mother always said—one year we could taste Beau Monde in everything she cooked.

Let everything around you go.
That was Jodie's advice. And why not? Here I was, uptight and worried about what other people would think. Why not throw caution to the wind? Why not—

I gasped. Cinco looked up at me. There, three booths away on the opposite side, was Dillan. And another woman! Cinco was asking for more water, so I managed to steal glimpses. He was smiling! Flirting? Was he flirting with this woman? I couldn't see her face, but she had long blonde shiny hair and delicate shoulders. Dillan was definitely enjoying himself.

I tried to focus back on Cinco and concentrate on my own . . . escapade.
Is that what this is?

Yes. Because I knew that if Dillan saw me, I'd have as much explaining to do as he did. But we were talking about
my sister.
The one he'd rescued from the depths of her multicolored hair and eight-too-many body piercings.

Cinco noticed I was distracted. “You okay?” he asked.

I looked at him. I wanted to stay here as long as possible. I smiled. “I'm fine.”

It was nine thirty by the time I arrived back at the hospital. I had walked faster than usual. Maybe it was because I felt like I needed to be back with Dad. Maybe it was because I was running from the experience I'd just had. I didn't know, but I was out of breath.

On the elevator, crowded for this late in the evening, I stood near the back and thought about Cinco. I wondered if there was ever a chance I could be like him. I had already learned a lot about myself in the conflict resolution class and had proved that I could haggle for pennies in front of a crowd. But how did that translate into real life? How did that make a difference? I still couldn't say what I wanted to say to people. I still couldn't just speak my mind. Maybe it was going to take some practice, some time. I mentally went over the acronym that Marilyn said could change my life. It was a long list of unparallel attributes to remember when dealing with conflict. I could only be so lucky that an acronym, any acronym, would change my life.

Control (Keep yourself calm, no matter what the other person does.)

O-penness (Don't hide your feelings, because you're not fooling anybody.)

N-egotiable (Realize that there may be some negotiation needed.)

F-airness (Don't make overblown statements; only state the facts.)

L-ove (Remember, the person with whom you're engaged has feelings too.)

I-nvaluable (This class, so don't forget what you're taught.)

C-haracter (Keep your character; don't stoop to below-the-belt tactics.)

T-ruth (Telling the truth is the only way to resolve conflict, no matter how hard it is to hear.)

I wasn't sure, but I think this was everything I'd learned in kindergarten.

My floor arrived, and I apologized as I scooted through the crowd. The floor was quiet and the windows were dark. A few nurses milled about, looking as tired as I felt. I found Dad's room. The door was cracked open, so I knocked softly.

“Come in,” I heard. I opened the door, and there was Dad, sitting up a little.

“Hi!” I beamed, rushing to his bed. “You're awake.”

“I'd feel better if I were dead,” he grumbled.

“The first few days will be difficult,” I said, patting his barely clad shoulder.

Dad huffed and tried to sip the water in front of him. “It tastes like dirt.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I don't have any appetite. Every part of my body hurts. I'd be better off dead, I tell you.”

I pulled up a chair. “Dad, you're going to be okay. This is the rough stretch. You had your chest cracked open and three out of four arteries worked on. I wouldn't expect you to be feeling good.”

Dad glared at me. “You're a doctor now, huh?”

“I'm just relaying what the nurses told me.” I felt a little sting in my throat. Dad wasn't normally this combative, and it was throwing me.

“The nurses.” He laughed joylessly. “What a joke. They've got all these initials after their names, but I swear they don't know a thing. I'm getting mixed messages about what I am and what I am not supposed to be doing. With every shift change comes a different set of instructions and a new nightmare. If my heart doesn't kill me, one of these nurses will!”

I took a breath to try to settle myself. Dad wasn't ever down and incapable that I could remember, so maybe it was pain that was making him moody. I'd never seen such a fierce scowl on his face, though.