Out to Lunch (22 page)

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Jenna.”

It’s the most perfect single bloom I’ve ever seen, and peonies are my favorite flower.

“Thank you Elliot, it’s beautiful, and so unnecessary, and, um, WHAT is that amazing smell?”

“Mmmm.” He wafts the bag at me. “Olga’s. Kitchen?”

I lead him to the kitchen, and he begins to unpack the bag on the island while I put the flower in a vase. I grab two plates from the open shelving above the counter and hand them to Elliot, who is unwrapping a sandwich the size of Wyoming.

“Holy mother of cheddar, what is that?” I say, gesturing to the sandwich, which is at least six inches tall, and appears to be piled with about five pieces of chicken schnitzel, those amazing pounded pieces of chicken breast, breaded and panfried. They are layered on plain white bread, and the smell is just heavenly.

Elliot pats his little belly. “That, my dear, is the famous chicken schnitzel sandwich from Olga’s. And despite my vast appetite and my not insignificant gut, even I cannot eat a whole one. Which is why I’m eternally grateful for your letting me come over and share one with you.”

“Anything I can do to be accommodating.” I laugh as he places one half of the sandwich on each plate, each half looking like enough to feed three people.

“I don’t know if you like mayo or anything, I believe in purity of essence myself, but if you want condiments, you’ll have to add them yourself.”

“Not for me, mayo squicks me out. I use it as an ingredient, but not on sandwiches. But I may indulge in a pickle slice or two, if you’d care to join me.”

“The perfect woman. Pickles for sure.”

I get us both glasses of ice water, pull out the jar of dill pickle slices, grab a couple of napkins. Elliot has also brought a bag of potato chips, as if we will need anything besides these enormous sandwiches. He brings the plates over to the table.

I place a few of the pickle slices on my half sandwich, and try to get my mouth around the monster. I feel like I’m going to have to unhinge my jaw. Elliot smiles at me, and then removes a couple of pieces of chicken from his own sandwich, eating them with his fingers, to help make the thing more manageable. I follow suit and am amazed at the flavor. The schnitzel is crisp and not greasy, well seasoned with salt and pepper, the chicken moist and flavorful and still warm. I take a bite of the sandwich, the soft white bread the perfect foil, and the little bit of vinegary bite from the pickle cutting through the richness.

“Delicious,” I manage to say without spitting pieces of chicken at him.

Elliot rolls his eyes in ecstasy. “I know, right? Such a special treat. And you should meet Olga. One of these days I’ll take you there to see the place for yourself.”

“Well, thanks for the introduction, this is insanely good.”

“My pleasure. Next time we go pork chop sandwich. On the bone, if you can imagine. So, how are you doing?”

“Good. Especially now.” This thing is freaking amazing, I’m having a total foodgasm.

“I know from Wayne that Aimee really loved Valentine’s Day and made it special for everyone.”

Great. This is a pity luncheon. I’m shocked by how much it bothers me that he must be so proud to have worked up this little plan to keep my mind off my crushing grief. The sandwich sticks a bit in my mouth. But he continues.

“I don’t know about you, but I always sort of hated Valentine’s Day myself. And nothing makes me more irritated than someone who loves it trying to get me to drink the Kool-Aid.”

Wait. Maybe not a pity lunch? “Yeah. Aimee was a hearts-and-flowers girl on a normal day, so she went a little batshit on Valentine’s Day.”

“She used to send me cookie bouquets and crap.” Elliot laughs. “And I always thought that for someone so smart, she was really dumb to think that it did anything but annoy the shit out of me.” And my shoulders completely unclench. It’s the first time since Aimee got sick that anyone has said anything about her that was less than saintly.

“Hey, lets not speak ill of the well-intentioned dearly departed here, people.”

“I used to get candles and bath salts. Like the consolation prize to being single was candlelit lavender baths for one. Whoo-hoo!”

“Below the belt, that is below the freaking belt, missy.”

“Exactly. It’s like when I was little and my mom would send Valentines to school for me, in case none of my classmates gave me any.” Elliot shakes his head.

“Brutal! Even my folks didn’t do that.”

“Yeah. I never got to tell her that perhaps if she hadn’t insisted on the homemade bowl haircut and the brown corduroy leisure suit, perhaps my classmates might have handed me a card themselves.”

“Ha! You didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. Yes I did.”

“Is there photographic evidence?”

“Yes. And before you ask, no. You do not want to know what you would have to do to see them.”

We finish as much of our enormous half sandwiches as we can manage, and I clear the plates. “What’s in the pan?” I ask, gesturing at the foil-covered dish.

“I had some people over for dinner last night, and I always buy bread because the table seems empty without it, and in these carbs-are-the-devil end-times no one ever eats it. And my philosophy is that if life gives you stale bread . . .”

“You make bread pudding?” I finish for him, since this has always been my habit and my line when asked.

He smiles. “Yep. I experimented a little, I had some palmier cookies left over as well, and figured they are so crispy, maybe they would work in there.”

“Okay, that is a genius idea. Why didn’t you tell me you had bread pudding? I wouldn’t have eaten so much schnitzel.”

“A couple of smart girls I know say there’s always room in the dessert compartment.” It was always our mantra. He comes over and lifts the foil off the pan. I can see that it is golden and crispy, and the scent of vanilla and butter wafts up at me. Elliot grabs two forks from the bin on the counter and hands one to me.

“I’ll grab some plates.”

“Don’t bother. It’s just us,” he says, and digs right in. What the hell. I aim for a particularly crusty bit on the edge.

“Oh my, that is amazing,” I say. It is perfectly balanced, rich but not heavy, just the teeniest bit of chew left in the bread, vanilla and butter and . . . something else . . .

“Toffee. Crushed-up Heath Bars in the middle.”

“Of course you did.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

“Elliot, it’s amazing.”

“Wait till you have it for breakfast tomorrow!”

And suddenly I feel a little weird, knowing that breakfast tomorrow I wouldn’t be alone, and knowing instinctively that I won’t be sharing this bread pudding with Brian. And more, knowing that I would never let Brian know that I would totally eat bread pudding for breakfast.

“If it lasts that long,” I say, reaching for another delicious mouthful.

Elliot checks his watch, drops his fork in the sink, and kisses me on my temple. “Gotta go, princess. One of your neighbors got some massive collection of comics and action figures in her divorce out of spite, and she can’t sell them fast or cheap enough. She doesn’t know that her ex has called every store in town and left his info, so he can buy them back from whoever gets them.”

“Sneaky,” I say, and thank god that the one thing that comes from never being married is never having to become the kind of ugly divorce can bring out.

As he is leaving, he says, “Wayne is going to invite you to come somewhere with us in a couple of weeks, and, just, if you can? I hope you’ll come.”

“Mysterious.”

“He is working up to ask you, I don’t want to screw him up, but, just, I really hope you say yes. It will mean a lot to him.”

“Good to know.”

He winks at me and heads down the front stoop, and I head back to the kitchen to clean up. After maybe one more bite of bread pudding.

“You look beautiful,” Brian says, opening the door to his condo. I’m wearing a new dress, the only one of the four I ordered online that fit me. I got as far as the parking lot of Bloomingdale’s before my stomach and blood pressure revolted, and turned the car right around, paid my ridiculous twelve dollars for ten minutes of driving around the parking lot and came home instead. Apparently I’ll have to tell Nancy that I’m afraid to commit to shopping as well.

“Thank you.” I do like this one, a deep olive green, with a very flattering crossed top, long sleeves, and a midcalf skirt, with a wide obi-style belt that makes me look like I have a waist. I’m wearing it with a true indulgence, a pair of Jimmy Choo boots that are actually like a kitten heel pump covered with a long sock that goes to my knee. Or I should say, actually fits over my calf, which is a miracle. They are unusual and, I think, terribly sexy.

“C’mon in.”

Brian’s place is exactly what you would expect of a single lawyer in his midforties with no kids and no pets. Sleek, modern, open-concept loft space, clean, lots of sharp edges and leather and glass, exposed brick, tall ceilings, and what appears to be an eight-hundred-inch flat screen television.

We head into the living room area and sit on the couch.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says and hands me a small velvet box. Oh lord. And I promised Wayne I would run away, which at the moment, I really want to do.

“Brian, you really shouldn’t have . . .”

“Of course I should have.” He is smiling at me in a very self-satisfied way.

I open the box. It is a pair of earrings; oval, sort-of-dark, hot pink stones surrounded by diamonds.

“Brian . . .”

“They’re Vietnamese rubies,” he is quick to point out.

“Thank you. They’re very pretty, but I really can’t . . . they’re too much.”

“Of course they aren’t.”

But they are. Not to mention completely not my style. “You really shouldn’t have.” He leans in for a kiss. “Really, Brian. I appreciate the thought, but these are just too extravagant.”

He looks wounded, and now I feel bad.

“You shouldn’t spoil me so much,” I say, because what else can I say, and he beams. But I still leave the box on the table, and don’t make a move to put them on.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Good. I had a nice chat with Wayne, dropped Chewie off at the new day care place, which I think might be a good fit, had lunch with Elliot.”

“Good god, that all sounds awful. Geek parade.”

“That’s not nice. It was perfectly lovely. It’s a hard day for Wayne, so it was good to talk with him. And he is the one dealing with the dog tonight so that I can be here. Elliot had some business in my neighborhood and stopped by and brought me lunch.”

“Well, sounds dreadful to me, but what do I know. Do you ever worry that you’ll be like one of those people who doesn’t realize their house smells of old cabbages?”

“I’m not really sure what you mean.”

“You do too know what he means, and it’s extremely douchetastic.”

“I mean, you know, you go to someone’s house and it smells sort of bad, like mothballs or cat pee or old cooking, but it’s clear that they don’t know because they live there so they are used to it, it just smells normal to them. So like, you’re spending so much time with these mouth-breathing supergeeks, that now you don’t even know how annoying they are.” He smiles, clearly thinking that he is saying something hilarious.

He’s laughing, and suddenly I kind of want to smack him.

And the sweating starts. And the heart beating.

“Brian,” I say as calmly as I can, “I need you to do me a favor and lay off of Wayne and his friends. I know that I certainly have participated enough in the past, and I feel bad about that now. May I use your restroom?”

“Of course, right down the hall, through the bedroom.”

I head for the open door, turn the light on, and lock the door behind me.

“He’s a shithead.”

Yeah. I’m starting to get that.

I try to go to the bathroom, but nothing really happens. I don’t know why I’m so upset; after all, not so long ago I would have said things just as offensive.

“Maybe that’s why you’re upset.”

Probably.

“What are you going to do?”

What can I do? I’m going to put on my game face and go eat a very delicious very expensive meal with him, with a lot of very delicious very expensive wines, and then bring him home, and have some sex.

“Why do you make it sound awful?”

Because it suddenly seems awful?

“What would you do if you knew there were no consequences?”

Slap him?

“Ugh. No you wouldn’t. You’re not Snooki for chrissakes. Let’s try it another way. What would I do?”

Good god, you aren’t going to make me get a WWAD bracelet or something?

“What. Would. I. Do?”

You would tell him you weren’t feeling up to it, blow him off and call me, and you and I would go eat the delicious food and drink the delicious wine.

“I’m not saying, I’m just saying.”

Just one problem.

“You can still blow him off even if I’m not your backup plan. Tell him your tummy is upset, and go home. You can take a nice hot candlelit bubble bath.”

Bitch.

I can hear Nancy’s voice in my head. There’s nothing wrong with liking him if you want. But there’s also nothing wrong with not liking him either.

I wash my hands, and head back out.

Brian is standing there, looking impossibly handsome and groomed, and for the first time since we began seeing each other, I’m completely unmoved by his attractiveness. Suddenly he just looks like an overgrown frat boy to me. And a mean one. And boring. I can’t begin to imagine what I’m going to talk to him about for thirteen courses.

I go back over and sit next to him on the couch. “Brian, I’m thinking, um, I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

“Aren’t you feeling well? It would be such a shame to let the reservation go to waste.”

I’m about to say yes, that it’s my stomach, but I suddenly remember what was so freeing about the beginning of our relationship, the fact that I didn’t have the energy to fake anything or lie or play the games. I was just honest with him, and it made me feel good. And I realize that the longer I spend time with him, the more I get away from that honesty, and the less interesting the relationship gets. So I decide to reclaim it a little. “It’s not that. It’s just, well, remember at Mythos when we talked about my not knowing what I was up for, relationshipwise?”