Second Chance Friends (15 page)

“I wish I could,” she said. “Maybe next time. How long is this running?”

“Through the holidays,” Sutton said. “Come January, it's all
Seussical
up in here. I haven't auditioned. I think I would rather die. Oh, but hey, I heard that the downtown
playhouse will be auditioning for
Les Mis
in January. Can you imagine?” She broke into soft song, her voice so beautiful and clear, even when unrehearsed, that Joanna's arms were blanketed in goose bumps. “Don't you fret, Monsieur Marius. . . .” She giggled, covering her mouth with one hand.

“Éponine?” Joanna said. “I'd have had you pegged for Cosette.”

“Are you kidding? You're the waify, big-eyed blonde. Look at your lips like little bows. Cosette was made for you.” She clamped her hand over Joanna's forearm. “Try out with me.”

“Nobody's going to want me after what happened with
Guys and Dolls
.”

“They won't know. We won't tell them.”

“Word gets around. You know that,” Joanna said, finding herself near tears over this revelation. Until this point, she had considered herself not going back to theater
yet
. It hadn't occurred to her that she might never get the chance to. It had always been her choice. Now it was a matter of burned bridges. “But I'll come see you, Cosette. And I'll come see Vanda again, I promise.”

Sutton bit her lip in an adorably disappointed posture. “Okay,” she said. “You sure you won't go out with us tonight? Theo and I will treat.”

“I wish I could, but my b—” For some reason, she couldn't finish the word “boyfriend.” Not to Sutton. Finishing the word might mean the end of a fantasy that she wasn't ready to let go of yet. “But I have to get home,” she finished instead.

“Next time, I won't let you off the hook,” Sutton said, and she leaned forward and brushed a kiss on Joanna's cheek. Joanna burned with desire, and then, when Sutton pulled away, with shame. She glanced quickly around to see if anyone had seen it.

“Deal,” she said. “Enjoy your after-party.”

“Not without you,” Sutton said, but she was already making her way toward the stage, hopping up the stage steps like they weren't even there.

Joanna started up the aisle toward the door, where she could still hear the murmurings of the crowd. All those couples discussing what they'd seen. All so happy. She checked the time. Stephen would be expecting her to call any minute now.

Her thoughts took her to Maddie Routh. Her love for Michael had been so certain, so complete.

But look where that had gotten her.

Joanna wasn't sure whose fate was worse.

N
ew Year's Eve had never been Karen's favorite holiday. She'd always lumped it in with Valentine's Day and Mother's Day—bullshit holidays that looked great in TV commercials, but had no place for women like her. She wasn't a big drinker. She wasn't a dater at all. She wasn't the get-blind-and-kiss-the-first-fool-you-see-at-midnight type. What was the point?

But she'd put off Marty Squire one too many times, and she'd begun to see a weariness growing inside him. She'd have thought she'd welcome that weariness, would hope that he'd give up, but for some reason it made her nervous instead. Nervous that he might stop asking.

They'd gone out exactly three times since that day she accepted his invitation in the courtyard at her office. All
three dates had been fun, something that had surprised Karen to no end. She'd have thought herself too old for fun. Or at least too jaded.

Their first date, he'd shown up groomed within an inch of his life, carrying flowers and a lopsided grin. He'd taken her to dinner and a movie. Standard, yet something she'd never been treated to before. She felt awkward allowing him to pay her way, but after a while she began to get used to it. She could almost hear her grandmother scolding her in the back of her mind, telling her to let him treat her like a lady should be treated. Her grandmother had been tough, but her biggest supporter in this world. Her grandmother would have liked overly groomed Marty Squire.

On their second date, the week after Thanksgiving, they had driven through one of those Christmas in the Park light shows. Karen hadn't done that since Travis was a toddler—she'd never quite understood the fascination with choking on exhaust and wasting gasoline so you could see a light-up polar bear or baby seal with a Christmas bow on its head. But Marty Squire had bought them both hot chocolates and had somehow procured an entire box of warm chocolate chip cookies. They'd chatted while inching their car in line up to the front gate. Karen had learned that Marty Squire wanted to be a history teacher but ended up in the family accounting business instead. She'd also learned that he'd studied opera in college, but wasn't very good, and that he played on a recreational kickball team in the fall. Karen told him about Travis—nervous, but figuring there was no way around the
subject—and about her job at Sidwell Cain. She'd told him about her brother, Gary, who was a stuntman in California (not ever working for anyone famous, though), and how she rarely talked to him because they had nothing in common. They both joked about Antoinette and how they felt she should be in the backseat, bossing them around on what to say next.

And then they'd passed through the gate, Marty had opened the thermos of chocolate and the box of cookies, and the car had been flooded with warmth and memories that nearly bowled Karen over. He turned up the radio, which was tuned to the local station that played the music that went along with the choreographed lights. And it was in that moment, biting into her first cookie, watching a fountain of green and red and gold sprout in front of her, that Karen finally understood what made these lights wonderful.

Their third date had been to a hockey game. He'd put his arm around the back of her chair. The closeness gave her a lump in her throat that sank to her stomach and eventually made her nauseated. They'd left the game early, and she'd escaped into her house before he could so much as get out of the driver's seat of his car.

That had been three weeks ago. They hadn't spoken since. Karen honestly didn't know what to say.

He'd texted her on Christmas Eve.

I'm sorry if I did something to upset you. I'd like to see you again.

Maybe after the holidays. I'm busy with my grandson
,
she'd responded. It was a lie. Marcus was long gone, as far as she could tell. Kendall had taken the last five thousand dollars she'd given her and split, vaguely mentioning something about Connecticut, where her family was, spouting off something about sending her their address when they got settled. But that had been before Thanksgiving. On Christmas Day, Karen had tried calling Kendall, had wanted to send Marcus a gift. There had been no answer. Girlfriend du Jour and Baby du Jour were ghosts.

It was sad and pathetic, and Christmas Day was sad and pathetic. She didn't want to visit her son in jail on Christmas Day. But she really had no one else to spend the holiday with. After trying to call Gary twice and getting a voice mail both times, she'd finally given in and texted Marty.

Merry Christmas. When can I see you again?

He'd responded right away.

What are you doing NYE?

And now, here she was, waiting for him to pick her up, a mixture of giddiness and anxiety that threatened to bring that lump back into her stomach again. She'd made a promise to herself that she would have fun. She would be open-minded. Maybe New Year's Eve celebrations would be like Christmas in the Park for her. Something she'd never
understood because she'd never had anyone to share it with, but would enjoy now that she did.

She paced back and forth between her bedroom and the living room, second-guessing every possible choice that she'd made. Were her shoes too high? Was her dress too dowdy? Should she be wearing jeans instead? Maybe he had something more casual in mind? God, why didn't she ask him what he had in mind?

Just when she'd almost talked herself into changing into her pajamas and telling him she was sick when he got there, the doorbell rang. Too late for choices now. Time to go.

Marty Squire looked gorgeous in a silvery gray suit and an electric blue tie. He stood clutching a shiny red bag in one hand. He held it out when she opened the door.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Christmas is over,” she answered.

“You look amazing.”

She took the bag. “You shouldn't have. I didn't get you anything.”

“I didn't do it because I wanted something in return,” he said. “Just open it.”

“Come on in.” She stepped out of the doorway. “It's cold out there.”

She led him into her house, which felt scandalous, even though she knew it wasn't. She'd been so wary of bringing anyone into Travis's home, it had felt shocking to have a man inside. What a joke. As if her sheltering Travis from any semblance of an unsavory adult life had saved him. She
sat down on her couch and set the gift in her lap. Slowly, she pulled out the tissue paper and looked inside.

“Shoes?” she asked, pulling out a shoe box. She opened it, revealing a gleaming pair of sneakers inside. “No, it really is shoes.”

“I noticed that you like to wear them when you walk to lunch. I was hoping that this would prompt you to walk to lots more lunches. With me.”

She smiled. She couldn't help it. It was a sweet, if clumsy, gesture. “Most men would opt for perfume or chocolates,” she said, admiring the sneakers. They were very nice. Nicer than the ones she had been wearing at the office.

“I didn't want to move too fast,” he said. “You seem to like to take it very slowly. I wanted something that would show you that I'm great with slow, but that I'm still hoping to be in the race.”

She laughed out loud. “There is no race. Hasn't been for twenty-six years. You're the only participant.”

He mock-wiped his brow as he sank onto the couch next to her. “Whew. That's a relief. I'm a terrible runner.”

“You wouldn't be if you had shoes like these,” she said. She peered at the inside of the shoe. “They're the right size, too. Should I be concerned that you know my shoe size and we've only been out on three dates? You haven't been going through my things while I'm at work or something, have you?”

“I'm just a really good guesser,” he said. “Anyway, Merry Christmas, Karen Freeman.”

She smiled. “Thank you. And Merry Christmas to you, Marty Squire.”

There was a moment of awkward silence between them, which Karen used to stuff the shoes back into their gift bag.

“Do you like Mexican food?” Marty asked when she was finished. “I've booked us for a party at Abuelita Margarita. They're having quite the fiesta from what I understand. Limited tickets. Mexican fusion bar. Cocktails. Bring your own champagne. Do you drink champagne?”

“I haven't in years,” Karen said, reaching for her coat, which hung on a hook by the front door. She was glad she'd stuck with the dress. “But I love a good enchilada.”

•   •   •

Abuelita's was packed. Karen could hardly believe it was a private party. The dance floor was shoulder to shoulder and the buffet had a never-ending line wrapped around it. She lost count how many times the girls from the back had to come out with fresh pans of tamales, beans, and rice.

“Sorry there were no enchiladas,” Marty said, or shouted, really, as the music was so loud the table thrummed under their silverware.

“Are you kidding?” Karen shouted back. “The food is amazing.” And it was. She imagined a legion of grannies in the back, hand rolling the tamales, which were dense and perfect and swimming in cheese and chili sauce. She'd already had two and was considering having another go through the buffet line. She wasn't sure, though, if that would be poor dating form. She'd always been able to eat whatever she wanted, with little to no weight consequences, and so had retained her teenage eating habits. Four tamales seemed like nothing, even with the beans and rice and tortillas with cheese dip and salsa.

“I owe you some enchiladas, though,” he said.

“You do not.”

He leveled his eyes at her—so light blue they were almost gray, and ringed with dark lashes. “It gives me an excuse to take you out again.”

She took it wrong. “You need an excuse?”

“More like I need insurance. If I owe you something, you can't say no. Can I borrow ten dollars?”

Karen was taken aback, holding her fork in the air above her plate, Billy Idol's “White Wedding” pounding through her head—they'd busted out the retro tunes on the dance floor now. She had a fleeting moment of being certain that she had been right to be wary—obviously Mr. Marty Squire was going to turn out to be a big zero. But then a mischievous grin spread across his face, disarming her.

“A joke,” he said. “Just a joke.”

And then she got it. It seeped in slowly. He was flirting, and she was too dense to see it.
Lighten up, Mom,
she could almost hear Travis saying. One of his favorite lines. She laughed, scraping some cheese sauce off her plate with the side of her fork. “Well, then, I guess since you owe me . . .”

“Terrible, this ball and chain on my ankle,” he joked, and they both laughed. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Karen said automatically, but then found herself nodding instead. “Actually, why the heck not? It's New Year's Eve. We should live a little.”

Marty bought them both something fizzy and pink. The carbonation made her nose tickle, and the booze warmed her belly. She was glad after just a few sips that she
hadn't gone back for another plate at the buffet. She was full and happy and when she clinked her glass against Marty's, she secretly wished for more nights like these.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked after they'd drained their glasses.

Karen wrinkled her nose. “I never have.”

Marty Squire raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Never?”

She shook her head.

“Nobody's ever taken you dancing before?”

She ran her finger around the rim of her empty glass, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious. “Not since high school. I was all about raising Travis.” She shrugged. “There wasn't time for any of that. He's been a handful since he was about twelve.”

More like eleven, if she let herself admit it. That was the first time she had police on her doorstep, a contrite Travis standing in front of them. He'd been caught spray-painting obscene pictures on the side of the elementary school. She'd been mortified, of course, but had chalked it up to young male shenanigans. Nothing to take too seriously. But then the drugs had come along a year later and she was forced to admit that Travis wasn't into shenanigans. He was into serious troublemaking, and she was in over her head.

But at least twelve was a preteen. Eleven was still a child. Admitting, even to herself, that her sweet little boy had been trouble since he was a child felt too raw, too damning. Too hopeless.

“Would you like to?” Marty asked, seemingly unfazed
by her confession about her rotten son. He held a hand palm-up across the table. “Dance?”

Reluctantly, she took it. “As long as you don't laugh at me.”

“Never,” he said.

They took the dance floor just as the song transitioned to something slow and in Spanish. It had the weighty rhythmic sensuality that Karen thought all Latino songs had. Drumbeats that made your hips move of their own volition. Pulses that beat through your body, made an arch form in the small of your back without your even realizing it.

Marty Squire pulled her in close, one hand wrapped around her, the other clutching hers out to the side. Very traditional, but he stood closer than she expected. She could feel the contours of his chest and stomach brush up against hers.

“Ready?” he asked. He was so close she could smell the cilantro on his breath, making her tuck her own lips in self-consciously. She nodded. “I must warn you. I am an accomplished ballroom dancer.”

“Really?” she barked.

He grinned and shook his head. “Everything I know about dancing came from my grandmother. She used to put on records and pour herself a juice glass full of whiskey and make me dance with her when I was a kid. Everything I know is probably either old-fashioned or completely wrong.”

But when he moved, it felt right. Karen found herself following the flow of his legs easily, letting him lead her with his arms, his shoulders, his hips. A couple times she felt herself brush up against him full-bodied and the rush
nearly took her breath away. Her brain kept trying to send frantic SOSs—
Not ready for this! Not ready!
—but the fizzy drink she'd had helped keep the internal noise to a minimum. She found herself closing her eyes and just . . . enjoying.