Dating da Vinci (23 page)

I leaned against the doorframe. “You don't say, buddy.” I caught my reflection in the mirror and hardly recognized the woman staring back at me. Dare I say she was pretty?

After I washed his face, cleaned up the mess, and put him back in bed, William, hot with fever, held my hand in his. “Why are you so dressed up? Is it a special day?”

I thought of Monica and our fated meeting that wasn't meant to be. “Nope. Just a day to get you better. Now I'll call Grandma to give your brother a ride to school, and you and I can stay home and be bums.”

Monica didn't answer when I called her, which was for the best. As a mother herself, I was sure she'd understand. I'd waited for two years for the truth. What was two more weeks?

When da Vinci came into the kitchen later wearing only a pair of khaki shorts and flip-flops—much too cool for early November— he shrugged me off when I hugged him from behind. He was not a morning person and on this day, perhaps he had a sugar hangover.

He sipped his coffee and scrutinized my face. “Too much makeup,” he said. “I like you plain.”

So
that's
what it was. Someone like da Vinci is attracted to Plain Janes with soft tushes. Go figure. “Well, you can't please everybody.”

“I won't be home tonight. Study hall at the fraternity.”

“You joined a fraternity? But you said they were juvenile.” I felt hurt he hadn't asked me first.

“They are juvenile, but they promised free tutoring. And they have nice gym in basement.”

There was no way in hell I would let da Vinci drag me to frat parties. Why didn't he just break up with me now and get it over with? “Well, if that's what you want.”

He sat at the breakfast bar and I tossed dry toast to him. In the last few days, I'd felt more like his short-order cook than his girlfriend. Hadn't I thought just the opposite weeks ago? When he'd first moved in, he had cooked more for me than I had for him. Da Vinci took a bite of the toast and eyed me evenly. “We are learning American history slaves,” he said. “Did you know the masters used to keep their black lovers in small house in back of property?”

I could feel my cheeks burn and wondered if I should let it slide. Had Cortland been planting something in da Vinci's ear? Da Vinci, love slave? How could he possibly think that? “I've heard that,” I said
coolly. “Perhaps you should move into the fraternity house, then. You can work out all the time that way.”

“Smells like urine and beer,” he said, shaking his head. “Besides, I want to move into
your
bed. I'm beginning to think I not good enough for you.”

I exhaled. Here I thought I was the jealous one. Da Vinci wasn't just jealous of Cortland, but of my dead husband, and rightly so. Though Joel was gone, his territory was still clearly marked. “Oh, honey. It's not that. It's just doesn't feel right. I'm going to buy a new bed, then I promise you are welcome in it.” I couldn't take it back after I 'd said it, and it had clearly pleased him.

Da Vinci softened. “Really? For true?” He got out of his seat and wrapped his arms around me. “This makes me happy. Let's go for run. Work off Tootsie candies.”

“Sorry, can't. William's sick in bed. Better stay inside in case he needs me.”

Da Vinci groaned and took his mug with him. “
Ciao.
”

“Don't party too hard at the frat house.”

“No party. Only study,” he said.

Right.
As if I were born yesterday.

He didn't come home that night. I knew because I'd snuck into his studio at 2 a.m. and then again at 7 a.m., and his futon was still in couch mode. I took the opportunity to pick up his candy wrappers because
I
minded getting chocolate goo on my slippers and grabbed the six coffee mugs that were beginning to grow mold. Da Vinci was looking more like Homer Simpson and less like Romeo with each passing day.

With the boys both healthy and back in school, I decided to venture to the department stores for lingerie and a bed, not my typical shopping excursion. I'd never been good at shopping for frilly
undergarments, so I'd just grabbed a black teddy (widows wear black, right?) and a few silk panties, and got the hell out of Dodge. I always feared I would run into a parent from the school, but I hadn't considered that they might be worried about what I thought, too. Parents were supposed to pretend we didn't have a sex life, especially a saucy one that included sexy, lacy things.

As for the bed, I couldn't afford anything nice, I was sure, but I could at least get a firm mattress and something with a headboard and footboard. Nothing fancy. Joel was practical and frugal, and so was I. So
am
I. That wouldn't change.

An hour later, I lay on a king-sized bed that seemed to swallow me, wondering if I should just get a nice double bed for when I would be all alone again. Da Vinci had probably hooked up with a loose college hottie, and I would spend all this money on a big bed, only to find myself drowning in its space.

The salesperson, a fidgety fellow named Carl, grew tired of my indecision. I was tired of it, too. I had sat, lain and even booty-bounced on all twelve beds they offered, but I recalled that this is why I had never bought new furniture with Joel. I was certain whatever I picked in the store would look terrible once I got it home.

“This is an excellent choice,” Carl said, as he rolled a pen between his fingers.

“Yes, but you said that about the last three,” I reminded him. This headboard was mission-style. Too casual? But the Victorian one was too formal and none of them felt just right.

“What's the matter, Goldilocks? Can't get comfortable?” a voice said, emerging from behind a Ralph Lauren rack.

“Cortland,” I said, my voice singing with surprise.

Carl rolled his eyes. “Thank goodness. Your husband to the rescue, I presume?”

“No.”

“A friend to the rescue,” Cortland corrected.

“My sister's boyfriend,” I told Carl, who began tapping his pen on a clipboard. I noticed his fingernails had been chewed back. Customers like me probably drove the man crazy.

“I'm happy to help,” Cortland said.

“Shouldn't you be putting someone to sleep right now?”

“Oh, boy,” Carl said.

“Goldilocks not get her porridge today? Need some beauty sleep?”

“Very funny. I just can't pick a bed.” I tried to maintain my composure, but felt myself whither inside. I should just call it a day and stick with Lumpy.

“How about this? I'll help you find your bed if you help me find a new comforter for my daughter. I'm drowning in purple and pink flowers, and I'm certain I'll pick something she'll hate.”

I slapped my hands on the bed. “Oh, fine. Whatever. And you're right about the porridge. I haven't eaten all day. Da Vinci joined a fraternity and didn't come home last night, and he complains I haven't let him sleep in my bed, and oh, my God, why am I telling you this?”

Cortland sat beside me on the bed, causing me to lean his way. “Because I'm your friend.”

“You're not my friend. You're my sister's boyfriend. Big difference.”

“Are you not Michael's friend?”

“That's different. We became friends
after
the divorce. We are united in our shared history with Rachel. It forms a special bond, believe me.”

“So maybe we'll form a special bond.”

I bounced off the bed. “Let's just find a bed, shall we? And your daughter is growing out of the cutesy phase, so let's go with something a little more grown up. Like leopard print.”

Cortland scrunched up his face. “Isn't that a bit ‘teen diva‘ for my little girl?”

“Right. Well, if you want her to hate what you get her, then you just stick with your flowers.”

“Fine. I'm gonna trust you on this.”

Carl excused himself to let us look and bicker in peace. Cortland pivoted on his heels, checking out the selection. “That one,” he said, pointing to a king-sized sleigh bed.

“Seriously? It doesn't remind you of Santa Claus?”

“It's you,” Cortland said, walking over to it and laying down on what would have been Joel's side of the bed.

I climbed over and lay down next to him, albeit with a good foot between us. “How so?”

“Well, it's whimsical, but not silly. Slightly intellectual, but not stuffy. And your blonde hair looks good against the mahogany.”

I felt my insides swirl and had to catch my breath. I turned to face him, not quite believing what I heard. I don't think that's something even a good friend would say. Getting horizontal made my lingerie slip out from the Victoria's Secret bag, and I stuffed it back in quickly, hoping Cortland hadn't noticed.

“Black's not your color,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'd have gone with pink if I were you.” Cortland turned to face me and we held our gaze, longer than the flirting research indicated was the norm, and I wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what.

“You'll thank me later,” he said, tapping the bed with his hand. He motioned to Carl, who was all too happy to schedule the delivery to my house for the following day.

“It's too expensive,” I said, already feeling buyer's remorse. “I don't deserve a bed like this.”

“You do, and that's that. Now let's go get Goldilocks some porridge. Great little Italian place in the mall.”

“I get quite enough Italian,” I said.

“I bet you do. A burger, then?”

“I've been dying for a cheeseburger for weeks.”

I told myself it wasn't a date. It wasn't as if we'd planned to meet at the mall and grab lunch. It just worked out that way, which Anh
told me was fate throwing us together. “Your energies are in sync,” she said and I had no idea what that meant, but I still insisted he was just being nice to me because I was his girlfriend's widowed sister.

THE LIBRARIAN AT UT handed me the
Glamourpuss
article as if she were passing me porn, tucked in a brown paper bag. “I saved this for you,” Betty said with a wink. “For your dissertation. I presume you'll have a section in there on sex, right?”

I nodded, taking the magazine from her. A women's magazine? Was she kidding? What could possibly be kinky about this?

“And one more thing,” Betty said, pushing her wire frames up on her nose. “Can I read your paper when you're through? I've always been fascinated with love. I never married, but I've been in love at least two dozen times. You might say I'm more in love with love than with any of the blokes I dated. Fortunately, I realized it at exactly the moment each of them asked me to marry them.”

After thanking the octogenarian love-adrenaline junkie, I retreated to my favorite corner of the library, where the morning sun warmed the carpet and the brown leather chair. I curled into it like a cat and read the article Betty thought was so risqué: Hindu love voodoo and Indonesian spousal swapping? What did she think this was, a dissertation for Playboy University? Instead, I gathered my notes on the linguistic origin of the most common sex words and plugged in my laptop so I could get my thoughts down before they dissipated.

“Sex is emotion in motion.” —Mae West

“Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right.” —Woody Allen

One cannot write about the language of love without at least acknowledging the language of sex. Contrary to popular belief, the term “French kiss” did not originate in France, but entered the English language in 1923 as a slur on the French, who to this day are deemed highly sexualized. The French don't call it a French kiss at all, but a “tongue kiss,” or “soul kissing.”

The slang expression “petting” is an American word, originally meant “to stroke or caress.” The word was used worldwide during the twentieth century, but has now become old fashioned. In the UK, it is more common to use, “touching someone up,” “frigging someone,” “rubbing someone up,” “bringing someone off.” Petting is now often referred to as “foreplay.”

Once the sex act commences, lovers hope for climax, called “orgasm,” from Greek
orgasmos
, “to swell up, be excited,” tracing back to 1684.

My cell phone blared “Bootylicious,” but it took me a moment to get my head out of my research before I could answer. It wasn't often homework could turn me on. “What are you doing?” Cortland asked.

I closed my laptop. I hadn't heard from him in three days. Not that I was keeping track. With my own hormones activated from all those sex definitions, he couldn't have picked a worse time to call. I didn't want to think of him in that way. “Writing about sex. You?”

“Not writing about sex I'm afraid,” he said smoothly.

“And people think linguists are boring intellectuals.” I tried to calm the flirt in my tone. My voice was lilted, thick with lust.

“Depends on if they only write about it.”

“
Touché.
”

“French origin, I presume?”

“That pesky accent gives it away every time. Literally it means ‘you touched me, you got me.‘ Originally it came from fencing and sword fighting. A fencer says it when his opponent scores a point by making contact to alert his opponent he's got him. It's used as an insult or to devalue what the other person is saying.”

“So you're insulting me, then? Funny, I don't feel insulted. Turned on, perhaps.”