Every Other Saturday (10 page)

Aaron swallowed hard and looked up. “You think my dating Debbie would screw up Lyric’s life?”

“I think my daughter deserves more than a parade of men in and out of her life. I’d feel that way about anyone Debbie was dating. But you’re already in her life. Don’t you think it’s going to be confusing for her if you’re her uncle, then you’re dating her mom. And when you’re not dating her mom, what then?”

Aaron was silent, his gaze fixed on a particularly fascinating corner of Dave’s desk.

“See? You haven’t thought of that.”

“Actually, I have. Every day. For two years.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dave, I love her. I have for a while. You knew I had a thing for her before you guys ever started dating. Remember?”

This again? Seriously? “That was a stupid college crush.”

“Yeah. It was. And it was more than that, and then you guys got together and it was nothing, because it couldn’t be… Anyway, it’s complicated. I can’t control what will happen. But I would never hurt that little girl. Not if I can help it. I’m in love with Debbie. I can’t stop that.”

Once, in a playoff game against Mississippi State, Dave had been hit in the side with a line drive while running the bases. It felt like a truck was parked on his chest for twenty minutes in the infield dirt. That sensation was being recreated now. Like there wasn’t enough air.

“I also wouldn’t hurt you,” Aaron said softly. “If I could help it.”

Dave gripped the desk, trying to get in oxygen. When he could breathe, he forced himself to ask the question that had been on his mind for two weeks. “Debbie. How does she…feel about all this?” Was it his imagination, or did Aaron stand a little straighter at that?

“I can’t speak for her,” Aaron said. “But she said she’d like to see where it goes.”

The little bastard couldn’t hide a slight smile at that. If it were any other woman they were talking about, Dave would have clapped him on the back and told him to go for it. Strike while the iron is hot. But hell. This was Debbie.

He found himself running back the game tape from a few of the literally countless times they had all been together. Fifteen years and he’d been—what?—blind? arrogant? So sure of himself and his marriage that he thought they were impenetrable? His memory handed him back nothing useful. Debbie laughing. Her lovely face when she’d handed him a newborn Lyric for the first time. The surprise party she’d planned for Dave’s thirtieth birthday, with Aaron’s help. It seemed like yesterday.

He tried to go back to the big moments—their wedding day, the day they’d told Aaron and Max about Lyric—and look closely at Aaron’s face. If he focused hard enough, maybe he could bring it into greater resolution and search Aaron’s expression for traces of bitterness, resentment, guilt. Nothing was clear.

“So all these years. You’ve been at everything. Our wedding, Lyric’s babynaming, every birthday, every game night. Has this been going on behind my back?”

Aaron’s expression was pleading. “No. Absolutely not. I never thought of her that way while you guys were married. I would never have crossed that line. You have to believe me.”

Dave snorted. Aaron ignored him. “When you know someone for years, it grows and changes, even the friendship part. But Debbie and I existed around you, and that was that. Then you guys divorced, and I saw less of her. When I did see her, I guess I started seeing it in a new light, realizing that she and I exist without you, too. Does that sound crazy?”

“Without me,” Dave echoed. It was like his real friend, the man he’d known most of his life, had been replaced with one of those animatronic people on theme park rides.

“Not
without
you. That’s the wrong word. Outside of you. I realized I have a relationship with her too. My loyalty was with you, but I missed her when you guys split. Then a few months ago, I ran into her on my way to lunch.”

It dawned on Dave that he’d heard this story. “She told me about that.”

Five or six months ago, Dave had been at their old house on a Friday, helping Debbie unload groceries before taking Lyric for the weekend. “I ran into Aaron downtown today,” she’d said offhand, facing the pantry, where she was putting away brown rice and applesauce pouches. “He took me to lunch. Sounds like he broke up with that girl, the one you and Max hated.”

“The crazy one with the unicorn collection? You shouldn’t be surprised he broke up with her. You should be surprised it took so long. Grown ass woman collecting unicorns.”

“Don’t be mean. Anyway, he seems happy. We had a nice lunch, actually.”

Blind chump Dave had said, “I hope you made him buy. Cheap bastard. He just got a promotion, and he sure as hell isn’t spending money on clothes.”

“I didn’t have to make him. He insisted.”

Right then Dave should have known something was up. Aaron was the cheapest man alive—the fact that he’d bought Debbie lunch for no reason should have made him ask questions. Or at least look at her face more closely. But instead, he had put grapes in Debbie’s fridge, kissed her cheek like a jackass, and taken Lyric back to his townhouse.

Now Aaron stood in his office, begging him to understand what he should have understood the day Debbie had him served with divorce papers. She only needed one devoted chump in her life at a time and that would never be Dave again, kid or no kid. Losing his best friend was just icing on the cake.

The animatronic version of Aaron was still talking. “Ever since that day at lunch, I realized my feelings for Debbie had been growing and I hadn’t even noticed. It’s actually painful when she leaves the room. Stupid, I know. I’ve never felt that way about anyone. I always assumed I was envying the two of you, being single for so long. I assumed my feelings for her were just general longing for someone in my life. But it’s her. It’s Debbie. I wish it wasn’t. But at the same time I don’t. Do you know what I mean?”

Dave gripped the edge of the desk. “I can’t talk about this right now. You need to go. Please.”

“We’ve been friends for almost thirty years. I just—”

“Just get out. I can’t right now.”

“Dave—”

“Get. The fuck. Out. Aaron!”

He stood, glancing at the Hank Aaron bat in its corner.
What? You’re going to beat your best friend to a bloody pulp with your prize possession? Get a grip, man.

Aaron wasn’t buying it either. He followed Dave’s gaze to the bat and then looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

Dave stood, speechless, as Aaron walked out of the office, and tracked the sound of footsteps down the stairs to the main level. He waited for the front door to slam, but it closed so softly he could barely hear it. He could not have said why this was worse.

After she put the kids to bed Tuesday evening, Julia settled down at her aging computer to enter the day’s receipts from the store into the accounting software. She stared at the handwritten numbers she and Myra had scrawled out at the close of business earlier: they seemed to swim in front of her.

On a whim, she clicked the browser and typed “Tales from the Man Cave” into the search engine. When the site came up, Julia was immediately surprised how professional-looking it was. Clean lines and a simple layout: all in black, white, and red; in the corner, a cartoon rendering of Dave in an animal skin drape, holding a wooden club. Looking closer, she saw that the primitive club had the Atlanta Braves
A
logo on it. Cute.

The blog entry from Dave’s first date was in the middle of the home page, titled “Dear Betty Rubble: Don’t Try So Hard.” The image was a smiling Betty Rubble cartoon character, encircled by graphics of a golf club, a beer, a red football helmet, and—Julia looked closer—was that a chicken wing? She needed to do her work and get to bed early, but curiosity got the better of her. She would just read far enough to get the sense of it and get straight back to work.

Dear Betty Rubble,

Let me start by saying that you are a lovely woman. Smart, successful, and attractive. Very attractive. I’m emphasizing that because I couldn’t tell the other night if you truly know it or not. But if we’d simply both been out at a bar, I probably would have come up and talked to you. For what it’s worth.

Now for my advice to you: Be yourself. Don’t try so hard.

I am not exactly known for picking up on signals from women, but it was obvious to me within the first few minutes of our date that you were more focused on pleasing me than getting to know me, or letting me know you. You picked a meeting spot far from your home, ate food that was clearly not in your repertoire, and chose an activity completely outside your comfort zone in hopes of making me comfortable.

Don’t get me wrong; it was a sweet gesture. I like adventurous women, and I admire your courage for being willing to try something new on a date. But the truth is, when I suggested that the ladies choose the locations for our dates, I honestly thought it would be a good way to expand my own horizons and get to know what you like, not to measure how closely you can anticipate what I might like.

Here’s the thing: I can go to a sports bar or play golf anytime. It’s part of my job and who I am. It’s true: if I ever date someone with any regularity again, she is going to get dragged to more than a few of those things, so that would have to at least be acceptable. But loving sports is not a requirement for dating me, and if you don’t love sports, there’s no reason to pretend.

Tell me about
you
. If you’re into the symphony or impressionist art, that’s cool.
Despite my reputation or whatever is in my profile, I’m not a Neanderthal. I can go to the symphony. I do own a tie. It’s from 1989 and has pizza sauce on it, but it’s mine and I’m happy to wear it.

When a woman does too much on the first date to accommodate the guy she’s going out with, it’s confusing for everyone and sets the wrong expectations. Do you really like baseball, for example, or were you just pretending because you know I do? When I take you to a Braves game later, thinking that’s what you love, are you going to be annoyed? I’d rather know who you are, and if we connect, we can influence each other and learn to share our interests.

I chose the pseudonym Betty Rubble for you because of your physical resemblance to the cartoon character, and because I always liked her. As I sat here thinking about our date, however, I realized that it’s also appropriate because in all the
Flintstones
episodes I’ve seen, Betty was the supporting character. She never seemed to get her own storyline, always playing second fiddle to Barney and Wilma and Fred. I hope you’ll change that for yourself, and next time you’re on a date you will take a lead role. Make a man show you why he’s worthy of you, not the other way around.

Good luck, Betty. Thanks for being the first brave soul to endure my little experiment. And you should totally start playing the cello again.

Your friend,

Dave from the Cave

Julia sat back in her chair, grudgingly surprised. Dave was more insightful than she had expected, and the writing was better. He wasn’t going to win a Pulitzer or anything, but there was something appealing about it. She could see why he’d developed a following. She scrolled down to the comments, where Betty Rubble (or someone pretending to be her) had posted a reply.

Dear Dave,

Thanks for your thoughts about our date. I can’t say that I have the same kind of skill and candor with words that you do, so I will just try to keep up.

First, let me say that I enjoyed our date (obviously more than you did), and I appreciate your feedback about it. You mentioned that my choice of location for the date—the sports bar and driving range—may have made it appear as though I were trying too hard to cater to you. You’re right. I do focus on my dates and their interests when I go out. I’ve always thought of this being considerate and polite.

Like many Southern women, I was raised to take an interest in the hobbies and passions of men I socialize with. I’ve always assumed that men were taught the same thing, but now that you mention it, when I look back at my dating history, this social generosity seems to be a one-way street. This also applies to other things, like dumbing down my own intelligence and cutting short strong opinions to avoid alienating the men I date.

Thank you for helping me understand how pervasive this issue is in my life. Not only will I quit pretending to like golf and Buffalo wings, I will stop wasting time with men who are clearly not up to my intellectual standards in any way. Too many women compromise in this area. You’ve been generous with your time and your candor and I thank you.

With affection,

Betty Grable

P.S. I took the liberty of giving myself a lead role name instead. Didn’t think you would mind.

There were several comments after Betty’s, even though the blog had been posted just an hour before. Some people were challenging or seconding Dave’s take on things; others seemed to be focused on Betty. A couple of comments were to the effect that Betty shouldn’t listen to Dave, that she was right about being polite and considerate, and should keep looking until she found someone like herself. A few others said she should stop pretending to be something she wasn’t because it was the worst kind of dishonest. One commenter,
BravesGrl92
, pointed out exactly what Julia had been thinking: that Betty’s response was dripping with sarcasm and she’d effectively called Dave from the Cave an idiot.

Julia re-read both Dave’s blog and Betty’s rebuttal and decided that of the two, Betty Rubble had come out looking more impressive. She’d managed to both acknowledge and counter Dave’s assessment of their date, strongly imply that he was beneath her intellectually, and still remain polite and gracious on the surface. Betty Grable might even be someone Julia would want to be friends with.

# # #

Almost two weeks later, Julia spent Labor Day Saturday in what could’ve been a nightmare from her childhood. Caroline stood on a low wall with an
actual megaphone
in her hand, shouting orders at the entire catering staff.

“Okay, people. This venue is a historical site with some extra challenges. The wheelchair ramps for the event are all the way around the block off McClendon, and there is handicapped parking there, but those spaces are not available to us until four. In the meantime, we’re going to be hauling all the smaller items and anything in a box or that’s not fragile up this stairway.”

There was a small gasp from the staff as Caroline waved a hand at the crumbling, narrow granite stairway in front of them. The stairs looked almost a foot and a half apart at irregular intervals. She glanced to her left to see Sean looking back at her, auburn eyebrows cocked.

Caroline seemed to sense their trepidation. “Think of it as your free workout for the day.”

Groans.

“Okay, okay. If you guys can get everything up these stairs with no breakage, I’ll let you raid the open liquor stock at the end of the night.”

Now there was approving chatter as the staff began laying advanced dibs on particular bottles. “But if anyone gets pulled over for open container, I’ll deny knowing you!” Caroline called. Despite the caution, her sister’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure. This was her element.

“Go for the linens.”

“What?” Turning, she saw that Sean had stepped toward her, and his mouth was inches from her ear.

“Linens. Tablecloths, napkins. Centerpiece foam. They’re the lightest boxes. They transport them on top, so they’re the first things off the truck. Get in there and get them fast.”

“Thanks,” she said. He smiled and stepped away, turning his attention back to Caroline, who was talking about the bar and serving table setup.

Following Sean’s advice, Julia managed to make the first few trips up the stairs with lighter boxes. The going was uncertain, and she had to watch every step because none of them were the same distance apart, but once she had adjusted her stride to account for this, it wasn’t too bad. There were only a couple of steps with loose stones, and by the third trip she had the whole stairway memorized. Soon they were bounding up and down and even daring to pass one another with pans of lasagna and ziti and garlic rolls. Apparently the bride and groom had met at an Italian restaurant.

Only once had Julia tripped over her feet, nearly losing a huge pan of meatballs to clatter down the stone steps and land on the sidewalk below. Fortunately Sean happened to be right behind her, and caught the side of the pan with the box of red wine he was carrying, so that the pan only folded in the middle. Sauce splattered the box and Sean, but only one meatball actually escaped the pan, resting precariously against his apron.

“Whoa, whoa. Wait. Got it.” He balanced the wayward tray with the box and turned to brace his shoulder against her. This proved necessary, as Julia windmilled one arm to keep her balance and prevent a horrid domino effect starting with her and taking out half the catering staff on her way down the stairs.

She managed to regain her balance, if not her dignity, and Sean’s shoulder against her hip was awkwardly reassuring. For the moment. “You okay?” she said. “Oh, God. Your shirt!”

“It’s fine, darlin’. I’ve got a change in the car.”

She bent to take the meatball tray off the wine box.

“Leave it,” he said. “Off the stairs before we try to fix anything.”

People stacked up behind them, laden with various food service burdens. “Right,” she said. The quicker she got off the stairs, the less attention would be focused on her ineptitude.

They topped the stone stairway and moved aside, Julia murmuring a stream of, “I’m so sorry, so sorry, oh jeez, Sean. I’m sorry.” She wiped ineffectually at his sauce-covered shirt with her apron.

“Don’t.” He brushed her hand away. “You’re all right.”

They managed to press the pan back into its original shape, though the meatballs inside were in nothing like the flawless rows Julia knew they had once been. “I’ll have to find a fork and get these back together before Caroline sees it,” she said.

“This one’s waste.” Sean grinned. He held the little escapee that had rolled out onto the wine box. “Want to split it?”

She suddenly thought of
Lady and the Tramp
and a moonlit table, with “Bella Notte” playing in the background. “No. Thanks. It’s all you.”

He shrugged, popped the meatball in his mouth and walked away with the wine box. He looked back after a few feet and called to her, “Go get your balls straightened out!”

Before she realized it, Julia had his infectious grin plastered all over her own stupid face. Of course. Sean was delicious and Irish and, for God’s sake, an
infant
. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Almost fifteen years her junior. Never married, no concept of kids. Julia took an immense breath to quell the blood that had been rushing to her face since the meatball incident, and hurried toward the food prep tent. She had enough to worry about avoiding the wrath of Caroline.

Her big sister did not notice the meatballs, thankfully. When she decided they had hauled enough up the Stairs of Death, she assigned Julia to table setting, a straightforward task involving only red checkered tablecloths and chianti bottles with candles in them. The simplicity was a relief because it allowed Julia to get lost in her thoughts. She covered all the dining tables with the red checks on autopilot before moving on to the fancier head table.

She had to work again tomorrow: Labor Day weekend was one of the only times she opened on Sundays. She hoped it would turn out to be worth it. Today’s sales had been less than stellar, and she prayed more weekend handymen would be out tomorrow and Monday, taking advantage of the extra day to do projects around the house. Julia hated that she couldn’t take the kids somewhere fun—they’d have to hang with her at the store. Adam had offered to take them for the weekend, an unusual gesture of generosity on his part, and she couldn’t put her finger on why she wouldn’t let them go. Maybe it was a nostalgic hope that one day they would stop being bored and whiny at the store and love being there as much as she had when she was a child. Perhaps Brandon would put down his Nintendo DS and become curious about tools and plants and the big oak barrel of odds and ends that were free for the taking at the front of the store. Or Mia would play with the drawer pulls and pipe fittings the way she and Caroline had done when they were little, pretending they were teacups for their dolls.