See Jane Date (19 page)

“Do I know you?” Rob bit out. “Mind your own business.” He turned back around and continued crunching his popcorn.

Business-minder made a sound I often heard pass Aunt Ina's lips, then she slipped back into line. Rob made a similar sound and stomped out, leaving a popcorn trail. I turned around and shot Business-minder a good-job smile.

“Guys are such assholes,” Business-minder said. I whipped back around and stared at my feet.

“Not all of us,” Timothy said, looking at me.

I grinned at him, and we moved up to fill the gap that Debbie and Rob had made. I was about to say something clever, but the loud woman now in front of us beat me to it.

“Arnold Schwarzenegger is so eighties,” insisted the woman. “He's, like, fifty years old or something. He's totally over.”

“He is not,” said her male companion. “Arnold is ageless.”

“Like men and women and relationships,” Timothy whispered to me.

Okay. This had to be it. Was Aunt Ina going to pop out of line and pinch me? Would I wake up in my bed
alone at any minute to the squeaks and
oh
s of Opera Man? Or was I really here, on this date with the most perfect human being alive?

The line shuffled forward; the woman behind me bumped into me. That was as good as a pinch. I was still here.

Timothy and I beelined for center seats, dead in the middle of the theater. “Compatible movie-seat preferences,” Timothy said. “That's a biggie.” He waved a piece of popcorn in front of my mouth and smiled at me.

I opened my mouth. Timothy pulled back the popcorn and kissed me.

“Are you guys gonna make out all night?” demanded a grumpy-voiced older woman behind us. “I can't see over his head.”

Timothy and I both turned around. Grumpy was the only person sitting in her row. “Yes, ma'am,” Timothy said, dimples popping everywhere. “We are going to make out all night.”

The woman smacked her lips and made a noisy show of moving exactly one seat over to the left.

“You're not going to make a liar out of me, are you?” Timothy whispered to me just before the theater lights dimmed. He slid lower in his seat, took my hand in his and looked at me.

My heart pinged in my chest and I slid lower, too, unable to take my eyes off his face. I was too overwhelmed to shake my head or utter a no, so I puckered up instead. And through the annoying reminders in Dolby digital sound not to talk, litter or smoke in the theater, Timothy Rommely and I made out.

 

Buzzzzzz!

Was that Timothy, come back to say he couldn't bear
to be away from me? Given how great tonight had gone, that fantasy wasn't entirely out of the question. But I had a feeling my midnight buzzer was one of the tenants who'd lost the downstairs door key or someone's boyfriend trying to get into the building. I ignored it, figuring they'd buzz everyone else.

I pulled the blanket over my head and flipped onto my stomach, eyes closed. I traced my lips with my finger. I could still feel Timothy's good-night kiss. Kisses, I should amend. Two whoppers. In between whoppers, he'd asked me out for Saturday night.
Saturday night.
When a guy asked you out for Saturday night, especially when it coincided with the all-important third date, you knew you were headed somewhere.

Buzzzz!!

I threw off the comforter and stomped to the intercom by the door. “What!” I snapped.

“Jane? It's me, Natasha.”

Natasha?

I buzzed her in. What was she doing here? It was twelve-thirty a.m. on a weeknight. She had so much nerve! First she disappeared for two days, then she woke me up in the middle of a perfectly good dream to—to what? What could she possibly want? I took inventory of the mess in the room and straightened up as best I could. I didn't want her here. What would she think of my pathetic little studio? At least she was under the very false notion that I didn't spend much time here. I would be mortified if she knew this was my home. Even if I was perfectly proud of it myself. But I wasn't sure if you could really be proud of something you were embarrassed to show someone.

I unlocked, opened the door as far as the chain latch would allow and peered down the stairwell. I could hear
her delicate thumps as she made the trek up to the sixth floor. She sure was taking her time, six flights or not. Suddenly came the jangle of bracelets, then the red ringlets appeared. I slid off the chain latch and opened the door wide.

“Natasha? Is something wrong?”

She smiled as she reached the landing, a weak sort-of smile. She wore a white tank top and white jeans as though she were in Arizona. And lots of silver jewelry, as usual.

“No, no,” Natasha said. “Nothing's wrong. I was out taking a midnight stroll down to the river and I realized I was passing right by your building, and there was your name on the buzzer downstairs so I figured…”

No one took a midnight stroll to the river. Certainly not on a weeknight. And certainly not alone. Not a woman alone, anyway.

“Can I come in?” Natasha asked.

I pulled the door open wide. “Do you want something to drink? I have herbal tea and instant coffee and maybe some orange juice. I wish I had more to offer you, but I'm never here, so anything would just go to waste…”

“Herbal tea would be great,” the Gnat said, tossing a ringlet behind her shoulder. She peered around. “You and your boyfriend didn't get into a fight, did you?”

My boyfriend. I was so close to owning those words. “Uh, no,” I said. “We spend nights apart when he has an early rotation in the morning, so…”

“Rotation?” Natasha asked. “He's a doctor?”

“Resident. New York Hospital.”

“Wow, a doctor,” she exclaimed. “Your parents must—” She stopped short. “I mean, your mom must be so proud.”

“I'll just go get you that tea,” I said, heading down
the little hallway. Actually, I didn't think my mom would have been impressed by my dating a doctor. My mother had been a true believer in “pretty is as pretty does.” And if a mechanic did prettier than a doctor, she'd have preferred I dated the mechanic. I was a little surprised that the Gnat didn't know my mother had died. Her mother had been friendly with mine. Wouldn't Mrs. Nutley have mentioned something about it when the Gnat had told her I was editing her memoir? Then again, I doubted I'd come up in conversations Natasha Nutley had with anyone.

“If it's no trouble,” Natasha called after me.

“Go ahead and sit down on the bed if you want,” I said from the kitchen. I hadn't had time to fold up the futon into the couch look. I wondered what she was thinking about my apartment. Was she looking around with a horrified look on her face, wondering if a water bug would crawl on her shoe at any second? Was she thinking how strange it was that a big-deal senior editor like me had a fuchsia Parsons table and plastic Venetian blinds?

I set the water to boil, then opened the cabinet under the sink and listened for sounds of Eloise and Serge. I hadn't heard anything since I got home. I'd wanted to tell Eloise all about tonight, from start to finish, and hear about what was going on with her. Maybe she and Serge were out at a nightclub.

“You're sure it's no bother?” the Gnat called out.

What was she, Southern? Better question: What was she doing here?

Bamboo tray loaded, I came back into the main room to find the Gnat sitting on the futon, bent over, her face smushed in a pillow on her lap. “Natasha? Are you feeling okay?”

She sniffled and glanced up. She was crying. I stood there, holding the heavy tray, not sure what to do.

“I'm sorry,” she said, bolting up and wiping under her eyes. “I should probably go.” But instead of going, she burst into tears and sat back down on my bed.

Gnatasha Nutley was sobbing in my apartment.

“Are you having writer's block or something?” I asked, setting down the tray on the Parsons table. “I can help you through it. Sometimes it's just a matter of finding the muse again, unblocking what it's stuck behind—”

She looked up at me, her tearstained face still absolutely beautiful. Her nose wasn't even red. “I'm pregnant.”

Oh. Huh. “And, um, so, um—”

“I'm happy, really happy,” the Gnat said. “And Sam, he's just thrilled. I had to tell him long distance, of course, but you should have heard him whooping! He was so excited, I had to hold the phone away from my ear.”

And she was crying because…?

“It's just that—” The Gnat squeezed her eyes shut, and her face crumpled. “I don't know if I want to marry Sam. I love him and all. I love him so much, but I don't know.”

Was there something in the water? Water I hadn't drunk? What was with all these Proposing Men and I'm Not Sure Women?

I had no idea what to say. “I'll, uh, go get you some tissues.” Well, it was
something.
And she did need tissues. She was slobbering all over my pillow.

“I've made so many mistakes,” the Gnat continued as I dashed into the bathroom for a roll of toilet paper. It was the best I could do, unless she wanted to wipe her eyes and blow her nose with scratchy paper towels. I
handed her the roll, and she unwound a wad. “I just don't want to make another one and—” She covered her face with her hands. Her ringlets were tossed everywhere. For a second I had the slightly maternal instinct to brush her hair out of her face. But I couldn't. This was Gnatasha Nutley. Who was I to touch her? It was as though Madonna or Sharon Stone or Julia Roberts was crying in your living room. I felt as though I were intruding, somehow, even though this was my apartment. “I want to do the right thing for the baby,” she said in a tiny voice.

“I'm sure you will, Natasha,” I said. After all, wasn't motherhood instinctive? Even faux celebrities could be good mothers. “You just need some time to get used to the idea of marriage, that's all. Your whole life will be changing.”

She blew her nose and sniffled. “I guess.”

I sat on the opposite side of the bed, as far away as I could get from her on a full-sized mattress. “I have a friend in a similar situation. She's not pregnant, but her boyfriend proposed and she said yes, but she doesn't really love him. Not the way she should for marriage, anyway.”

“So is she gonna marry the guy?” Natasha asked.

Sweet, generous, funny, original Eloise Manfred marrying a man she didn't love just to get married? No. She wouldn't do it. Would she? “I don't know. I hope not.”

“Every woman wants to get married,” Natasha said. “It's hard to say no when someone's proposing. Especially when you're facing thirty. No one understands that better than me.”

I nodded. Eloise was facing thirty-one. “But if you love Sam, why don't you want to marry him?” I asked.

Natasha stared at her feet, which were encased in pale pink suede platform clogs. She covered her face with her
hands again. “I don't know. Maybe I'm just scared about being a mom. I've never been a mother before, and I don't know how…I might not be good at it and…” She dissolved into tears again.

I was squirming. I wasn't sure how to comfort her. “I'm sure you'll be good at it, Natasha,” I told her again. “It's, um, instinctive.”

She sniffled and blew her nose a few times. “Can I have a cup of tea?”

I poured us two cups and handed her one. She ripped open a packet of Sweet'n Low and shook it in.

“I guess this must seem pretty weird, huh?” she said, cradling the mug with her hands. “Me crying on your doorstep at this hour of night. I just didn't know where else to go. I mean, I don't really know anyone in New York anymore.”

“What about your parents?” I asked, then regretted it the second it was out of my mouth. She'd written briefly in her outline about her strained relationship with her parents. I'd figured a lot of what she wrote had been embellished for drama's sake. But maybe not? Perhaps that was why she didn't know about my mother.

“They don't like me much,” Natasha said in such a low voice I wasn't sure I'd heard her right. She sipped her tea.

I remembered her parents. The Nutleys weren't the warmest people in the world. Back in Forest Hills I'd never thought much about Natasha's parents. They were parents like all parents. They yelled and fussed and annoyed. And at least she had two of them. When I'd known the Gnat, I'd had only one parent. Anyway, woe is her. If her parents didn't like her, it was because she'd been mean to them or done something awful to them.

“I remember how nice your parents were,” Natasha
said. “A few times when I was baby-sitting Dana, the Dreers would come home with your parents and they'd set out cake and coffee. Your mom always smiled at me and told me how pretty my hair was, and your dad used to slip me an extra dollar. They were so kind.”

My mom always did comment on Natasha's hair, every time she saw her. I'd forgotten that. And I could picture my dad slipping her dollars. He used to give me dollar bills all the time. Every morning when I got to school, I'd find a dollar hidden somewhere—in my pocket or jacket or lunch box or notebook. And then came the day I knew I couldn't look for one.