She's Out of Control (34 page)

I must remember my complete lack of discernment in the last year. Then there's the racism issue we have to discuss, so I admit that this is not the dream date I might have been hoping for. On a happy note, I read this morning that the number of single people between the ages of thirty and thirty-five had tripled since 1970, so at least I'm in good company if this turns out to be my last date ever.

Kevin takes Miles's heavy baby seat from me and half-embraces me, kissing me on the cheek. “I'm glad you made it.”

“Me too. I wasn't sure with the Santa line. Those mothers are vicious.”

“And you weren't with Miles?”

“That's not the point here,” I laugh.

“You sure you want to eat here? It's awfully loud.”

I ponder the idea. This is the very same restaurant where Seth met me when he dumped me, while hoping for a shot with the petite Arin. He brought a coupon for the occasion. But if I'm ever to reclaim my life from Seth, I have to reclaim the restaurants we attended together.

“I don't mind the noise and I admit, I'm a sucker for Christmas music—even bad Christmas music. Hopefully, it will be a sweet melody in Miles's ear and he'll sleep.”

“I have something I want to talk about.” He looks around the restaurant. “This doesn't seem like the place, but you know, Ashley, your life is crazy. If my life is chaotic, yours is in hyperdrive. If I don't just blurt it out, I'll probably never get the chance.”

I laugh nervously. Does anyone ever want to hear they “need” to be talked to about something? I mean, is that ever a good thing? I pray he's not going to tell me that he's going back to Arin. I could take a lot, but right now, that just isn't on my radar. Being dumped twice for the same woman is more than sad, it's kind of up there in proportion with Biblical plagues.

“My life is chaos. That's a bad thing?” I say.

We get in line for our salads, while Kevin picks up the baby's seat as we move. It's amazing to me how Kevin thinks of things. As sure as we stand here, I know it would never occur to Seth to pick up the baby seat or take the diaper bag from me. I'd be schlepping everything and the baby too. It's not that I'm trying to compare the men, just trying to point out to myself that maybe Seth was not the norm.

Kevin doesn't get lettuce. He gets spinach. (Like Popeye. He's strong to the finish.) If Brea was here, she'd be telling him that spinach causes constipation. Luckily, she's not, but she is in my mind and I'm immaturely giggling at the sight of a plate full of it.

“What's so funny?” Kevin asks.

“Nothing. Just thought of something that Brea told me once.” Or a hundred times.

When we finish in the line, I have a bevy of toppings on my salad, Kevin has spinach with a few sunflower seeds and cherry tomatoes. Kevin prays over our meals, then meets my gaze. “So. Tell me why you're avoiding me.”

“I'm not avoiding you.” Mostly.

“Are you planning to tell me what my parents did?”

His forthrightness shocks me. “How do you know your parents did something?”

“Because I know it wasn't me. I'm charm personified. My parents, however, have no friends, other than at the club, where
none
of them have any friends, only associates. They all hang out together and compare face lifts, so they don't actually know they have no friends.” He plows in a forkful of spinach. “So I look at the timing and I figure they did something offensive. I also figure you know what that was.”

He's made it easy on me. So I just blurt it out, “Your parents are, um, a bit racist.” Can someone be a bit racist? I mean, you are or you aren't, right?

He nods his head in agreement. “I know. How'd you figure that out? Thought I'd be safe.”

“Mei Ling,”

And he winces like I've hit him. “Mei Ling, of course.”

“So you know they're, um, a bit racist?”

“Do you think I grew up in a bubble, Ashley? I grew up in Atlanta. Trust me, if my parents were racist, there wasn't much hiding it in Atlanta. Did you ever think there's a reason I live in California and they live in Atlanta?”

“You seemed to get along really well with them. I mean, that time up in San Francisco when we met them. You seemed to want to impress your father.”

“Name me a son who doesn't. I want him to know that working at a children's hospital is not less than a respectable a job, even though he sees it otherwise. I'm proud of my job, and I've done fine without his name.” Kevin stabs another spinach leaf. “He thought I wouldn't be able to do it without him. But here I am.”

I take his hand. It seems appropriate for the moment.

“You're a great doctor. Brea says the nurses go on and on about you at the hospital.”

“I'm not racist, Ashley. Do you believe that? Because I need you to believe that.”

I nod my head. I do believe that. I've seen him with the kids at the family shelter, and there isn't a racist bone in his body. When he plays horsey with the preschoolers, he never makes a distinction in any child. He seems to love them all. And hey, if we're going to start taking on our parents' sins, I couldn't dress for the life of me. Certainly, we can tell by my shoes alone that I've moved past the fashion glitches of my mother.

“Anyway, I'm sorry they said something. I assume they offered free plastic surgery advice?”

I nod gently. “Eyelid lift.”

He shrugs. “Look on the bright side: you must all be under his appropriate weight level or he would have told you which kind of liposuction to go for: ultrasonic or power.”

I drop his hand. “So? Are you going to tell me? You can't just leave info like that dangling.”

He pretends to look at my bum and raises a single eyebrow. Oh how I love how he does that. “No, I don't mess with perfection.”

Beet red now.

“I'm sorry I embarrassed you, but that's my professional opinion.” He's still smiling.

“Cut that out!” I slap his hand.

“Ashley?” I look up and see my boss Hans standing over me. If unemployment has been hard on him, you can't tell. He looks as gorgeous as ever. And as well dressed. Granted, it's not like it's been ages since he was fired, but still.

“Hans, what are you doing here?”

“Christmas shopping. Listen, I wanted to tell you I was sorry. I'd had too much to drink that day.”

“Hans, meet Kevin.”

Hans purses his lips together in thought. “Much better.” He winks at me. “Kevin, nice to meet you. Hans Kerchner.”

The two men shake hands.

“Pleasure,” Kevin says.

“There's my date. I'll see you a bit later.” Hans walks away, and I see Sophia come into view. Well, I'll be. She never left for Italy. I guess the black roses were domestic.

I turn my attention back to Kevin and brace myself for the impending doom. Miles awakens and starts at the sights and sounds of Fresh Choice. “Let me get him a bottle.” I go hunting for warm water, mix up the vile powdered drink, and head back to the table where Kevin is holding the baby.

“You're a natural,” I say.

“I'm a professional.” He looks at Miles. “See, Miles can tell.”

I feel myself relax for the first time in ages. “I can tell, too.”

Kevin takes the bottle from me and starts to feed the baby. “Now, I'm going to get this out before one more interruption. Eat your lunch.”

I finish up my salad and get too long of a piece of lettuce; it's hanging out of my mouth like a rat in a snake. I take my fingers, and shred the offending leaf, but it leaves ranch dressing on my upper lip. I'm looking for my napkin when I see that Kevin has it under the baby. “Excuse me,” I say as I go hunting for a napkin. I come back to the table. “Okay, I'm ready.”

He clears his throat. “When I saw you on that plane to Taiwan, it was all the confirmation I needed. The sign.”

I think back to that time, when I thought Kevin was the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen, and my very overly enthusiastic fantasy life. How I wanted everything to be perfect and left his side on the plane to wait for the magical “Fabulous Friday” when I could meet him as Deborah Kerr herself at the Top of the Mark. The whole thing is just embarrassing. A “ready” Ashley, is after all, still Ashley.

“I wanted to tell you,” he shouts over the busboy who's clearing our plates. The clinks of dishes are overwhelming, and Miles starts to sputter.

“I think he needs to stop for a burp,” I mention.

Kevin breathes in deeply and puts the baby over his shoulder. Miles proceeds to spit up the entire contents of what Kevin just fed him, right down the back of a crisp white dress shirt.

Kevin stands quickly, and I take a diaper out of the bag and soak up what I can when Kevin turns around and his face is next to mine.

“I had hoped for wine and roses, but I'll have to settle for iced tea and wilted lettuce because otherwise I will never get your attention.” He takes the diaper from me and puts Miles facing outward, the baby's innocent pucker hard to ignore. I force my eyes to Kevin.

“Brea says I wasn't cut out for romance, that I'd squash a romantic like a bug, so don't take it personally.”

“When I heard you sing, that first day in church.” He looks at me making sure he has my attention.

“Uh-huh?”

“Before I was ever a Christian, I felt drawn to you like the moth to the proverbial flame.” He laughs a bit here. “I know that sounds cheesy. Forgive me.”

Bring on the brie.
My entire body is quivering, and I'm no longer sitting in an obnoxiously loud chain restaurant without waitresses. I am on a tropical island, floating on a raft, basking in the soft warmth of such unreal words.

“Why?” I say suddenly.

“Who do you see in the mirror, Ashley?”

I shrug.
Average-looking girl masked by some really great clothes.
“I don't know. A good dresser.”

“It's not who the rest of us see,” Kevin says, holding on to Miles's balled-up fist.

My eyes widen and I shift uncomfortably. “What do you mean? You don't think I have great clothes? Have you seen my shoe collection? And boots are back. I love boots.”

“Ashley, focus here a minute, will you?”

I nod.

“I want us to know each other better.”

And here it comes. He wants us to move in together or “try things out” in the bedroom or to see if we're compatible, yada, yada, yada. My invisible wall begins building itself and I feel my jaw tightening.

“If I don't get on your calendar, I don't know how I'll ever become a priority. And Ashley, I want to be a priority. So if you don't object, I want your Palm Pilot.” He holds out a hand, balancing Miles on his knee.

I'm no fool. I fumble through my purse and come up with my PDA. “It's a Blackberry. Cute, huh?”

Kevin hands me Miles and begins to tap away on my minute keyboard. I'm completely out of control, and for once in my life, I don't care.

35

W
hen I get home, I realize that Kevin has a point. It's been a long time since I prioritized my life. I slide down the side of the bed, onto the hardwood floor, and Rhett rests his face in my lap.

“I coulda been somebody, Rhett. I coulda been a contender,” I say in my best Marlon Brando. Rhett just looks at me questioningly. It's probably not a good thing when you confuse your dog.

I used to make lists all the time so I would accomplish my goals. Somewhere along the line, I just started letting life happen to me instead. I reach under my bed, while Rhett sticks his nose as far as it will go. I rummage through my old journal with a few of my many lists from back then. Oddly, the first one I come across is one I made on the plane with Kevin—about who I would date.

I will not be attracted to guys who:

1. Play video games.

2. Watch science fiction movies more than once.

3. Confuse Jesus with Frodo.

4. View dutch treat as an acceptable first-date option.

5. Take me for a meal with a coupon in hand. (They should value me!)

As I look over this old scribbled list, I realize that Seth meets every one of those criteria. I've blamed him for everything, but I see now that I knew better all along. Seth is a fabulous person, but he is who he is, and that was completely wrong for me. Why did I waste a year of my life figuring out what I already knew? From the looks of this list, I knew long before I started seeing him. I rip out the list and stuff it in my pocket.

I look up at the ceiling, and I realize that God did probably tell me a few times, but I thought Seth coming to Las Vegas to sweep me off my feet at my brother's wedding was the sign I was looking for—a clear and vibrant sign that what I wanted was God's will for my life. But how could it have been? It took me away from my singing with the band. Away from my evenings out with my church group, and away from my regular stint at the family shelter. When something is God's will, it should take you toward Him, shouldn't it?

“Well, couldn't You have told me that in the first place?” I say out loud to God. But I can almost hear Him laughing at me and my theories.
Fish or cut bait.
It was my turn all the time to cut bait. I had the power all along and never took it.

If I'm ever truly going to be in control of my life, I have to let God be in control of it. I take out my Blackberry, determined to start a
new
list. A list that I actually look at once in a while and take seriously. I turn on the PDA and my calendar comes up and I just start to laugh.

At the start of every day, Kevin has written the following:

Wake up. Pray!
Notice how gorgeous I am.
Call Kevin!

How on earth did he do that so fast? I scroll through my calendar, and it's written on each and every day as though a standing appointment. But I've learned my lesson. There's no sign here. I need to think, so I'm heading to the beach. Whenever I feel that I can't get close to God, or that the shouting is overwhelming His voice, I head toward the mighty waves where I can think clearly.