The Girl He Knows (7 page)

“He’s a pilot,” she told me. “Has one of those big houses in the Fly-In.”

The Fly-In is an exclusive subdivision in Daytona Beach. Most of the houses have private hangars for private planes. A runway bisects the subdivision and finding pilots is as easy as throwing a stone. Daytona is a mecca for aviation aficionados, boasting an assortment of aviation schools and one of the nation’s best aeronautical universities, Emery Riddle.

“What does he fly?” I asked. A pilot, wouldn’t Momma be proud? I’m not interested in anything long-term with pilots, or military guys quite frankly. I can guess what goes on out of town.

“Big jets for one of the major airlines. I don’t remember which one. He and Doug belong to the same tennis club.”

“You know I’m not crazy about blind dates,” I reminded her.

“I know, but we have to strike while the iron is hot,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I wasn’t even going to dignify that remark with a comment. It was clear Kenley thought my time was running out. For whatever reason, I wasn’t sure.

The drive to the restaurant takes ten minutes. The breeze from the ocean pushes my hair around so I pull it into a loose and bouncy ponytail and I grab a light jacket in case the ocean breeze decides to get cooler or stronger. It’s doubtful, but at least this once I’ll be prepared.

I find Kenley and Doug sitting at a table on the outside deck with no sign of my guinea pig.

I make my way to the table and plop down next to Kenley, leaving the chair across from me empty.

“Hi.” I smile at them both. They are the perfect couple. A yin and yang. Though both tall and athletic, he is blond with milky skin and she has dark brown hair with cocoa skin.

Since my divorce, I’m more watchful of my friends and others in their relationships. I figure my failed one is an indication I might need some mentoring, tutoring, or at least guidance in the relationship department. Maybe that’s why Hank’s idea has such appeal or why I allowed Kenley to set me up.

I aspire to have a relationship like Kenley and Doug’s. They are always affectionate with each other, courteous, and considerate, and it’s obvious they love each other. I figure an interracial marriage in today’s world is far easier than it was sixty years ago but probably still has its moments. There are assholes everywhere. But Kenley and Doug seem undaunted. They have each other. Can one ask for anything more?

“You look great, Paisley. Ted went to the restroom.” Doug smiles at me and flags the waitress so I can place my drink order.

Ted arrives as the waitress delivers my drink. He isn’t bad-looking. He looks like a pilot with his tight, crisp haircut and graying temples. He’s tan, has a nice smile of capped teeth, and hazel eyes. He’s ten-to-fifteen years older than me, which isn’t a problem, and right before he arrived, Doug told me Ted is thrice divorced. A potential problem? Maybe. I’m not one to cast stones, but how could a relationship reject like myself get together and make something work with such an obvious relationship klutz like Ted?

“Wow, is this her? You are one foxy lady.” He smiles, oozes into the chair across from me, picks up my hand, and kisses my knuckles.

Foxy lady? Is it the seventies? I wish more than anything at this moment I could raise one eyebrow like Gigi or Hank. I was never able to master enough control over my facial muscles. I give Kenley and Doug what I hope is a quizzical look. This is who they picked out for me? Good thing I don’t have high expectations.

I pull my hand from Ted’s, introduce myself and try to spark up some conversation. My marriage to Trevor taught me one thing: if you ask a man the right questions, he’ll talk nonstop about himself, requiring only an occasional nod followed by a “mmm-hmm,” or “right.”

Ted is easier than most. I ask one basic question, “So, you’re a pilot?” and he launches right into his personal curriculum vitae.

I learn about Ted, his aforementioned three ex-wives, his bank account, and his golf handicap. He tells me he’s raising the last of his three sons. It’s the one redeeming quality I can find, though I wonder how they’ll fare in the relationship department. Throughout the conversation I manage to read the menu, nod at the right times, and place my order. A couple of times I glance at Kenley, who is now giving me a pleading look.

She is
sooo
in trouble.

As Ted orders the fourth round of drinks, Doug tosses back the remains of Kenley’s beer. He’s drinking more than his usual two beers. His voice has been slowly going up in octaves as the evening progresses and the drink order climbs. It’s none of my business until Kenley decides to share it with me, but she’s hardly spoken and is fidgety, two things uncharacteristic of my typically chatty and hard-to-fluster friend. After dinner is finished and the table cleared, Doug staggers his way to the restroom. Kenley excuses herself and follows him.

Ted is still going on and on.

Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, I decide to try some dating moves, hone
my skills. I lean back in my chair, cross my legs, and pull up my iced tea, having switched to the alcohol-free drink three rounds back. To give me something to do, I use a straw to sip my tea, and play with it as I listen to Ted droning on.

“Lord,” he leans in and whispers to me, “I’d do anything to be that straw.”

“I beg your pardon?” I do a mental shake of my head and question my own hearing. I take another sip.

“I’d love to be that straw you are sucking on.” He winks at me and leans forward even farther.

In a flash, I’m angry. The sounds of the restaurant are muted as is Ted’s voice. His mouth is moving but the thumping sound in my ears makes it impossible to hear. I tremble from the adrenaline rush and my palms itch to smack his face or, at the very least, the table. Ted has shown little to no interest in me and he thinks it’s appropriate to make sexual innuendos? Who does he think he is?

I bare my teeth, bite the straw, and pull it from the drink where I spit it on the floor. I slam my glass onto the table and stand. Ted looks surprised and confused, and my anger flares, spreading heat through me like a bush on fire in a drought.

“Is there something I did or said to make you think I want to be talked to this way?” I put my arms akimbo, lean slightly forward, and stare at him.

“Uh...no...but I uh... Aren’t divorced women looking for some fun? If you know what I mean?” His smile is more a leer.

I blow out a huff of disbelief.

I scan the crowd for Kenley and Doug and find them arguing over by the restrooms. Uh-oh, trouble in paradise.

“Thanks for dinner, Ted. I have to leave though.” I snatch up my purse and jacket, berating myself for thanking him when I should have slapped his face. Kenley and Doug stop their heated words when I approach.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I tell them. “I have to leave.”

“I’m sorry, Paisley.” Kenley reaches out and squeezes my arm and promises to call later and explain. I wave off her apology and leave as fast as my feet can take me without actually running from the building.

When I get home, I take a shower and dress in my comfy pajamas. Do men actually think a woman likes to hear those things? Yuck. He didn’t even bother to get to know me before he made his creepy pass, thinking I’m different than the average single girl, something more or something less, all because I’m divorced.

Too furious to do anything, I lie on my bed and watch the ceiling fan go round and round. I promise myself no matter what, I will not settle for just any man. Once was enough. I would rather be by myself than shackled to some idiot like pilot Ted. Trevor used to talk to me the same way. I thought it was because he found me pretty, even sexy. What I learned was he talked to all women like that. Women were objects to him, a means to an end. I was nothing more.

The hardest thing about divorce, for me anyway, was the sudden change of life. One minute I was getting married and buying a house and the next minute I was out of the marriage and living in an apartment only slightly better than the one I’d inhabited in college. I don’t like being single, but if my track record with men is a testament, I’m not very good at being married either. Where does that leave me?

Single. Alone?

I feel the tears before I realize I’m crying. I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. I guess I need to know someone is out there. Someone who cares.

I text Hank.
Hi.

I wait a few heartbeats, and he texts back.
Hi yourself. I like that it’s late at night and you’re thinking of me.

Don’t let it go to ur head. I’m just saying hi.

You OK?

I hesitate.
Yup.

R U sure ur OK?

I sigh. Do I want to share with him?
Yeah was going to bed and thought I’d say Hi.

What r u wearing?

OMG! Never mind. I’m going to bed now:-)

LOL. Sweet dreams.

I hold the phone close to my chest and fall asleep.

The last few weeks of school are some of my favorite times in the school year and a highlight of my job. Being a school-based occupational therapist can be frustrating because it can seem the progress the children make is slow or the weeks appear to repeat, though the last week of school everything is different. No one stands out more than anyone else on crazy-hair day, everyone gets to go on the field trips, and who doesn’t love watching movies instead of doing classwork?

With only a week of school left, I have spring fever worse than the kids. I’m ready for unplanned days, no obligations, and sleeping in on weekdays. When Josie calls midafternoon in a panic, I’m more than ready to change my scenery.

“Can you meet me at the Tea Room?” she cries without returning my greeting.

“Now?” I look at my watch. I’ve just come back from a field trip and need to finish my notes and clean my room. However, I never turn down an opportunity to eat out and the Tea Room is one of my favorites.

“Yes, now. Get your ass over here. I already ordered your favorite.” She hangs up before I respond.

Josie Woodmere and I met when Trevor and I separated. She clerks for the attorney I hired and while taking my information to prepare for my divorce, we formed a friendship I knew would span time. She’s also part of the group of girls I hang with on a regular basis.

I throw my paperwork and work toys into the back of my car and drive, barely within the limits of the law, to the Tea Room. I find Josie at the table with several magazines spread out before her.

“Hey.” I take the seat across from her and pick up the iced tea she’s ordered for me. We’ve done this before.

I look at one of the magazines and am not surprised to see it’s a bridal magazine. Josie is getting married at the end of summer and has the tendency to obsess in general. Wedding planning is fertile ground for twenty-four-hour obsession. I pile up the magazines so the waitress can deliver our food.

“You bringing anyone to my wedding?” Josie digs into her salad.

I don’t have an “anyone” and can’t think of who I want to bring as a date other than Hank, and I’m not sure he’ll be in town or interested in going. I know how men are about weddings.

“Probably not.” I shrug.

“Good, because you won’t be wearing the bridesmaid dress we picked out.”

“What?” Josie, the other bridesmaids, and I spent hours picking out dresses we all liked and thought we might wear again.

“Yeah, apparently there’s a back order on the dresses and my pain-in-the-ass mother thinks this is something I planned to stall the wedding. We need to find a backup, quick.” She rolls her eyes and takes a gulp of her drink.

This is Josie’s third wedding and, if it happens, it will be her first to come to fruition. Her first fiancé was a guy she grew up with, a family friend. They decided to call it off on the eve of their wedding. Not the smartest move, according to Josie, but it was better than marrying a guy who was in love with another girl yet was going to marry Josie out of obligation, friendship. Josie said this guy’s life plan would have turned her into her mother, not that there is anything wrong with Josie’s mother. To hear Josie tell it, she wasn’t interested in becoming a tool for her husband’s career nor a charity-running, crash-dieting snob.

Josie tosses a magazine at me. “Start looking for something we both can live with. I’ll pay for it since it’s unlikely you’ll use again.” She gives me an apologetic look.

“Don’t sweat it.” I pick up a magazine, flipping through the pages, pausing on the pages she’s dog-eared.

“Thanks, Paisley, you’re a true pal.” She smiles and uses the side of her finger to dab at her misty eyes.

I know this wedding stuff is hard on her. After running out on groom number one, Josie left her parents with a wedding expense equal to a house down payment and ran off to find herself, moving often. At one time, she ended up at some artist commune. There she met groom number two, a struggling artist who was the extreme opposite of her father. She announced her happily ever after intentions over social media sites and her parents were furious. Halfway to Vegas with the Picasso wannabe, she found herself with cold feet. Though she hadn’t cost her parents the expense of another wedding, she’d once again embarrassed them. Apparently, in her hometown, she’s developed a reputation for her wedding mishaps.

Josie comes from a wealthy and affluent family and her parents are quite obvious with their expectations of a mate for her. When she became engaged to Brinn McRae, a grew-up-hard, street-smart pilot instructor and business owner, Josie was told she was on her own. If she followed through with the marriage, they would consider reimbursing her some of the expense. If she stayed married for more than five years, they would reimburse her the entire cost.

In her no-nonsense, would-never-guess-she-grew-up-privileged way, Josie told them to stuff it, though the words she used to convey this message were something often heard from a sailor’s mouth.

That’s our Josie. A beautiful, ebony-haired siren who can make men swoon with her looks and hardened criminals blush with her vocabulary and word combinations.

“This one isn’t too bad,” I show her a picture of a long, elegant-looking gown with simple straps and an empire waist. “Is it too long for an afternoon wedding?”