What He's Been Missing (6 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: What He's Been Missing
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“Very nice, Mr. I Need a New Car Every Year,” I teased.
“You're damn skippy! I work too hard dealing with these bad-ass college students to be driving around in something old. I'll take riding in luxury from here to there, please. What, the black man can't have new things?”
“Nothing wrong with old things,” Bird said, appearing from behind me with the invoice in hand. “You know what they say about old cars? When the world comes to an end—you know, we drop them bombs on one another and we're all burned to smithereens—two things will be left: roaches and old cars. Built tough.” Bird knocked on the hood of the Ford and then extended his hand to Ian. The oil and cuts and whatever on his hand were the perfect contrast to Ian's paws that had hardly managed any upsets aside from a paper cut while grading essays. “I'm Bird, this beautiful lady's mechanic.”
“I'm Ian—this crazy lady's friend.” Ian tightened his jawline. I guessed he was trying to seem bigger.
“Ian? The brother who's getting married? Congrats, man!” The handshake turned into a brotherly grip with Ian cutting his eyes at me.
“Oh, Rachel is talking about me?”
“I was just telling Bird how excited I am for you,” I said.
“No worries, man,” Bird said. “Most people don't know it, but the garage is just like a barbershop at times. Me and Miss Lady talk about a little bit of everything. And sometimes a lot of nothing.”
Bird and his muscular arms were flirting with me again and my eyes were flirting back.
“Sure,” Ian interrupted, poking his head between us—me and the arms. “Hey, ‘Miss Lady,' can I talk to you in private for a minute?” he asked. “Bird, it'll only take a moment, then she's all yours and you two can talk about whatever you like.”
Bird nodded and Ian pulled me into the parking lot.
“Talk about desperate,” Ian said, after pulling me halfway across the parking lot.
“He's not desperate,” I said. “He's just country.”
Bird was still standing in front of the truck waving at me.
“I wasn't talking about him!”
“What?” I looked at Ian. “I am not desperate! According to you, I'm dating someone. Right?”
“What?”
“That's what you told Scarlet.”
“Oh, that was nothing. She was trying to hook you up with some dude.”
“And?”
“And I knew you wouldn't like him, so I told her you were dating someone.”
“How could you be so sure I wouldn't like him?” I asked.
“He's a plastic surgeon. One of Scarlet's dad's golf buddies. Has his own practice.” Ian was trying so hard to make all of these traits sound uninteresting.
“And? Sounds like prince charming to me!”
“You don't like those types of guys,” he said. “He's too successful for you.”
(If I'd had a burning poker, Ian would be missing an eye right now. )
“What the fuck is that bullshit supposed to mean?”
“Whoa!” Ian threw up his hands. “Don't shank a brother in the West End now. I didn't mean it however you took it.”
“There aren't too many ways to mean it and take it,” I pointed out.
“You know what you do with types like that,” Ian said. “Like that last guy, the doctor from Morehouse . . . What was his name? Prescott? The one who was all ‘doctors without borders' and ‘try to save the world'?”
“Preston Alcott,” I answered.
Ian stepped back and smiled before we started laughing. There was no need to retell the story. I fell hard for Preston Alcott on the first date. He had a fast car, and like Tracy Chapman, I wanted a ticket to anywhere he went. He knew fine art, fine food, history, politics. He was rich. Had manicured hands. Good teeth. Great bones. Curly hair (I'm country, so I like curly hair—whatever). He wasn't like anything I knew. A lot of men in Atlanta have money now. A lot of men in Atlanta drive Bentleys and live in penthouses. But Preston didn't do it like it was new. Like it mattered to him. He was just prime rib. And he liked me! Now, I admit that I slept with him on the first date—but it wasn't for naught. The next morning, before he drove me home, he asked me out again. He was going to the mayor's ball and wanted me to be his date. I nearly died. Nearly fainted and just died. I was a long way from Chauncey and that pickup truck. Of course I said yes. The only problem was that while Preston had been asleep, I'd gone through his house (just a little detective work to see if he really was who he'd claimed to be) and found pictures of his former fiancée. She was a pretty thing. A long neck and cherry-shaped eyes. What bothered me, though—and I suppose I was looking because Preston had called me “thick” in bed—was that she couldn't have been over a size 0. Her arms looked like golf clubs. Her fingers, cocktail straws. And there Preston was, sliding a huge rock on one of those straws in a picture he'd stashed in his desk drawer. I wanted a huge rock! I looked down at my chubby fingers and thus began the craziness. I had ten days to lose twenty pounds for the mayor's ball. I'd make my grand, high-society debut on the arms of
The
Dr. Preston Alcott! Krista suggested I try this lemonade and cayenne pepper diet. It was ridiculous, had me dreaming of cheeseburgers and fried eggs all week, but I kept Preston in my mind and I did it. I lost the twenty pounds in ten days, and the morning of the dance, I was model gaunt and could fit into a size 6. I shimmied into Preston's arms and thought I was Halle Berry. Until the middle of the night. Then I was feeling lightheaded. Then I fainted.
“That situation is in the past,” I protested the memory of Preston looking so embarrassed as he helped get me onto a gurney in the middle of the dance floor at the mayor's ball. “It was just too much pressure to be perfect.”
“Pressure you placed on yourself,” Ian said.
“Men like Preston expect that. They want you to be perfect,” I said.
“I (You) hate them,” Ian and I said together.
“So what am I supposed to do? Be single for the rest of my life?” I asked.
“No, you got me!” Ian answered. “And I'm a doctor, too!”
“Yeah, right! And where have you been anyway? I haven't heard from you since the big proposal at the hotel weeks ago.”
“Scarlet has had me everywhere,” Ian said. “Dinners. The engagement party—”
“Engagement party? You didn't invite me?”
“Oh, it was small. Just some folks at her parents' house.”
“That was fast,” I said.
“Yeah, seems like everything is moving pretty quickly.” Ian's face went nervous. He seemed to drift away. “My Scarlet sure knows what she wants.”
“Do you?”
“I'm fine!” He raised his voice as he refocused on me. “No need to revisit what happened at the hotel. It was just nerves. I love Scarlet. And I'm ready to get married.”
“Being ready to get married is no reason to marry someone.”
“Are we going to do this? Are you really going to force me to have this conversation in front of”—he turned and pointed at the sign over the shop—“Big Bird's Auto Body?”
“Well, you—”
“I'm in love! I'm getting married.”
“OK!” I held up my hands in surrender.
“And . . . speaking of the wedding . . .” Ian smiled at me.
“I wasn't talking about the wedding. No one was talking about any wedding,” I said. I knew this was coming. But Ian knew my rule: I don't plan friends' weddings. No mixing business with pleasure; it always goes wrong.
“Come on, Rach! You know I have to ask.”
“And you know my rule.” I started walking back to the garage.
“I know, and I told Scarlet, but why can't you at least talk to her about it?” He grabbed my arm.
“About what?”
“About planning our wedding,” Ian said.
“I can't. I won't,” I said.
“Won't?” Ian followed me closer to the garage. “That sounds like more than principles.”
“Ian, I just don't do that.”
“It's all Scarlet is talking about. She's telling everyone my best friend is planning the wedding.”
“What? She's telling people that? You need to tell her I'm not doing it.”
“I think it'll come off better if she hears it from you. If I say it, she'll think it's because you don't like her—”
“Well, I—”
“But if you say it, she'll know it's not personal.” He made it sound so simple, but I knew better.
“This is a setup,” I said.
“How about over dinner tonight? My treat. Parish at eight?” He pulled the keys from his pocket like it was a done deal.
“Parish? Tonight? I can't!”
“You can't?” Ian frowned in disbelief. “Why?”
“Because I—I—”
“You what?”
“I have a date!”
“Whatever!” Ian laughed like he expected me to join in. “A date? There's no way!”
“No way?”
“You tell me everything. I would know.”
“Well, maybe right now you don't know,” I teased like we were in a school yard.
“Why wouldn't I know?” Ian stepped in close to me like a bouncer.
“Because . . . because I just made the date.”
“You just made a date?” Ian smirked.
“Yeah!”
“With?”
I looked around and there was Bird still grinning at me from the red truck.
“Him!” I pointed to Bird.
“Him?” Ian looked at Bird.
Bird waved.
“Fine,” Ian said. “If that's what you want. Fine. How about tomorrow? Lunch?”
“Lunch? That's our lunch. We always go alone. No one else,” I said.
“Just this one time,” he said. “So you can tell Scarlet about your rule, and she can get it out of her head and we can be done with it.”
I exhaled as I watched Bird cleaning a tool he was holding at his waist.
“I'll do it,” I said.
“Great! Same place as always?”
“Same place,” I said. “Same time.”
“Good. I'll tell Scar,” Ian said, taking out his phone as he started walking back to his car. “And have a good time”—he pointed at the sign—“Big Bird.”
“So, you're a woman of your word?” Bird said when Ian was gone. “Guess I'll see you tonight.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to think of how I could get out of the date with Bird, but the truth was, I didn't have anything else to do. Either I'd sit at home or go out to confirm what I already knew: there was no way anything between Bird and me would develop. We were just too different. I kept reminding myself that I wasn't making love plans. But it wasn't bad to have some plans. And what harm could he be? He was named after one of nature's most splendid creatures . . . and the most popular puppet on Sesame Street. Maybe he was the man I'd been waiting for. The one to sweep me off my feet. Be full of surprises I couldn't imagine. Sure, he seemed to like gold jewelry and obviously had some kind of s-curl kit in his hair. But I could change that. Love is meant to prevail against all odds!
Still, in case I couldn't change those things and the date was a disaster, I told Bird to pick me up at the office at five o'clock. That was the only address he'd had on file at the shop and there was no sense giving him my home address.
Of course, he showed up in a Ford. One older than mine. Shiny and purple and big. He pulled tight to the corner on Peachtree in front of the building where I was standing with Krista. I kept telling her I was all right and I'd see her in the office the next day, but she insisted on reviewing every single detail of the work day while scrolling through messages on her cell phone. I think she was just waiting to see my date, though, because when Bird pulled up in that purple car, she nearly squealed like a preschooler who'd just found an Easter egg in the school yard. “This is your date?”

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