“We do!” they chorus, just as the doorbel rings, Esther barks, and I jump, one-two-three.
“Okay, wel , I’m sure I won’t be very late.” As I head for the front door, Mom shoves Dad in my direction.
“I’l , er, get the door and meet the young man before you go. Just in case.”
I don’t ask what just in case means.
Esther is on ful alert, barking like someone is taking an ax to the door. “Esther, quiet. Sit,” Instantly silent, she sits.
“Good girl.” Esther obeys Dad and Deb every time, and Mom and me when she’s in the mood. She knows who she can manipulate to bend the rules a little. Like me and the no-dogs-on-the-sofa rule. Mom and the no-dogs-on-the-bed rule. Both of us and the no-people-food rule.
Dad opens the door with his best Dad Smile—the expression that says: I’m smiling, but if you hurt my daughter, I know a place where no one will ever think to dig. “Mr. Alexander, I presume.”
Chapter 29
REID
“Your parents are nice,” I say as she settles into the back seat next to me, pul ing the seatbelt across her chest and fastening it with a snap. “Not that I expected anything else.” She smirks. “Yes, I come from a long line of nice people.” Her fingertips drift absently over the smooth leather of the car seat. “Those with a sarcastic edge, like me for example, are expected to marry someone super-agreeable, so our descendants don’t become total y unlikable.”
My first thought is that this removes me from the running immediately and without question. The hel ? I don’t want to marry Dori. I don’t want to marry anyone. Ever. I can’t imagine why I’m bothered to be eliminated from the running for something I don’t want.
“That’s too bad.”
Her hand stil s on the edge of the seat. “Oh?” I can’t seem to stop myself. I’ve switched to autopilot. “I think you’d be bored to death with someone too agreeable.”
“So you think agreeableness is boring?” She arches a
“So you think agreeableness is boring?” She arches a brow, as though I’ve just cal ed her boring.
I shrug. “It’s fine, in moderation. But in a relationship, a little fire is a good thing.” What the hell is wrong with me?
“Like you would know,” she says, and then slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
“Touché,” I laugh.
Through her hands, she says, “I’m sorry. That was a hateful thing to say.” But she’s trying not to laugh at the same time.
Insulting my capacity to maintain a relationship, hateful?
Please. That’s probably the least insulting slur she’s thrown at me. “Not unwarranted, though,” I say, stil smiling.
Her hair is down, drifting over her shoulders—no practical ponytail tonight. The highlights and lowlights I noticed when she walked up behind her dad must be natural, because I can’t imagine her bothering to add them.
Speaking of practical—her little black dress and the classic-not-trendy heels.
I’ve never actual y seen her upper arms before, since the sleeves of her t-shirts hang to her elbows. Her delts and biceps are curved and defined, strong but stil feminine.
The classic square neckline exposes the lines of her col arbone and the flutter of a pulse at the base of her throat, but isn’t low enough to show any cleavage. The waist nips in just under her ribcage, somewhat fitted. I’m familiar with her legs, of course, though her work shorts actual y show more of them. Not that this says much.
“This is the best I could do.” She breaks into my reverie, gesturing to her dress. “I hope we aren’t going anywhere too fancy.” Her hands twist in her lap, and I realize I’ve been staring at her. No one in the history of my dating life has dressed so sensibly and riveted my attention so entirely while doing so.
“First, we look pretty damned coordinated.” I indicate my gray slacks and black shirt. “Second, I’m used to seeing you in construction boots and a noble t-shirt de jour, most of which are pointedly anti-everything-I-stand-for. Your little black dress is a charming substitute.” She sucks her lip into her mouth and I strive to ignore that token of her uncharacteristic anxiety and the memory it evokes. “I think you’l like where we’re going. No worries, okay?” She nods, the corners of her mouth turning up, just barely, in a tiny indication of trust.
The restaurant is hole-in-the-wal and below street level, situated just off of a standard strip mal . It’s mom-and-pop Italian, unfrequented by celebrities, so no one is ever expecting to see one. Even if I’m recognized, I can almost hear the No, that can’t be him thought that fol ows. I’ve never brought a date here, because it’s my secret and I don’t want it spoiled.
The driver drops us at the door, and two minutes later we’re shown to a booth in the corner. This is the best part—
the booths around the perimeter are enclosed in their own wooden cubicles. The paneled wal s separating each booth extend to the low ceiling and have hinged doors that can be pul ed shut, concealing the interior from other patrons.
Inside, the ancient paneling is coated in graffiti, sharpied or carved into the wood: M+L always & forever, Katie loves Antonio, Stephanie & Lauren BFFs 4ever!
Dori sits across from me, her gaze drifting over every detail. A trio of flickering low-wattage “candle” bulbs inside a beveled-glass hanging lamp casts a soft glow over us both. The waiter steps up to the table with a basket of bread and two glasses of water. He extends the wine list and I take it, asking Dori, “Do you have a preference?” I’m not surprised when she answers, “Oh, I’m fine with water,” but it does make me wonder if she ever drinks at al .
The very proper eighteen-year-old daughter of a pastor. I’m guessing no.
I hand the list back to the waiter. “Nothing tonight.” I can go without for one evening.
“Very good, sir,” he replies, offering menus and rattling off the specials before asking if we’d like the doors shut while we decide.
“Sure,” I say. “And no rush.” He swings the doors shut and we’re treated to additional graffiti—more declarations of love forever, plus a few artistic doodles and an Oscar Wilde quote. “What do you think? You look apprehensive.
Do you want the doors left open?”
She smiles, and relief washes over me. “No, leave them closed. It’s cozy. I had no idea this place was here. How did you find it?”
“My parents and I used to come often, when I was young.” The owners remember my parents by name, and ask me about them whenever they’re here. Their son runs the place now, so luckily that coincidence is rare.
“You don’t ever go out with them now? Do they stil live in LA?” Dori asks, as though she’s reading my mind. Damn.
“They do. But my father is a workaholic and my mother’s an alcoholic, so we don’t real y do the family outings anymore.” I take a deep breath after this disclosure, incredulous to have just divulged that level of familial defect.
Her eyes don’t leave mine, her brow creased, compassion al over her face. This is the sort of expression that usual y infuriates me—and yes, I know who I’m actual y furious with, but that fact doesn’t stop me from lashing out at whatever unfortunate person sits there, daring to think they know how I feel. “I’m so sorry,” she says. For some reason, I believe her.
“Yeah, it sucks.” I have to redirect this conversation, now.
“I take it you and your very nice parents stil do family dinners, etcetera.”
She nods. “We’re pretty nerdy.” Leaning up, she gets a mischievous look in her eyes and stage-whispers, “We even have Scrabble night. You almost nailed that one, when you listed the stuff I do with my evenings. Except it’s on Fridays, not Tuesdays.”
Oh, God. “Wow. I’m such an asshole.”
“Hmm,” she says noncommittal y. “I have a confession.” Her expression is unwavering, and I instinctively brace myself. “I didn’t expect you to work so hard over the past month. Or to be so unpretentious and respectful. With, you know, everyone but me.”
I laugh. “I was respectful to you! Sort of.” The memory of coaxing her mouth open with my tongue almost knocks the amused expression from my face, and I fight to keep it there. “But I wasn’t, at first. I was a complete dick, and I’m sorry about that. I pegged you as sanctimonious and self-righteous, and I was wrong.”
She’s stil smirking—a good sign. “Wel . I am a little sanctimonious.”
I smirk back. “No. You assumed that I’m self-centered.
Used to getting my way. Dismissive of personal responsibility. And you were right—I am al of those things.” Her expression transforms from humor to something pensive and serious. “If that’s not who you want to be, al you have to do is choose not to be those things.”
“That simple, huh? Al ‘ Be the change you want to see in the world’?” I feel an undeserved sense of pride when she seems pleased.
“I think people assume Gandhi wanted everyone to adopt his quest for world peace, and they use that quote with that assumption in mind, rather than the doable urging it was.” Her dark eyes are animated. “Few of us can actual y change the world. We can only change ourselves.
But if enough people took that to heart, the world would change.”
A tap sounds on one of the doors, and the waiter leans in, asking, “Are we ready to order?”
Dori opens her menu, contrite. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even looked yet.”
“Give us a few more minutes,” I say, and he disappears with a nod.
As Dori reads over the menu I memorized years ago, I pretend to do the same, my mind humming. She believes I have the potential to be someone I’ve never been.
Someone I’ve never wanted to be, or thought possible to be.
That’s not exactly true. I have wanted it. Last spring, I thought I could be a different guy if I was with Emma. And then she told me she didn’t want someone who needed her in order to be a better guy. She wanted someone who was better by himself, with or without her.
For the first time, I see her point.
I’ve known for a very long time that I can’t change anyone else. But I’ve always looked at self-transformation as means-to-an-end, so any change I made was temporary.
I’m afraid of becoming my workaholic father, but the only thing I’m ever serious about is work. I’m afraid of becoming my alcoholic mother, but the type of drinking I did the night I crashed into the Diego house wasn’t an isolated incident.
Only hitting a damned house was isolated. Al the other times, when I managed to get myself home without destroying property or kil ing anyone on the way—that was luck.
“How’s the ziti here?” Dori asks, glancing up from her menu.
“Hmm? The ziti? It’s good.” I resolve to contemplate this shit later. I only have a couple of hours with this girl, and I don’t want to waste them soul-searching or self-flagel ating.
