Chasing Stanley (25 page)

“From whose perspective? You babbled. You blurted.”

He got what he wanted: Delilah's eyes flashed with anger. “I told you I didn't do well with groups of people!”

“You have to learn to, Delilah! Otherwise, you're doomed.”

“You mean
we're
doomed.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don't know.”

Jason put on the AC, despite it being late November. High emotion had him perspiring. He waited for Delilah to protest, but she didn't. Maybe she was afraid to.

They drove in interminable silence. Jason turned on the radio, surfed, turned the radio off. Every song annoyed him, as did the manufactured, convivial patter of every DJ. Silence was better, even if it was the stony kind.

Eventually Delilah blurted, “If you want to break up with me, do it now!”

That was his cue. Jason pulled the car over. “I don't want to break up with you.”

“Then what?” said Delilah, flicking off the AC. Glaring, Jason leaned forward to turn it back on, then stopped: Delilah's hands were shoved deep in the pockets of her coat, her scarf wound tightly around her neck. She was freezing her ass off. Jason compromised by opening his window just a crack, grateful for the thin gust of cold air tickling the back of the head.

“I want you to get help,” he said.

Delilah cocked her head as if she hadn't heard him quite right. Ironically, she reminded him of the RCA dog. “Excuse me?”

“Lots of people suffer from social anxiety, Delilah. And they get help. They go see a therapist or take drugs.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“The kind that make you less anxious,” he offered facetiously.

Delilah's eyes burned like two coals in the dark of the car. “I'm not taking drugs.”

“Fine.” Jason was annoyed she rejected this option out of hand without even considering it. “Then talk to someone. There has to be some kind of support group: I'm Afraid of Humans Anonymous or something.”

“Now you're just being mean.”

“You don't think you have a problem?”

Delilah stared down at her lap. “I do, but I don't think it's as bad as you make it out to be.”

“It's bad enough to make you want to avoid groups of people.”

“You know, not everyone likes to socialize in large groups.”

“No, but I do.”

“Well, I don't. I'm shy.”

“You're more than shy. You're—”

“What?” Delilah challenged.

Jason paused, taking time to choose his words carefully. He cared about Delilah. He did not want to wound her with any further criticism, especially since he got the feeling that was the root cause of her problem in the first place. On the other hand, he didn't see how they could move forward as a couple unless they faced this difference between them head-on. Maybe he was selfish, but all he could think was: how was he supposed to relax in company if he knew she was miserable, or if he worried about what might come out of her mouth?

“Well?” Delilah prompted.

“You're more than shy. You've got some kind of phobia.”

“I talk to you. I talk to Marcus. I talk to salespeople and clients and other dog walkers.”

“Congratulations: you're not a complete social cripple.” Delilah flinched. “I didn't mean that,” he said, reaching out to touch her. Delilah pushed his hand away.

“This is why dogs are better. They don't criticize. They don't
say
hateful things.”

“They also don't hug you, kiss you, make passionate love to you, tell you you're beautiful, make you laugh, take you to the dog show, or defend you against refrigerator-sized assholes in the park.”

“That's true,” Delilah said quietly.

Jason reached again for her hand; this time she let him take it. “I'm not asking you to completely change your personality,” he said, brushing his lips against her knuckle. “I'd just like us to enjoy going out with people without it being a major source of stress for you.”

Delilah seemed impatient. “I know, but can I point something out?”

“Sure.”

“You were bored senseless at the dog show.”

“That's not true.”

“Jason, you fell asleep! Not only that, but if your schedule allowed it, you'd be out every night of the week.” Delilah peered at him accusingly. “Am I right?”

“I just moved to Manhattan! Do you have any idea how amazing this city is to me? How much stuff I want to do?”

“You're right to want to explore everything the city has to offer. But our ‘problem,' if you want to call it that, isn't just my shyness. It's that we like different things.” She dropped his hand. “Tell me your idea of a perfect evening.”

Jason squirmed. “I can't answer that.”

Jason forced himself to be honest. “A perfect evening would be the Blades completely destroying another team out on the ice—preferably my brother's—followed by you and me partying afterward with a group of my friends. It would conclude with you and me having mind-blowing sex.”

“Want to hear my version of a perfect evening?”

No,
thought Jason, but he nodded anyway.

“My perfect evening is: you come over to my place, we order in pizza, we watch
Animal Planet
or a movie we've rented, and then we go to bed and make love.”

“That sounds okay.”

Delilah looked surprised. “Does it?”

“Occasionally.”

“How often is ‘occasionally'?”

“Once a week?”

“How about half the week? To be fair?”

“I'm usually playing hockey at least three nights a week. Sometimes four.”

“Fine.” Delilah sounded huffy. “Let's say you've got four games one week, which leaves us with three evenings free. How are we spending them?”

Jason felt the first stirrings of tension at the base of his neck. “This is one of those trick questions, isn't it?”

“Just answer.”

“I'd say we spent two evenings out—not necessarily with friends, maybe just going to the movies or out to dinner”—he said in a rush—“and one evening in.”

Delilah shook her head. “Two evenings in, one out.”

“No way.”

“No way to what
you
want!” Delilah retorted. “Especially if I'm boarding dogs.”

Jason ran his hands back and forth over the top of the steering wheel. “Maybe you could gradually phase out that part of your business.”

Delilah looked indignant. “You're not serious.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“I need the money, Jason. I'm self-employed.”

Jason shrugged easily. “I'll give you the money to make up for that part of your business.”

“No!”

“You don't want to give it up because it gives you an excuse to be a hermit,” Jason accused.

“I don't want to give it up because it helps me pay my rent, and I enjoy doing it! You enjoy hockey, don't you?”

“Hockey isn't interfering with our relationship!”

“Says who?”

Jason scrubbed his hands over his face. “We're going around in circles here.”

“No kidding.” Delilah sounded tearful.

Jason's hand groped for hers. “I care about you, Delilah. I want this to work.”

“Me, too.”

“Then we're going to have to figure out some compromises.”

Her hand squeezed his. “Like what?”

Jason looked at her sadly. “I don't know.”

 

 

“What's the matter,
dolly? You seem distracted.”

Delilah shook herself out of her daydream to see her father peering at her with concern. He and Brandi had come in to the city to “treat” Delilah to Sunday brunch, a gesture she could hardly turn down. Ever since she'd consented to shop with Brandi, her future “stepmother” considered them fast friends, and Delilah was too much of a wuss to disabuse her of that notion. Plus, it seemed a small price to pay to make her father happy.

“It's nothing,” Delilah fibbed. The last thing she wanted to do was confide her romantic woes to her father. The man had sparred his way through nearly thirty years of marriage and was now engaged to a living, breathing Barbie doll. She was better off turning to Marcus for relationship advice.

Her father crinkled his eyes. “Don't lie to me, Leelee. And while we're at it, finish those eggs. You're way too thin.”

Delilah ate a mouthful of runny eggs to please him. “Better?”

“I'd be happier if you cleaned your plate. Now what's wrong?”

“Just—stuff.” Delilah pushed aside the sausage her father had insisted she order to the side of her plate. “Boyfriend stuff.”

Her father's hackles immediately went up. “He's treating you well, right?”

“He's treating me fine, Dad.” Delilah reached for a piece of toast. “We just have a few differences we need to iron out. That's all.”

“If you say so.” He looked unconvinced. “Why didn't you bring him with you today?”

“He left for a road trip this morning.” This time Delilah wasn't lying.

Delilah couldn't decide if Jason's leaving so soon on the heels of their disastrous date was a blessing or a curse. Maybe a few days apart would give them time to mull over what they'd discussed and what, if anything, could be done about it. But Jason's departure also left Delilah with a lingering sense of uncertainty; she hated that they'd parted without any real closure.

“How's his team doing?” her father asked.

Delilah knew her father; he had zero interest in sports whatsoever. Yet here he was, making an effort in a noncritical, minimally intrusive way. She wished her mother were here to learn a thing or two.

“They're doing well. They're leading their division right now.”

“Very nice,” said her father.

“How's that other hockey player doing?” Brandi asked, staring innocently at Delilah over her mimosa. “You know, that friend of yours we ran into after shopping?”

“He's fine,” Delilah said tersely. Brandi wasn't supposed to be thinking about Eric. Not while she was sitting next to Delilah's father.

Brandi sipped her drink. “He was nice.”

“He's my boyfriend's brother.”

“They both play hockey?” Delilah's father seemed surprised. “It must be a very athletic family.”

Brandi suppressed a giggle, while the insinuation seemed to fly right over Delilah's father's head.

“They grew up in North Dakota, Dad. There wasn't much else to do.”

“As long as he's treating you well,” her father reiterated.

“He is.”

“I'd like to meet him sometime.”

“You will.”

“Does he have a good mattress?”

“Don't ‘Dad' me, Delilah. A good mattress is crucial to one's health, as you know. You tell him if he needs a good mattress, he should come to me. I'll give him a great deal.”

“I'll tell him. I promise,” Delilah muttered. Anything to get off the subject of mattresses, which her father could go on about for hours.

Her father grunted into his salami and eggs, then asked offhandedly how her mother was. Delilah couldn't hide her surprise; usually her father waited until Brandi was off “powdering her nose,” or at the very least out of earshot, before enquiring after Mitzi.

“She's fine.” At least that's what Delilah assumed. They hadn't spoken since Mitzi had lured Delilah out to Long Island for the “emergency.”

“I heard through the grapevine that
schlemiel
she was seeing dumped her.” There was a touch of unrepentant glee in her father's voice. “For Myra Talman, of all people. That had to sting.”

“Dad, why do you care? I mean, really?” Delilah stole a quick glance at Brandi. She didn't seem to be listening, fascinated instead with twirling the tiny paper umbrella that came with her drink.

“I don't care,” her father insisted gruffly. “I just hear things.”

Things you sniff around for,
thought Delilah. “Can we change the subject, please?”

Her father frowned. “Sure.” He took another bite of salami. “How's business?”

“It's going great, except it's a little crazy right now: I lost my assistant, and I haven't found a new one.”

“I'll help you!” Brandi volunteered.

Delilah smiled politely. “I thought you were working at the spalon.”

Brandi's eyes began filling up. “I got fired.”

God, please don't let her weep into her huevos rancheros,
Delilah prayed. She supposed she should feign concern. “What happened—if you don't mind me asking.”

Brandi cast down her eyes. “I messed up a spray-on tan.”

“The woman had orange and white stripes!” Delilah's father hooted. “She looked like a creamsicle with eyes!”

“It's not funny, Sy!”

Delilah's father patted Brandi's hand. “I know, bunny wunny, I know.” Delilah didn't like the expectant look in his eyes as he turned to her. “Brandi could be a wonderful asset to you, Leelee.”

“I love dogs,” Brandi added.

“I appreciate the offer of help,” said Delilah, trying to keep in check the feeling of being guilted into something she didn't want to do, “but it doesn't make much sense. You live out on Long Island, Brandi.”

“So? I'll commute in.”