Kat Fight (9 page)

I scoot backward one butt length. “Well, I just started, sort of… we’re going out tomorrow.”

Why did I just say that? This is why these early morning hours are reserved for sleeping and not conversing. I nod slightly and with trepidation, remembering that Marc’s ego is not something to be toyed with.

“I see,” he says and pulls further away from me. Easily three butt lengths.

“It’s nothing serious—it’s our first date actually,” I say defensively. Why can’t I just shut up?

“Okay,” he looks down, clearly flustered.

I slap my leg. “Sorry, I’m not even sure why I said that. I just think it’s late and maybe we shouldn’t be sitting here making out on my couch regardless.” For some reason I feel the need to console him, not wanting him to regret what he’s just done.

“Yeah, sorry, I had a few too many at the wedding, I guess, and it was good to see you, and… I shouldn’t have come here like this,” he says and tousles my hair as he stands up.

“Marc, please don’t take any of this the wrong way. It was really great to see you, and it’s been way too long. Please don’t be upset you came here tonight,” I plead with him, truly not wanting to ruin the progress we’d made earlier in the evening.

“Thanks, Kat, I’ll catch up with you later. Have fun tomorrow.” He heads for the door and leaves almost as quickly as he came.

I lock the door behind him and crawl back into bed. Only forty-five minutes earlier I had been on cloud nine, reveling in my maturity where Marc was concerned and giddy about my upcoming date with Ryan. I lay quietly with my head on the pillow and one long, slow tear rolling down the side of my face.

After last night’s “study in dysfunction” as Julie would say, I have even more reasons to look forward to this evening. I debated whether or not to contact Marc and reiterate that there were no hard feelings, and that he shouldn’t be remorseful about what happened. But knowing him as well as I do, he must want to strangle himself for letting his guard down like that. I think it’s best to leave him alone for now.

Instead, I turn my attention to this evening’s plan and spend all morning trying to decide what to wear. I know I will wear my hair down. That’s a given for a first date. And since I’m almost never without a ponytail at the office, I think Ryan will appreciate the change. As for my outfit, I’m trying to convey “cute but casual.” I decide on a pair of jeans with a black V-neck top. Pretty much the same combination I decide on regardless of the occasion, sadly, but one that I am most comfortable with.

I also have every intention of being on time, but it’s now ten minutes to seven and I’m at least a fifteen-minute drive away. I grab my purse and spritz a little Bobbi Brown Beach on the back of my neck before heading out the door.

Once in my car, I get a text from Adam.

Let me guess ur late.

He texts.

On my way.

I reply.

Jeans and black shirt?

He asks.

F U

I reply.

Luv u, be safe, and I don’t mean driving

He signs off.

It’s only five past seven by the time I reach Ryan’s apartment, and I consider that a huge victory. I park the car about a block away and walk to his building. There’s no doorman, so I head straight to the keypad on the wall, search for his name, and wait to be buzzed in.

“Hello,” Ryan calls over the intercom.

“Hey, Ryan, it’s Kat,” I say into the speaker.

“Come on up. It’s 4B.”

As I enter the elevator, my excitement kicks into high gear. I’ve been anxiously waiting for some time alone with him, so much so that I haven’t properly imagined what I’ll do with it. Despite what Adam said, I think dinner at Ryan’s place is a great plan. This gives us so many more talking points than just sitting in a restaurant and being constantly interrupted by the wait staff.

I wind my way through the halls until I reach 4B. He’s propped the door open with one of his large shoes, so I proceed to let myself in.

“Anyone home?” I announce my arrival as I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. There is a warmth to his home that I can sense immediately upon entering.

“Back here, Kat,” he calls from the kitchen.

I head back through a long hallway and am quite impressed. It’s an awesome oversized loft with vaulted ceilings, exposed brick, three-quarter walls, and a window of glass block looking into the bedroom. As I approach the enormous granite island he’s standing behind, I can’t help but notice how glorious he looks. He’s wearing jeans and a royal blue long-sleeved cotton shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is still wet from the shower and his face is clean-shaven. As I make my way toward the kitchen, Ryan immediately comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. The closeness of his body sends a chill down my spine as I catch a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. I think I actually closed my eyes for a second.

“Glad you could make it, and right on time,” he grins.

“Thanks for having me. What’s on the menu?” I ask excitedly and strum my fingers on the shiny black countertop.

He glides back around the island to rejoin the food. “Well, my favorite thing to make is pizza, so I thought we’d start with that. It has gorgonzola and caramelized onions. Are you good with that?”

“I’m very good with that,” I reply.

“Then I’m doing braised short ribs and polenta. I typically do a salad or vegetable with it, but I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to you the other day,” he remarks. “So I made homemade sourdough bread as a side.”

“Thank you. Healthy foods actually have the opposite effect on me.”

“Please have a seat,” he gestures toward the four stools at the island. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love one, what are you having?”

“I’m having a Fat Tire, but I have wine too. Name your poison.”

“I’d love a Fat Tire, thanks.”

“A girl that hates vegetables and loves Fat Tire. Mmm. Mmm. Good,” he says to himself, but loud enough for me to hear. He then proceeds to un-cap two bottles and pour them one by one into a set of tall glass tumblers.

I take a sip of the cool, frothy ale. “Did your mom teach you how to cook so well?” I inquire.

“Ah… no. My mom does not cook, never has. She’s mostly known for eating out and sending food back in restaurants.”

“Yikes.”

He takes one of his wooden pizza peels and wipes some loose cornmeal off with a dishtowel. “Don’t get me wrong; I love my mom, but she can’t toast a bagel.”

“Well, then she and I should get along swimmingly!” I say.

“Are you Jewish?” he asks with a smirk, and puts the pizza peel away into a narrow cabinet next to the oven.

I hadn’t seen that question coming this early on. “Is my answer going to affect the portion size of my entrée?” I need to know.

“It may,” he says without flinching.

“No, I’m not Jewish. Is Ryan
Sullivan
?” I interrogate him back.

“Half, my mother is Jewish, and my father is Catholic.” He pauses, reaches for two white ceramic plates, and sets them in front of me. “Which means I’m great with guilt—both giving and receiving.”

“Well, you should know that I love a good lox platter,” I say proudly.

“That’s a start.”

“So, now you’re going to tell me that your mom wants you to marr…
date
a nice Jewish girl?” I twist my hair and pretend like I’m only mildly interested in his answer.

He gives me a funny look and tucks the corner of a dishtowel into the front of his jeans. “She has no say, and will be happy with
anyone who can bear grandchildren. No pressure, of course
,” he reassures me and takes a sip of his beer.

“Just happy to have you married off one day?”

“Yes, she’s been talking about it since I was six years old,” he says in all seriousness.

“Really? That’s awesome. Since you were six?” I confirm.

He places his hands on the island and leans toward me like he’s about to tell a ghost story. “She used to sit me down on my bed and say:

Okay, Ryan, let’s practice. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and you’re married. I want you to come by and see me for dinner, but your wife doesn’t want to. What are you going to do?

‘I’ll come by and see you, Mom.’

That’s right, angel, and what are you going to say to your wife who doesn’t want to come by for dinner?

‘We’re going to my Mom’s for dinner.’

Perfect. Let’s practice again…

I burst into laughter. “She didn’t!”

“Would somebody make that up?” He looks straight at me shaking his head.

“Oh my God, that is hysterical. She sounds hilarious.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he says and begins to place two pizzas in front of me. The greasy gorgonzola is bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. The scent is rich and intoxicating. Much like Ryan’s cologne.

“So how did you learn to cook like this? And where can I sign up?” I ask in awe.

“I just really enjoy it. I watch a lot of Food Network and different cooking shows and just sort of picked it up. Self-taught, I guess.” He rolls a pizza cutter through the cheese and delicately lifts a piece onto an appetizer plate, then hands it to me.

I inhale the sweet & pungent aroma. “Somehow I’m guessing even a 48-hour food marathon wouldn’t help me create anything close to this. You must really love doing it.”

“I enjoy it. Especially when I have the chance to cook for other people. I think I like watching people enjoy my food as much as I like preparing it.”

I sink my teeth into the piece. Is this guy for real? Great apartment, likes to cook, talented copywriter, and fan-fucking-tastic looking. If he starts fanning me with palm fronds after the meal, I’ll know it’s a dream. I’ll simply wake up, feed my cat, and move along. Pretty much, I’m doomed for heartbreak and should do everything in my power to gather myself off the stool and run back through the hallway, down the elevator, and into my pathetic car without turning back. He is too good to be true and I just don’t have this kind of luck with men.

Not surprisingly, I don’t move. Instead I sit firmly planted on my stool as he presents me with course after course, each one richer, and more delicious than the next. It is quite charming to see how proud he is of each plate and how intensely he watches my face for a reaction to every bite. I notice during the third course that he’s not eating nearly as much as I am, but it’s too late for me to act all demure at this point. We finish the dinner and I debate whether he’ll be complimented or appalled if I unbutton my jeans.

“Did you save room for dessert?” he tempts me as he clears the dishes.

I hate the thought of insulting him, almost as much as I hate turning down dessert, but I am beyond stuffed.

“Of course I did. However, the room won’t be ready for a couple hours,” I say.

“I understand.” He laughs a little and begins to stack plates in the sink.

I finally get my butt off the stool and almost fall over due to the added weight. “Please let me help with those,” I offer.

He steps in front of me and blocks me with his chest. “Kat, don’t you dare set a foot behind this island. House rules.”

“Gotcha,” I say and raise my hands in arrest. “I will then gladly test-drive your couch if you don’t mind.”

“I insist,” he says. “I won’t be doing dishes either, they can wait.”

He grabs another beer from the fridge and joins me on the couch. He’s so much larger than me that it gives me a really safe, comfortable feeling having him by my side. His sleeves are still pushed up, exposing his forearms, and I can tell by those muscles alone that he is a force to be reckoned with.

“So how do you manage to stay in such great shape with all this cooking?” I ask.

“I like to run.”

“Oh, like on the lakefront?”

He leans back and stretches his legs. “Yeah, sometimes. I try to run outside whenever possible,” he says and shifts his body closer to me, but I’m not sure if it’s intentional or not.

“Have you ever done any races or marathons?” I ask.

“I do the Chicago Marathon every year. How about you?” he asks in all seriousness, and it pains me to burst his optimism with my answer.

“I don’t even like to drive twenty-six miles if I don’t have to,” I confess shamefully.

Ryan laughs as a potential date activity is squashed and then says, “I’ll be sure and keep that in mind.”

We sit together for an hour or so, talking and trading stories about our friends and families. His eyes are glued to mine the entire time, so much so, that I can hardly recall anyone in my whole life having listened to me that intently about anything.

“Would you like another?” He gestures to my empty beer glass.

“I think I’m good. One more and my first date etiquette goes down the tubes,” I warn him.

“We wouldn’t want that to happen.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Nooooo, it could be tragic, as you may recall from our first encounter. Nothing good comes from me over-eating
and
over-drinking,” I say with embarrassment, and reference the horrible debacle that was my blind date with his friend Pete.

“Hey, it happens to the best of us, and besides, that was the first time we met so it wasn’t a complete loss,” he says.

“That’s such a shame,” I say and bury my face in my hands.

“What?” He asks and pulls my hands back.

“Having that be your first impression of me.”

He shakes his head slightly. “My first impression was the minute I saw you. You and Julie walked in and hadn’t noticed us yet. I was immediately captivated.”

I give him my best “you’ve got to be kidding me” face and then succumb to the compliment. “Okay, I’ll have another beer.”

He tilts his head to one side and leans back further into the couch. “I’m serious; I think I fell for you the second I saw you.”

I’m looking at him, waiting for him to make some additional sarcastic comment, but it doesn’t come. Obviously Dave must have told him how much I like him and he’s trying to take advantage of it. What are the chances that in addition to the pre-existing laundry list of good qualities he has, that he would be unabashedly honest as well?

“Did Dave say something to you?” I have to know.

“About?”

“About me.”

“What about you?”

“That I was interested in you,” I say, hesitantly.

“Are you?”

“Isn’t it painfully obvious?” I ask.

“It’s not painfully anything, and no, Dave hasn’t said a word. In fact, Dave and I have yet to discuss anything unrelated to work,” he says, “but I’m glad to hear you’re interested in me.”