Not Exactly a Love Story (26 page)

“I’m usually out here much earlier.”

“Early to bed, early to rise?”

“I go to sleep early,” she said with a little shrug.

So much for truth-telling.

“I meant what I said last night. The movie? I’d like to do it again sometime.”

“That’s okay, Vinnie,” she said. “I appreciate it. Really.”

“That sounds like a no.”

“You looked at me differently after you got punched out in the locker room. You were different.”

She was right. But not for the reasons she thought. How could I say that Vincenzo was the one who got mad at her?

“I mean, for me it stopped being about the good time we had last Sunday,” she said. “I’m embarrassed about the things he said about me.”

She tucked their paper under her arm and started back for the house without me. I grabbed our paper, closer to the curb, and dashed back to her.

“Admit it,” she said. “Part of the reason you keep asking is just to be nice.”

“What if I took you to the movies to be nice,” I said, “but I bought you the hot chocolate because I really like you?”

Wrong. It was written all over her face. Right then—not a moment before, I don’t know why—but right then, I remembered what she’d said about Vinnie Gold. A Ken doll.

I tried again. “I asked you because I thought we’d have a good time again, and we did.” Which was as real as Vinnie Gold could get.

I should’ve just tied a stone around my neck and jumped in.

Because what I wanted to tell her right then, sometimes a guy just likes the way a girl sounds late at night. And when her eyes widened, I could say,
So of course I’ll keep on calling at midnight, even if I’ve just brought you home
. But Vincenzo had blown his last chance.

So what I said was, “I took you out because I like you, Patsy.” No frills.

She gave me an odd look. I lost any points I’d gotten for
honesty, because I didn’t quite meet her eyes. Telling the truth is tougher than it sounds.

“I’m not saying no to you personally, Vinnie. I don’t think I’m going to go out for a while,” she said. “I’m off dating.”

We had reached our doors, and both of us hesitated. I was trying to get up the nerve to say the kind of thing that Vincenzo found so easy. But Patsy beat me to the punch.

“You’re a good guy, I know how nice you were to me—” And then she pulled out all the stops. She used honesty. “I almost thought you were—it sounds stupid, I know, but I kept thinking you were going to turn out to be somebody else. I thought there was this soft part you were protecting—there’s just nothing soft about you, Vinnie. That’s not your fault, you don’t have to be different for me, so I’m just sorry, okay?” she finished, in a tone that didn’t sound sorry at all.

She opened her door and stood there, waiting to see if I had anything more to say. I’m not a glutton for punishment. I decided to take her at her word, at least for the moment. I opened the kitchen door and went inside without another word to her. I wish I could say Vinnie Gold ran his fingers through his hair and strolled off, the winnah. But it didn’t really feel that way.

Vincenzo had been right all along. I was the one.

But in a funny way, she had said the right thing. What might have happened if I had done the same?

Real meeting real.

An underwater earthquake. Foundations being ripped
asunder miles below, and nary a ripple on the surface of the water. In a way, that’s what had happened, even though only one of us knew about it.

“Vinnie,” Mom said. She was sitting with Mr. B, dunking a French glazed. Mr. B had made an early-morning run to the donut shop. “Can we have the paper?”

I set it down on the table. “Hot chocolate in the mug,” Mr. B said, sort of in breakfast code as the phone rang. He got up to answer it, said “Good morning, Ma.”

I headed for the teapot and poured boiling water into the mug, stirring. “Hey, Mom, you remember Paul?”

“Paul who?”

“I don’t know. He was your Paul.”

“Oh! Of course I remember him.”

Mr. B stepped into the dining room with his conversation, phone cord stretched and jiggling.

I asked Mom, “Who was he, exactly?”

“First guy to love me. First one to tell me so, anyway. What a character.”

“What kind of character?” I made much of choosing from assorted donuts, hoping she’d talk.

“We grew up together, so I was aware of every silly kid thing he ever did. Awful things, sometimes. I didn’t take him seriously. But I broke up with my longtime boyfriend two days before the prom, and Paul stepped in to take me to the dance. And to a dance club in the city after. And to the beach at daybreak.”

She snatched up the last French glazed donut as my
hand hovered too near, and added, “We were with a whole bunch of kids, of course, but that night I learned he’d loved me through most of our teen years.”

“So how come you and Dad used to sound sort of mean about him?”

“Did we?”

“Well. I was a kid. I could be wrong. But why would you say to Dad, ‘Remember Paul?’ And then laugh.”

“Ah. Well, your dad almost didn’t marry me.”

!!!

I was glad I had just taken a big bite. It covered my surprise.

“About a week before the wedding, he got cold feet. And Paul offered to step in.” This last bit about Paul was said with real affection. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“About Paul. He was such a great guy.”

“Even though he did all those things you mentioned. Awful things?”

“Probably because of them,” Mom said. “Out of all the guys I dated or even didn’t date back then, he was memorable, you know?”

“Where is he now?”

“Married the prom queen and moved to Seattle, last I heard.”

“The prom queen?”

“She had been, yes, but when he married her, she was a fashion buyer, moving out there to work for a big department
store. And he was moving out there with her, moving his practice, way before it was fashionable to do that kind of thing.”

“His practice?”

“He was a lawyer. Defending the undefendable, of course.”

Mr. B came back and said to Mom, “Ma wants to say hello.”

I was standing in front of my breath-fogged bedroom window around five o’clock, maybe five-thirty, looking forward to spaghetti and meatballs. It was dark, of course, but I could see a few snowflakes drifting past the window.

I saw Patsy leave by her back door. She walked down the drive, not especially fast and not particularly purposefully. I watched long enough to see which way she went, thinking it was good I had my work boots on. No time to waste.

“Vinnie, what’s the rush?” Mom wanted to know as I sped through the living room. “I’m about to take the spaghetti out of the oven.”

“Save some for me,” I yelled back to her. “I’m going for a walk.”

I ran up the block, pulling on my jacket, and when I got to the
corner, I could see Patsy turning onto the next block under a streetlamp. She was walking faster now, the snow still lazily blowing.

I set a pace for myself and caught up with her. She looked back and saw me coming, but she didn’t react, didn’t wait. “Would you mind a little company?” I asked, pulling up beside her. “It’s a little late for you to be out alone.”

“It isn’t even six o’clock,” she said, but any rejection that had been intended was muted when she sniffled.

I took that for a maybe. “It’s dark,” I said, and hoped that settled it. I put my hands in my pockets like I had gotten into a stride.

“I’m sorry I was mean to you today.”

“You weren’t—”

“Yes, I was. I was wrong, too. Everybody has soft places, including you.” Sniffle, sniffle. But there were no tears when we passed beneath a streetlamp.

“Yesterday, that wouldn’t have been what I wanted to hear.” Too true. And it had taken me hours to hear what she’d said earlier, what she was saying now. She hadn’t appreciated Vincenzo for his detachment, or Vinnie Gold for his cool. She wanted the guy with feelings on display, whoever he was.

I hesitated. I couldn’t afford to get clever now. Patsy and I were mapping out fresh territory here, on dry land. She’d told me what she wanted. Someone authentic and unguarded.

She gave me that odd look again, and this time I made myself meet it. “What about today?” she said. “Tonight?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Okay, okay, it wasn’t total honesty, but at least I didn’t lose any points for that answer. We cut through a little path that ran between two properties. It was much darker as we crossed the backyard of an unlit house. I asked, “Are we headed anyplace special?”

“No,” she said. “Okay, yes, but I’m not on an errand or anything. No one’s lived here for a while, but somebody keeps up the goldfish pond. I like to come sit beside it.” Then she laughed. “I guess it’s a little dark to see the fish.”

But we sat anyway, on a cold stone bench. Ice covered the surface of the pond. The snow ticked faintly as it landed on the ice.

“When did you come here last?” I asked her.

“In September.”

“I think they’ve taken the fish someplace else for the winter.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I never came to see them in winter before. When they’re in the pond, even if it’s dark, you can hear them come to the surface.”

“I know. The angelfish in my tank do that. Blip, blip.”

“Exactly.”

It was a strange feeling, being so aware of her in the darkness. Both of us so quiet I could hear her hair brush against the fabric of her jacket. I heard when she allowed her breath to leave her in a small sigh. Very much like talking to her on the phone. That surprised me.

Somehow, despite the satisfaction I’d taken in our late-night talks, I’d always felt there must be something lacking. Some sensual thrill that could only be enjoyed if I could touch her. That’s what meeting her at the dance was about. And I’m not saying that touch didn’t add to the experience, immeasurably. But I understood for the first time how completely we shared a real intimacy. Vincenzo had said it once, hadn’t he? We could tell each other anything. We had.

“I have the strangest feeling, sitting here with you,” she said. “Like we’ve been friends for such a long time. So different than I felt earlier today.”

It was an appropriate moment, I decided, and I said, “I’ve had some time to think it over and it’s probably easier if we aren’t trying to go it alone.” I could hear some
deep-down shakiness in my voice, and I was sharply aware that she could hear it, too.

“What?”

“I’m talking about what you said about survival.” Okay, so I was shaky, but I was on dry land. “You know. About taking risks. The other night.”

“Vinnie?” Breathlessly. I think. I hoped. I was too terrified to trust my own judgment.

“Vincenzo.”

“Vincenzo … Gold?” she said, her voice rising on “Gold.”

“My father’s name is Vincent, but being something of a romantic, and being married to an Italian woman, he—”

“Your mother is Italian?” Breathlessly. No mistaking.

“I’m fifty percent. Ask me if
I’m
Italian, for Pete’s sake!”

“It is you.”

There was a long, still moment during which I reflected that I had offered her my earth-shaking revelation. Real meeting real. And the world hadn’t come to an end. It made me brave. “So you still have a craving for Italians?”

She made a little sound in the darkness, something between a cough and a sob. I didn’t hesitate. I put my arm around her waist, held on to her elbow. I thought she’d started to cry.

I might cry too, it had been a hell of a day.

But she was laughing. “I knew it,” she shouted. “Twice I knew it, but then you would sound so sure of yourself, arrogant, and I talked myself out of it.”

“Arrogant?” I felt a smile stretch itself across my face. “Vinnie Gold is not arrogant. Vinnie Gold is suave.”

What she did, she put an arm around my neck and hugged. Hard. And she was still laughing when she let go. Me, I hadn’t smiled like that in years. Maybe ever.

She said, “Vincenzo?”

I loved the way she said it. “Yes?”

“How did you change your voice?”

“I put a couple of folds of T-shirt around the phone.”

“No way that was all.”

I shrugged. “Mostly, I just sounded more confident.”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“I would have guessed,” she said. “Soon.”

God, she was so real. One thing I finally got, if she held surprises—and of course, she would—they were going to be the kind I could handle. Knowing that made me feel so grounded.

We started back home. We stopped along the way to take a look at each other in the light. I think we both liked what we saw.

And if it gets a little scary, well, we can hold each other’s hand.

The lovely thing about thanking Shana and Jill, and the copy
editors and the art department at Random House, even though I have before, is that I’m still thanking them. They are the marshmallows in my hot chocolate, and I lift my cup to them. A special thank-you and an extra marshmallow to Alison Kolani and Susan Wallach.

Audrey Couloumbis
is the author of several highly acclaimed novels, including
Getting Near to Baby
(a Newbery Honor winner) and
War Games
, which she wrote with her husband, Akila Couloumbis. Audrey grew up in Illinois and in Queens, New York, where she attended Forest Hills High School, like Vinnie. She and Akila met when she hailed the taxi he was driving down Broadway. She currently divides her time between upstate New York and Florida.