Tempted (3 page)

Peter is p
icking me up tomorrow night at seven,
which means I’ll have to skip my new Tantric Yoga class
–
the one Mom has no idea I am taking and, God willing, never will.
 
Then again, it is more than likely she wouldn’t even understand what it’s all about anyway.
 
Perhaps I’ll mention it to her in passing just to see what happens.
 
If she clues in
,
I can always tell her she misheard me and blame
it
on her advancing years.
 
I can just imagine how well that would go over.
 
Either way
,
I’ll be in hot water, but it is awfully tempting.

A little later, as I drift off to sleep, thoughts of tomorrow’s impending perfection crowd out all plots of maternal harassment, and I fall into a peaceful and unhurried sleep.

* * *

The next day
,
I awake refreshed and cheerful, ready to face that sociological experience I’ve heard so much about, but really know so little of:
dating.

With a tinge of regret at missing out on one of my weekly rituals, I forgo my usual Thursday plans, including the Farmer’s Market at the Embarcadero.
 
Instead, I feverishly start Googling beauty salons.
 
I’ll need a blow dry and
styling session, finger and toe
nails that look human, and should probably swing by a department store makeup counter for a mini makeover.
 
Heck, I’ll even buy whatever it is they’re promoting, just to have an experienced hand apply some war paint.

Being an utter cameraphobe
,
I have always been grateful that my choice of profession allows me to be heard and not seen.
 
Having the proverbial ‘face for radio
,
’ I am far from the polished newscaster type.
 
I wouldn’t know the first thing about proper gl
amming techniques, and frankly I’
m not sure I even own mascara.

The menagerie doesn’t seem to mind.
 
In
fact no one in my life does
...
except my mother.
 
I can just picture the look on her face when I tell her I am going out to dinner with
a respectable, educated,
single
gentleman.
 
That priceless moment alone could make the whole outing worthwhile in and of itself, even if Peter were not fabulous in every way imaginable.

I am really looking forward to meeting him at last.
 
He came into my life as something of a knight in cyber armor when I was going
through intense heartbreak over
David, the love of my life, after finding out he not only had a girl, but was living with her in Italy
,
and not just there for business
,
as I had believed.

We’ve all had people who get under our skin.
 
For whatever reason, whether they’re sinners or saints, we just can’t shake our attachment to them.
 
And that’s exactly the way it’s always been fo
r me where David’
s concerned.
 
But he is no longer foremost in my mind.
 
Today I am just grateful for Peter’s emergence on the scene.
 
It lessens the sting of the David situation.
 
Now, after a spate of online flirting
–
my first on Facebook, and initiated by him
–
I am actu
ally doing the unthinkable.
 
I’
m getting together in person with a Facebook friend
–
with the prospect of it turning romantic, if not downright lusty.
 
Well, why not?
 
The guy is hot!

6:51pm finds me waiting by my front door, sweating despite the chilly weather.
 
Peter had messaged earlier bid
ding me to dress ‘appropriately
.
’
 
Only he didn’t
stipulate appropriate for what.
 
I opt for a fetching
,
classic 50’s-ish
,
black dress, heels and pearls, with my hair actually down and cascading in long flowing tendrils, curled just for the occasion.
 
My kohl-laden lashes feel heavy on my eyes and I do my best not to touch my face for fear of soiling the makeup artist’s handiwork, complete with an assault on some unruly eyebrows that were trying to break from the pack.
 
Despite my tomboy tendencies, I feel all girl tonight
...
and rather pretty, if I do say so myself.

April often refers to me as a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and frankly
,
she’s not the only one.
 
I get that sort of comment a lot.
 
Apparently being a tomboy but only wearing dresses and skirts poses a paradox.
 
I eschewed pants a few years ago and even went so far as to divest myself of jeans
–
something I never saw myself being able to live without.
 
Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of
Mad Men
in recent years, but there is something incredibly freeing and spirited about wearing girl apparel exclusively.

Suddenly self-conscious and bashful, I look down and note the sassy heels elevating my stature, and I consider how
after running
around madly to ensure I got a pedicure
,
my colorful toes are
now
ensconced in black leather,
hidden
from
admiring eyes.
 
Oh, no matter.
 
It was fun
,
and
a treat I never give
myself.
If the date proves to be nothing more than something to laud over Mom and the impetus to get a mani/pedi, I will still regard it as a triumph.

Lost in my thoughts
,
I don’t even notice the polished, vintage
,
bathtub Porsche pulling up in front of my drive.
 
Hearing the car door snap closed
,
I come to and grab my little black Prada bag and emergency satchel containing sweats and sneakers, should my ‘appropriate’ apparel be way off base.
 
I open the door just as Peter is about to knock and my breath catches at the sight of him.
 
Wow, he really is handsome.
 
Yikes, maybe intimidatingly so.
 
I miraculously locate the keys in my purse and manage to secure the lock on the door without too much embarrassing fumbling.
 
I turn around and find myself smack dab in the middle of a big 6’3” bear hug, and just sort of melt into his arms.
 
Oh, this is already fun.

Before I know it, he is pulling me by the hand over to the car, tucking me in and motoring us wh
o knows where.
 
Considering he’
s wearing a classic tailored suit, we look awfully ‘appropriate’ together.
Next thing I
know, we are at our destination:
the samples bar at Trader Joe’s!
 
We had discussed its merits online on many occasions and I regard the move as genius and the perfect ice-breaker.
 
My buddy Sarah is on duty again and does a jaw-drop double-take upon seeing me, but then plays it cool enough so as not to make me appear as dorky as I actually am.

If we had gone home right after our TJ stop I would have considered the date a success.
 
Instead, we head to the city
,
where he takes me to Aqua for dinner, followed by a stroll around the Palace of Fine Arts.
 
In rating the evening as a whol
e, I dub it ‘the best date ever
.
’
 
It not only goes off without a hitch, but is enjoyable in every way imaginable.
 
We laugh, we flirt, and ultimately we smooch out like teenagers.
 
He is gentlemanly, interesting, a joy to be around and just plain cool.
 
April is right.
 
This guy really is perfect.
 
So then why don’t I feel anything for him?

My Facebook wall has been buzzing with “Well?”s and “How did it go?”s after my perfect date with Mr. Perfect.
 
Fortunately, Peter left for a business trip a couple of days after our meeting, so I
have a handy alibi as to why I’
m not seeing him again this week.
 
My plan to taunt my mother with Peter’s existence backfired big time.
 
Now I
will never hear the end of how ‘perfect’
he is and how if I am efficient I should be able to plan the wedding for three months hence.
 
One word comes to mind
–
karma!

April, of course, immediately grilled me for the details of the Peter Perfect tryst.
 
Throughout my retelling
,
she was uncharacteristically stoic.
 
And at story’s end, after a pregnant pause
,
she said, “You’re just not that into him, are you?”

“
Not a bit of it,” I replied.
 
igh>
 
I launched into a rant, whining
,
“What’s wrong with me?
 
Go ahead and say it.
 
I am far too picky and am destined for the catlady life and ya know what, that’s just fine with me!”

“Blah blah blah, could you be any more dramatic?” April mocks.

“Hahahahaha.
 
I know.
 
I’m just starting to wonder if everyone is right
–
that I have unrealistic expectations
of what a relationship can be.
”
 

“Hey
,
only you know who or what is right for you,” she interjects.

“
...
and that I really am the ice maiden everyone believes me to be, incapable of deep, intense, all-consuming love.”

“Now we both know that’s not true.
 
You were head over heels for David,” she says.

Suddenly I am aware of an enormous elephant in the room, or in my head, a great wooly mammoth, which is my pachyderm of choice.

April and I rarely discuss David, or at least try not to.
 
What would be the point?
 
He is there and I am here, and it’s as simple as that.

Who am I kidding?
 
There’s been nothing simple about it.
 
Finding out he has a girlfriend whom he lives with, and not finding it out till eight months into our torrid long-distance affair should have been grounds for dismissal.
 
But oh no, not for this Pollyan
n
a.
 
I forgave him, dealt with it (badly) and moved on.
 
Still, April’s mention of his name arrests me and suggests that my heart has just been run through with a blunt instrument.
 

Eventually I fi
nd my voice, “Yeh, at least we know I’m capable of feeling.”

“Aww Cl
aire, I am so sorry. I didn’t
...
”

“I know, April.
 
It’s ok.
 
You wouldn’t be my best friend if you didn’t tell it like it is.
 
Thanks.”

Long pause.

“So whatever happened with Nimo?
 
Whatever became of him?” April asks.

Nimo, short for Geronimo
–
no one actually knows his real name
–
is a great guy.
 
He’s very cute with an infectious laugh and is quite the humanitarian, volunteering at a homeless shelter, and saving recyclables to give to the local middle school so they can raise money to get new sports equipment.
 
He is ex-military, Airborne to be exact, and now earns his living as a skydiving instructor.
 
In fact, that’s how I met him. I had always wanted to try skydiving
, but my dad, an ex-
paratrooper himself, was not thrilled with the idea.
 
A few months after he passed on
,
I consoled myself by taking my first and only jump in his honor.
 
Nimo was in charge of the little band of strangers who had signed up for the activity
,
and was engaging and enthusiastic in explaining how to
plummet
from the heavens.
 
I liked him immediately.