Twitterpated (13 page)

Chapter 21

T
HE DOORBELL RANG AT EXACTLY
twelve the next day. This time, I approached the door without any wardrobe drama; an e-mail from Ben that morning had suggested dressing for the outdoors.

When I threw the door open and reached up for a hug, I took note of his hiking shoes, jeans, and down jacket. A perfect match for my own almost identical outfit. Except he had on flannel, and I wore a comfy green cotton Henley. I knew I’d better get him out of the house before Sandy saw him. She’d be thrilled for an opportunity to renew her lumberjack jokes.

I grabbed a coat and stepped outside into the chilly Seattle afternoon.

“Are we in a hurry?” Ben asked with a grin.

“I’m trying to save you from Sandy,” I explained.

“Why? Did I do something to make her mad?”

“It’s your shirt. I don’t want to send her over the edge,” I answered.

“Is it bad?”

“No! It looks nice,” I said. The blue and white pattern shirt sported a trendy Western cut with snaps instead of buttons.

“Well, back at you,” he said. “That shirt goes great with your eyes. They’re extra green today.”

I smiled, happy about the compliment. At some point, I would run out of green shirts to wear and I’d have to figure out what color accented my hair or something, but it pleased me for now that he noticed.

On the way to the car, I trailed behind him in order to better appreciate the view. Yep, it was official. All of him was good looking.

When he started the engine, I tensed, but his radio didn’t blare. Seeing me relax, he laughed and said, “I remembered this time.” He handed me his iPod, which synched to his stereo. “Want to play three-song deejay?” he asked.

“Sure, if you explain it to me.”

“It’s a game my parents used to play with us on road trips. Every kid got to pick three songs in a row so no one would fight over the radio. I like to do it now when I have passengers because it’s good for personality analysis,” he teased.

“How so? It’s all your music. Maybe my iPod is loaded with the smooth sounds of the seventies and some elevator jazz.”

“I doubt it. But to answer your question, I have multiple music personality disorder so there’s a ton of stuff on there. You’ll probably be able to find something you know and like. What do you say?”

I twirled the iPod dial. “I say, game on.”

He grinned and waited while I scrolled through the selections. Eclectic didn’t come close to describing the range. I zoomed from Beach Boys to Sufjan Stevens in about twenty seconds. I made a selection and settled back to watch Ben’s reaction as Jack Johnson’s “Bubble Toes” filled the interior.

“‘Jack Johnson when it’s not,’” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m quoting your e-mail. You like Jack Johnson when it’s not raining,” he reminded me.

“I do. Who do you like?”

“You, Jessie. I like you,” he answered.

I blushed, thankful he had to watch the road and couldn’t see me. “I meant music.”

“I know what you meant.”

I floundered, unsure of how to respond. I could see the corner of his mouth twitching and realized he meant to unsettle me. Poking him in the side, I growled, “You’re not funny, and you will pay.”

He grabbed the finger that poked him and drew my whole hand into his grasp then rested it in his on the console between us. “You’ll have to wait on my deejay turn to find out my favorites.”

“Fine. How about telling me where we’re going? Is it a surprise this time?” I asked.

“Nope. No surprise at all. I thought we’d grab lunch at my place, since it’s closer to the park, and then we’d do a light hike. I’m leaving the day open so we can do anything or nothing at all.”

“How do you do nothing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t you read or watch TV or sleep if you’re not working?”

He shot me a glance to see if I was kidding. “Sure, but that’s all doing something. We can just do nothing.”

“Um, you’re going to have to explain that to me,” I said.

“I’ll show you instead. We’ll find a point in the afternoon where we want to do nothing at all, and then we’ll do it.”

I shrugged. “Okay. I’m curious to see how it works.”

My next selection came on: “Birdhouse in Your Soul” from They Might Be Giants. Ben quirked an eyebrow at me but commented only on the weather. Nodding at the gray but dry sky he said, “I hope the clouds keep the rain to themselves. I wouldn’t miss it today.”

“No kidding. I’m not used to all this rain yet, and it’s been three years already.”

“It doesn’t rain in California?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, but a normal amount. It’s not an everyday thing like it is here.” I sighed. “What about you? You lived in Arizona for a while. Didn’t it spoil you for this kind of weather?”

“A little,” he admitted. We spent the next couple minutes comparing notes on our favorite kinds of weather (drizzly: boo; thunderstorms: yay). Small talk usually drives me crazy because I fluctuate between feeling like I’m babbling and being bored out of my mind, but with Ben, it interested me. Who knew I could be so into the weather?

My third choice came on. Bob Marley crooned about three little birds.

“Wow,” Ben said. “I thought
I
had a multiple music personality.”

“Do you have enough information to conduct your analysis?”

“Oh yeah. You’re totally busted,” he said.

“How so?”

“My extensive practice in the field of music profiling leads me to believe you’re excessively happy. I dare you to deny it,” he said.

“That’s a sucker’s dare. I
am
happy,” I said.

“Good. Is it the company or your natural state?”

“Maybe both. And those are all songs my sisters used to blare on the way to seminary. They were part of our wake-up sound track,” I explained.

“You were a good kid. I made my brothers drive and slept the whole way there.”

“What about when they graduated?”

“Then I drove myself there, half awake, listening to whatever came on the radio.” He reached for the iPod and fiddled with the dial. “My turn.” He grinned. “Now you have to figure out what kind of sound track these three songs would be on.”

We swapped stories of terrorizing seminary teachers and playing practical jokes on other youth leaders. It embarrassed me that I had a story or two to contribute. One part of my brain listened as each of his three song choices came on, turning them over and looking for a connection. He played selections from Death Cab for Cutie, the Avett Brothers, and Amos Lee. The third song finished. “Well?” he asked.

“Is that the combo that suggests you have good taste in music?” I guessed, hedging until I came up with the answer.

“That’s a secondary function. Guess again,” he said.

After a couple of more fruitless guesses, he took pity on me. “That’s my perfect moment playlist.” He smiled. “I only play those when I’m in the middle of a moment where I wouldn’t change a thing.”

A strong urge to reenact our Thursday night kiss seized me. To resist the impulse, I looked out the window, watching a green blur of trees whip past outside.

“Jess?” he asked. “Did I overstep? I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

I turned to face him again, noting the concern in his blue eyes. He had let go of my hand when he queued up his song selections. I reached over and tucked my hand back into his and ignored the nervous churning in my stomach.

“I haven’t been uncomfortable with you yet,” I said, and it was true. The nerves I quashed grew from my own overly analytical tendencies. But if I refused to overthink, to worry about an outcome . . . I sat back and felt the moment. It was a pretty great moment.

Chapter 22

A
COUPLE MORE SONGS PASSED
before he surprised me by pulling up to a cute bungalow on a quiet street. I thought he would have an apartment; instead, we sat in front of an older home, but fresh paint and a well-trimmed yard made it inviting.

“This is where you live?”

“Yeah, home sweet home. Come see,” he said, and I waited while he jumped out of the car to open my door.

“You don’t have to open my door every time,” I said after thanking him.

“Yes, I do. I believe in modern, liberated women, but my mom believes in old-fashioned manners, so when in doubt—”

“Listen to your mama,” I finished.

“Exactly.”

“What other cool tricks did she teach you to do?” I asked.

“Laundry, ironing, yard work,” he listed as he unlocked the front door. When it opened, a delicious smell rolled out. “And a couple of fall-back recipes.”

“You open doors
and
cook too? Do you have
any
bad habits?” I demanded.

“Sure, but you’d have to ask my brothers for a list of those. And don’t be too impressed because five of the six things I know how to make are on the grill, and I only learned because I liked playing with the fire.”

“So what do I smell?”

“The sixth thing in my weak playbook, and the only thing that doesn’t involve a barbeque,” he confessed. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll go check on it.”

He showed me to a comfy sofa and headed into the kitchen. I looked around, trying to gather clues from his living room. It didn’t say much. A couple of landscape paintings hung on the walls, the furniture was slightly worn but clean and all in a matching tan corduroy, and no knickknacks cluttered the end tables. I wandered over to investigate his bookshelf. When he came back from the kitchen, trailing a spicy scent behind him, I was leafing through a crime thriller.

“You like mysteries?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “But only if they’re not too scary.”

“You’d probably like that one,” he said, indicating the book I held. “It’s about a conservation officer who’s tracking down some poachers.”

He laughed at my doubtful expression. “I know it sounds weird, but the guys at the office are into this series, and they gave me a couple. It’s not bad stuff.”

“I believe you,” I said, not trying to sound convincing. I picked up another book, a collection of short stories from J. D. Salinger. “‘Great Day for Banana Fish?’” I asked, quoting one of the titles inside it without looking.

“You know your
Nine Stories
,” he complimented me. “I’m impressed.”

“No, I am. Mystery poachers aside, you have some pretty cool books in here,” I said. I recognized two or three poetry volumes and some computer programming books, but his collection also included a couple of Russian classics and some literary fiction I’d read about in newspaper reviews.

“There’s not much to look through,” he apologized. “Most of my books are in Arizona.”

“There’s enough here for me to do my own personality analysis,” I responded.

“Take your best shot,” he said. “What do my shelves tell you?”

I pretended to think hard, crossing my arms and tapping a foot while I developed my theory. He waited patiently until I delivered the verdict. “Turns out you still have a split personality,” I said.

“That’s okay. All my personalities are nice, and we get along with each other pretty well.”

“That makes me feel tons better,” I said. “Can you introduce me to the personality who cooks? Because I have to know what I’m smelling.”

“Sorry! I meant to feed you right away. Let’s go to the kitchen before I lose awesome host status.”

The kitchen, like the living room, didn’t say much about his tastes. White walls and cabinets with beige paint and older model appliances told me nothing more than that Ben kept things pretty clean. Even the refrigerator door boasted only ad magnets from a couple of local pizza chains. The kitchen opened to a breakfast nook, occupied by a small table set with plain white dishes.

“Go ahead and have a seat over there,” Ben said. “I’ve got beef stew coming up.”

I took the seat he indicated. “Beef stew, huh? It smells awesome.”

“It’s not fancy, but I think it’s pretty good. My mom figured my attention span in the kitchen was so short that she’d better focus only on stuff I’d like eating, and beef stew is an old favorite.”

“Good thinking,” I commented. “Your mom sounds like a wise woman.”

“She’s very Zen,” he agreed. “I think she learned it from raising four boys. Not much gets to her anymore.”

“So you’re saying you put her through that much as a kid?”

“Anything you can imagine and more. My brother Dave had a knack for troublemaking, and we were always on board. Each brother after him sort of inherited the job.”

He grabbed the bowls and dished out soup from the giant pot on the stove. Every time the cover came off, more insanely good smells wafted through the kitchen. My mouth watered. It felt weird. Ben set my full bowl in front of me then made one more trip, returning with a loaf of bakery bread. Impressive. I hated to stereotype, but I’d expect a guy to think of Wonder bread at best. This nutty whole grain had a delicious, yeasty, fresh-baked scent.

One bite confirmed it tasted as good as it smelled. “This is so good,” I murmured.

“There’s a cool bakery a few blocks away. I like the good stuff for dunking in my soup,” he said and promptly plopped a healthy-sized hunk into his stew.

It looked like such a good idea that I copied it. The flavor of the stew equaled the rich aroma. This time I couldn’t even form words, just a happy “Mmmm.”

“You like it?” he asked, looking pleased.

“Oh yeah,” I answered and set about making sure my spoon traveled a quick route from the bowl to my mouth, with a few bread dunks in between. When my stomach finally signaled to my brain to slow down, I asked questions.

“Do you have roommates?”

“Nope. I’m renting this for a few months from my aunt. She was nice enough to let me do it month to month since I didn’t want to get stuck with a closed lease.”

“It’s a nice place,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s not bad. It came furnished, which was the other nice thing, but it doesn’t feel like home yet.”

That explained the lack of clues. “What would you do if you could trick it out your way?”

He thought about it for a minute. “Tear out the carpeting and put in wood, switch the old sofas out there for a cool leather sectional, add more bookshelves, and repaint the outside to something more modern.”

“And the kitchen?”

“Something Asian style. Clean, interesting shapes, minimal clutter.” He gestured at the durable Corelle bowls holding our stew. “Definitely some cooler dishes. Square bowls. That kind of thing.”

“Wow. That was off the top of your head?”

“I might have thought about it a time or two.”

“So if this doesn’t feel like home, where does? Arizona?”

A fleeting frown slipped over his face, and he shrugged. “It used to.”

I thought I heard tension in his voice, but he looked relaxed. Deciding I imagined it, I asked, “Do you still have friends down there?”

“Some, but most of them have married in the last couple years. They’re busy with new babies and stuff, so it’s not like we hang out much anymore.”

“It’s kind of strange when your friends cross over to the married side,” I agreed. “Being married seems like this big mystery. Like there’s some kind of secret to finding who you want to marry and then existing in this altered newly married state. They’re automatic grown-ups or something.”

He looked amused. “You don’t feel grown up at twenty-five?” he asked. “You seem so mature and adult-like.”

Despite his teasing tone, I answered him seriously. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still seventeen and impatient for the rest of my life to happen.”

“I guess in the Mormon world, marriage does come next,” he said. “It’s strange when one of my friends ties the knot, but they all seem pretty happy. It must not be that bad.”

“So you haven’t found who you want to marry?” I asked. “I guess that’s a pretty good reason to wait.”

He put down his spoon and gave me a long look I couldn’t read. When he spoke, his voice sounded much softer. “I thought I did find the right person once,” he said. “But I was the only one who did, and I hear it takes two.”

I couldn’t imagine someone passing on Ben if he was that into her. “Was she nuts to let you go?” I asked.

He shook his head and smiled. “Look how hard it is to get you to come out.”

“Only during the week and only because of work,” I reminded him.

He grew serious again. “Actually, I was engaged before. For a long time, and that was the problem. I met my ex-fiancée when she joined the Church in Phoenix. She was a college senior, and she made it into law school right before we started dating. She studied long, crazy hours, which worked out fine because I was only in the second year of having my business, and I worked just as much.”

He broke off and sopped up his remaining stew with his bread. He took a bite but tossed the rest into his bowl, uneaten. “Things moved slowly, but they moved, and I thought we had reached the next level. I proposed; she accepted. But she wanted to wait until she finished law school, so I said fine, and another year went by. When she graduated, I thought we would set a wedding date, but she wanted to get through her first year at a big Phoenix law firm.

“It was a great opportunity for her, and she was brilliant and talented and incredibly committed to her job.” He smiled distractedly. “She just wasn’t committed to me.”

“Did she cheat on you?” I asked, horrified.

“No, nothing like that. She kept postponing the wedding talk until I gave her an ultimatum. Pick a date, or walk away. She had a thousand excuses, so I walked.”

“That’s rough,” I said. “How long ago did this happen?”

He fidgeted and cleared his throat. “We broke up right before I moved here. It’s part of why I changed my scenery.”

This wasn’t good. Not good at all. Did this make me the rebound girl? A consolation prize to pass the time while he figured out what to do next? I looked down at my soup, trying to process what it meant.

“Hey,” he said. He reached over and touched my hand. “I know it sounds like a big dramatic ending, but giving Carie an ultimatum forced an ending I could see coming anyway.”

I wanted to believe that so much it unnerved me, but I’d been burned once before by a guy with his heart in two places.

“Believe me, Jess. That relationship was over months before it ended. I tried to be a stand-up guy by sticking it out, but I didn’t do either one of us any favors.”

“And does Carie agree with you?”

He smiled. “Yes. She’s nothing if not practical.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” he promised. “Just because we weren’t right for each other doesn’t mean I don’t understand her pretty well.”

“It’s more a question of whether she understands herself. What if she takes a look around and decides you’re the one for her, after all? That’s a long time with someone to throw away,” I said.

“It wasn’t wasted time,” he said. “I learned a lot about myself and what I want. But to answer your question, she won’t. She and I are so fundamentally different that now that we’ve broken the habit of being in a relationship with each other, neither of us could consider getting back together. Yes, she feels the same. And no,” he forestalled my next concern, “I’m not on the rebound.”

“Nobody ever thinks they’re on the rebound,” I muttered.

“True,” he said and laughed. “But if I were, I would have run out as soon as we broke up and dated like crazy. I didn’t though.”

He lifted my hand and rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. “I took a few months to get my head straight, and then you came and found me.”

I tugged my hand away in embarrassment. “I didn’t find you,” I protested. “Sandy was behind the whole thing.”

He sat back, grinning. “So I’m dating the wrong roommate?”

“No!” I burst out and blushed when he laughed. “It sounds all needy and desperate to say I went looking for you, that’s all.”

“Jess, you’re about the most self-sufficient, independent woman I know,” he said. “I don’t think you have an ounce of neediness in you.”

“That’s not true at all,” I said, finding my composure.

“No? Then what do you need?”

I leaned forward ever so slightly. “I think a kiss would totally reassure me.”

What an understatement.