What a Girl Wants (15 page)

I can hear myself breathing. I am ticked. It’s not just about today and the beginning of my new life. It’s that I really don’t have anyone to take to my brother’s wedding as a date. No one to introduce like I would have Dr. Novak—and he’s not even an engineering Ph.D., but a real doctor. But today is different. I have resolve. I’m not going back to sit with the
Reasons
. I am a Season girl, and I will prove it with everything in my being. Just as soon as I get beyond this mounting fury that Kevin stood me up.

After a tumultuous flight, I arrive in San Francisco angrier than I thought I knew possible. I’m repeating my new mantra for men
. Leave room for God’s wrath. Leave room for God’s wrath
.

Outside of customs, in my hurry, I fumble with my suitcase and briefcase and end up dropping both in a spectacularly clumsy move worthy of a Samsonite commercial. Of course, rather than help me upright my suitcase and gather the documents that are spilling out of my briefcase, businessmen are stepping
over
me. I
so
hate the Silicon Valley.

Looking up, I blink several times as I see a man
hotter
than Dr. Kevin Novak himself. He’s standing with a bouquet of peach roses wearing a navy suit, and he’s looking at me. Subconsciously, I rub my hair and pull up my chin. It’s Fabulous Friday after all; anything is possible.

I pick up my bags, and walk resolutely by Mr. Perfect. Flirtatiously, I smile at him and nearly keel over when he hands
me
the flowers.

“Ashley, it’s me, uh, Kevin.”

I’m blinking like I’ve got a permanent tick. It
is
Kevin. He looks incredible. I had forgotten he was this handsome, scaling him back in my head to something my heart could handle. And he’s standing here holding flowers. Did I miss something? “But you weren’t at the Top of the Mark today—I mean yesterday,” I stammer.

“I know, because I checked the Internet and your flight was canceled.” He shrugs. His shoulders are bigger than I remembered them. I wonder if he has shoulder pads in that jacket. Do men wear those? Or is that like male eyeliner? I pat his shoulder in a slight hug. Nope. Hard as a rock. It’s all him.

“You checked my flight?”
Be still my heart. He is perfect
.

“Mine was late coming in the other day, so I wanted to make sure you’d be on time. I didn’t want to sit in that elegant place staring at that beautiful view without company. I’d be like Cary Grant standing on the Empire State Building waiting.”

Oh my goodness. He said Cary Grant. Not Tom Hanks, not
Warren Beatty—none of the sorry remakes. It’s destiny!

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say.

He smiles a lopsided smile like George Clooney’s and it’s everything I can do not to melt into a little puddle around his feet.

“We had a date,” he says. “Are you up for it?”

We did have a date.
Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my Season.

14

W
hile Dr. Kevin Novak looks like he’s starring on
ER
, I look like Casanova’s unmade bed. This is going to be an issue—dating a man who looks like Kevin. I always considered myself well-dressed and concerned about my appearance, but it’s not a natural look. I don’t wake up that way. It’s a process, a long process—even without flowing tresses. Doc undoubtedly looks like a million in scrubs and now I’m wondering, do I need this kind of pressure in my life? Whoever marries this guy is in for an everyday occurrence of meeting him in the morning. Oh, it’s far too much to think about.

In the airport restroom, I’m rifling through my suitcase like a homeless person, trying to find something worthy of wearing to the Top of the Mark. If Kevin only told me he was coming, I would have been all made up getting off the plane. And frankly, more careful about toppling over my suitcases while leaving customs.
Whatever.

My skin is looking thirsty, like an Arizona parched desert. I drank plenty of water on the plane, but apparently all it did was force me to visit the toilet-in-a-dank-closet four times, because my skin desperately needs moisture. After washing my face and trying to dry it with one of those cheap, non-absorbent public restroom paper towels, all I’ve succeeded in doing is smearing mascara about my cheeks like war paint.

“Oh, Lord, help me,” I say to the mirror, but I’m calm. I wash my face again. Can’t find my $40 cleanser, so I’m making do with the sickening-sweet public bathroom soap and hoping my scent doesn’t make Kevin suddenly want to urinate in Pavlovian-style.

Luckily, my moisturizer is right where I’ve left it and I slop it over my skin with too much zeal. Now I look greasy, like a cooked pizza with fake cheese. Trying the soap one more time. It’s been ten minutes and I haven’t even gotten to makeup, not to mention clothes. The fear of my date leaving me in the airport because I’m too high-maintenance drives me forward.

The third time is the charm. Face is washed and patted with moisture. Ready for makeup! I pick out an outfit that I didn’t get to wear in Taiwan because it was too blasted hot there. It’s black, long-sleeved, and made from a light wool crepe. It hugs my figure and is quite slimming. I twist and turn in the mirror.
Looking
good
.

I put some soft gel in my hair, powder my face with a little blush, and dab on bright pink lip gloss. I am actually having a great hair day. What are the chances? Sucking in a deep breath, I walk out of the restroom.

Kevin’s jaw drops. Okay, I am actually enjoying this. I smile coquettishly, feeling not a day over twenty-four, with the exception of my bum which I’m sure still has the passport indentation.

“Now
that
was worth waiting for.” Kevin smiles and crosses his arms.

He has to be gay or something. He’s just too good to be true and this freaks me out. “Thank you,” I manage.

“My car’s in the short-term lot.” He grabs my bags and puts his free hand on the small of my back. He is chivalrous! He must be from Savannah. Or, like I said, he’s gay.

The weather is perfect. Brisk and sunny, the best kind of day for San Francisco when there’s enough of a breeze to blow out the fog and allow you to see for miles past the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s going to be breathtaking overlooking the scene from the Top of the Mark and with Kevin in my view to boot. I’m a Season girl! I’m like Spring and Summer all wrapped into one wonderful package! Fall and Winter are long over, baby!

Kevin is smiling down upon me like the ray of sunshine he is. Should I feel guilty that he was dating my friend a mere week ago? It’s so high school to date someone’s ex. The gnawing shame is making me wonder if I’ve got a future on TV as a catty bachelorette. You know, the one who tries to sleep with the guy to get “ahead” in her standings. Yeah, like that works. And really? Is it worth it when the whole world knows you’re a hooch?

After a harrowing hallway and an elevator, we’re finally in the airport parking lot. I know it’s shallow, but I’m breathless with anticipation. Does he drive something cool like my TT? Or is he a more traditional guy like a Toyota Camry? I’d say he’s an American traditionalist. I’m thinking Buick.

But we get to his car, and I laugh when he says, “Here we are.”

Big mistake. He is not kidding. He opens the trunk—or should I say he unties the trunk because there’s a rope holding it down. All bets are off. “This is your car?” I try to keep all emotion from my voice.

But my Stanford-educated doctor is driving a Datsun B210, circa who knows when. I’m not superficial about this, just curious. What’s his motivation here? Is he a starving student? Or just doesn’t speak vehicle?

“Sorry about the car.” He smiles, but there’s no other explanation. He’s just sorry. Like the car.

“No, please don’t apologize. I’m happy for the ride and the company.” And I am, but okay, there is this gnawing princess inside.

“Arin told me you drive a fancy convertible,” he says quietly. Okay, now I’m embarrassed. He knows I’m shallow and discontent.
Thanks a million, Arin.
Her parting gift, I suppose.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but sounds judgmental. I whack my forehead. What a stupid thing to say. I was really talking about me, begging a ride home but it sounded like he’s the beggar. And is he? What about his medical school bills? Do I need that kind of pressure? I just have legitimate fears that without two steady incomes, we’ll all end up living with my mother in one big dysfunctional family house.

Kevin locks, or should I say knots, my suitcases in the trunk and opens my door for me.
Avoid the car as a subject, avoid the car
as a subject.

“So,” I say. “How was
your
trip to Taiwan?”

He shrugs and starts the car. Three times, until it actually does what he’s asking of it. “Uneventful. I don’t think the technology is right for us. It has potential, but it’s nowhere near something Stanford would consider now.”

While Kevin is extremely chivalrous, I notice that he’s almost shy in his actions. I’m used to engineers and their undeserved bravado. Kevin is the kid in school who you never really knew was in your class until the reunion—and then you’re like, who is this hottie and how did he escape my high school radar?

“Hmm. Well, they’re lucky to have sent you. Now you’ll know when the time is right.” I pause for a moment as he pays the parking attendant, not even turning to ask me for a dollar. What a hero! “So what do you like to do in your spare time?” I ask.

“I don’t really have much of that. I used to like to build the great ships. You know, models? It’s good practice for a surgeon’s hands, but with my salary I don’t have anywhere to put them in my small apartment. It was them or me.”

Okay. Models. Not the lingerie type, he’s interested in the hobby-house kind. Perfectly admirable interest. Much healthier than a rabid interest in science fiction.

“I did the Starship Enterprise last time.”

Strike first opinion—far too optimistic. Making models of
Star Trek
vehicles enters shaky territory and is definitely not acceptable according to the list I just penned on the plane.

“Do you have any tribbles on board?” I say, praying that he does not get my joke, but he laughs heartily.

“No, no tribbles. I do have miniature-sized Spock and Captain Kirk, though. I painted them myself.”

I nod and look out the window. “What a beautiful day,” I force out before my real comment cannot help but develop. Why are all men twelve-year-olds in disguise?

“Arin told me you like chick flicks and shopping.” He smiles. It’s a nervous smile, like he’s as agitated as I am. Could Arin have made me sound more superficial? Chick flicks and shopping? Sheesh. She should have added monster truck rallies and watching
Jerry Springer
to the list and made me just as desirable.

“I do like those things.” I laugh lightly. “But I like to collect teapots. And I have a rabid political bent. Secretly, I wish I was the president’s speech writer. Oh, and I sing in the church band every other month. Sometimes with Arin. That’s how we met.”
I
just love standing next to her size-two figure while we sing so I can
look like the great opera diva next to her. Every other month answer
your questions how he might not have heard her? Or do you need
more here?

“Arin told me, but I have to admit I’ve heard you sing at church.”

And then . . . nothing. He isn’t saying anything! This is a point in conversation that calls for a compliment. The lack of one is like an immediate affront! I can almost hear him saying he heard the dogs howling outside.

“Arin said you have a way better voice than her.” He turns and faces me. (We’re at a stoplight.) “She was right.”

That’s it. I’m bearing his children.

“No, Arin has a beautiful voice.”

He looks at me with an intensity that feels laserlike. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Alrighty then.
I say almost nothing I mean. Do you think that’s a long-term issue? “I do sometimes. It’s part of being an attorney, holding your cards close to your heart, bluffing.”

“I would despise a life of that. I’m a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. I’m illiterate when I have to read between the lines. That was part of my problem with Arin.”

I don’t see communication as a long-term problem, not really; I’m more worried that we’re talking about the ex. He must not be over her. I am the Transition Girl. The big shoulders he will cry on until he’s ready to venture out into the dating world again.

“How did you two meet?” My voice is chirpy.
Bad Ashley.
Do not continue conversation on Kate Moss. It’s relationship suicide.

“We were living in the same apartment complex on campus. She was locked out.” He shook his head. “I actually thought it was endearing.”

“It is,” I say.
If he doesn’t find it cute that I’m absentminded we’re
in trouble.

“I don’t want to talk about Arin. You know, when we were first dating, when I first saw you sing at church, I asked her your name.”

Butterflies like bats now
. Men can say these things, and a woman’s heart pounds hopefully like she has spent thirty minutes on the Stairmaster. We say it, and we’re cornering them and forcing intimacy so they retreat faster than a moray eel into a hole—better known as the Lack-of-Commitment Cave.

“Really? You wanted to know my name?” I ask.

“I just thought you looked like someone I’d like to know. I think you look much better with shorter hair. It shows off your facial structure, which is really beautiful.”

This date is an unnecessary formality. Just get me to Vegas. “Thank you. I wasn’t too sure about it at first.” I’m running my hand down the back of my hair.

We’re in the city now and the traffic is just horrendous, but everyone is steering clear of us because Kevin obviously has nothing to lose in the game of insurance Bingo.

As much as I don’t care what Kevin drives—not when he’s so handsome and charming I’m ready to bear his children now—I’ll admit I’m embarrassed we’ll be pulling up into the Mark Hopkins Hotel for valet parking. I actually pray about this, but Kevin is completely prepared.