The Year of Second Chances, page 12
“Me, too.” At the mention of friendship, I could admit I felt relieved. Ted also looked relieved. There was too much Terri for either of us to develop anything beyond pals, I was pretty sure.
Then he frowned, cocking his head at me. “You wouldn’t want to come along to the Trunk-or-Treat, would you? Help with the costumes?”
I snorted. “Oh, man . . .” I started to shake my head, imagining the prospect. And yet. I didn’t have any plans. It was not like I really needed to visit the little Swedish villages of IKEA kitchens and living rooms today. But I didn’t need to randomly show up to an elementary-school parking lot with someone’s middle-aged dad, either. No one needed that.
Ted seemed to read my mind. “Is that too crazy? Maybe it’s against the rules. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither, really.” And there were no rules. Or rather, you had to make up your own. I opened my mouth to decline, but something stopped me. Go all in, Levi was telling me, somewhere. Say yes. “Sure.”
“Really?” Ted asked, raising his fists in victory.
I couldn’t believe what had just come out of my mouth. And yet, I was already following him. “Yeah, why not? Let’s do it.”
An hour later, Ted and I pulled into a school parking lot, Ted searching the rows of hatchbacks and minivans for Terri’s SUV. When we finally parked, I sensed a few stares at Ted’s vampire cape, half on, Target tags still dangling. And then there was me, still in my supposedly fancy date outfit in a parking lot full of superhero parents and their Minion children, not belonging to anyone. The crisp air and cloudy sky, the little Jedis and Elsas running around—all were bringing me back to Gabe’s early mayor days when I’d meet him at the Halloween fundraiser at the health clinic, always a bit overdressed. Once he got elected, he had no longer wanted to transform into the sci-fi characters or nuclear monsters we’d donned in our twenties, hoping to project more of a clean-cut, family-friendly image among all the buttoned-up Brokenridgers. Eventually I, too, toned down my looks. My meticulously bloodied zombie brides became bug antennas or spider earrings. Today, I hadn’t deigned to pick out a costume from the racks, either—offering the excuse that I was just the makeup artist—and now I was surprised to find a pang of regret.
A long-limbed, black-haired girl with braces glared from an SUV’s back bumper.
“You’re late, Dad,” she said, glancing briefly at me. This, I could assume, was Ted’s eleven-year-old, Franny.
“Sorry, peach,” Ted said. “I was getting your costume. Where’s your mom?”
Terri was somewhere inside the school, Franny informed us, taking Zoey to the restroom. “What did you bring?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she turned her attention to the Target bag, swiping it from Ted.
We’d managed to find a pallet of face paint, blue wigs, red T-shirts, and construction paper for the 1 and 2, Ted explained to his eldest. When it looked like Zoey and Terri were returning from the restroom, I wandered between the rows of cars, trying to smile innocently at the costumed families I passed who waved or smiled at my unfamiliar face. Just a friend! I mentally projected. What am I doing here, you ask? Not sure!
Ted found me behind a neighboring pickup truck. “Share you are!” he said, vampire teeth muffling his speech. “Terri terk off and the girlsh are changing cloash.”
When Franny and Zoey emerged from Ted’s car, Zoey’s hair hung in wild black strings under her blue wig, and Franny’s red T-shirt was about three sizes too big.
“Oh, dear,” Ted said, muffling a laugh. “You look like a pair of sad, off-duty clowns.”
“Shut up, Dad!” Franny said, though more out of distress than hostility.
“We don’t say shut up,” Ted scolded lightly.
“Then, be quiet!” Franny said, tugging at her shirt.
I stepped in, my heart pounding. “Hey, it’s all good. We can make you look like the characters, I promise.”
Two pairs of dark eyes looked at me skeptically.
“Girlsh,” Ted lisped, “this is my . . . coworker, Robin. Sheesh going to make you up to look like a Shing!” As they greeted me mechanically, Ted leaned over to mutter, “Sorry. It’s jusht eashier than explaining we were on a date.”
“No, that’s perfect,” I assured him back in a whisper. I turned to the girls with a winning smile. I held up the pallet. “Who wants to go first?”
Franny nudged Zoey forward.
I kneeled to Zoey’s level, testing the white makeup on the back of my hand. As I gently tucked her stray hair into her wig, my nerves were fizzing, but there was excitement there, too. I hadn’t gotten to play with makeup, let alone on someone else, since . . . god, I couldn’t remember when.
“Your breath smells like coffee,” Zoey said, matter-of-factly.
I scooted back, my face flushing. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. My dad’s does, too, sometimes,” she said. I began to smear the white paint on her cheeks. “And my mom’s,” she added wearily. “And Craig’s. And my teacher’s.”
“Adults are pretty stinky, huh?” I asked.
She let out a little laugh. “Yeah.”
I glanced at Franny, who might have been holding in a smile as she helped her dad cut out white circles of construction paper, but I couldn’t tell. When I was finished, Zoey looked like a pretty passable version of Thing 2, with the illusion of a protruding button nose on her slate-white face, rosy cheeks, and couple of cartoon lines that extended her smile. When I showed her what she looked like in the camera of my phone, she gasped with delight and, to my utter surprise, wrapped her little arms around my neck.
“I love it!” she screeched and began to run in circles on the pavement, pumpkin bucket trailing precariously off her elbow.
Ted dashed after her, trying to catch up. “Let me see, honey, let me see,” he chanted, finally wrangling her long enough to get a good look. From bended knee, he, too, gasped and looked up at me. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re very good.”
Franny observed Zoey’s face closely over her dad’s shoulder. “Cool,” she muttered. She straightened and said, almost a challenge, “Do me, too.”
“Please,” Ted corrected.
“Puh-lease,” Franny said, rolling her eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, Ted had borrowed a few safety pins from a family of cave people to fasten the marker-drawn numbers to the girls’ T-shirts, and the sisters had conceded to posing for a photo with their dad. As they stood and smiled, I watched Franny’s expression fight between the glow of self-regard and self-consciousness. For one picture, Zoey asked Franny to hold her feet as she stood on her hands—a very Thing 2 thing to do, we all agreed.
“Want to trick-or-treat with us?” Zoey asked me when she was right side up again.
“I should probably go,” I said, glancing apologetically at Ted. “I didn’t bring a costume.”
Ted waved his hand. “Of course. You have a life. Go. Girls, thank Robin for doing your makeup.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Robin.” Zoey hugged me around the waist.
I patted her blue head. “You’re welcome.”
Franny was busy being surrounded by a group of friends, who were all making a fuss over each other’s costumes.
“Whoa!” exclaimed one of them dressed as Harley Quinn. She touched Franny’s cheek. “How did you get your face to look like that?”
“My dad’s friend,” I heard Franny say.
“I like it, Mr. Kim!” the Harley Quinn called to Ted.
“Oh, I barely did anything,” Ted said, but beside me, I sensed him straighten a bit with pride. “Franny, don’t forget to tell Robin thank-you.”
“Thanks!” Franny tossed in my direction. “Can I go?”
Ted nodded and called after her. “You look great, honey! Have fun!”
As she ran to catch up with her friends, Franny looked back at him. It was brief, but I saw a smile flit across her face and felt a matching one cross my own.
11
A random fact I think about . . .
Putting sugar on a cut will make it heal faster.
“Minneapolis, make some NOISE !” Mo yelled into the mic. He blasted air horn sounds to emphasize his point.
On cue, people whooped and lifted their arms under the hot, colorful lights blurred by a fog machine and Juul vapor. I made a feeble Woo and raised my hands tentatively alongside my neighbors, hoping I remembered to apply deodorant.
After a few rounds of online chess and lighthearted trash-talking—Mo: Nice bishop move, now I’m really gonna take u to church; Me: Do you hear trumpets? Because here comes the queen—I’d figured Mo and I were going to remain online game friends. After all, he was Levi’s pick, not mine. But his replies came abundant, especially late into the evening, and soon our conversations became deeper, more personal. We’d talked about his hopes to open his own dentistry practice one day, and his love for vinyl, which he’d inherited from his dad, a radio DJ who had immigrated to Minnesota when he was about Mo’s age.
My dad loved records, too, I wrote to him. Patsy Cline, Carl Perkins, Little Richard.
Little Richard was a pioneer, Mo agreed.
We should listen to music together sometime, I wrote. I added an LOL to tone down the seriousness of the invitation in case he wasn’t prepared to take this offline.
But it seemed he was. Definitely :), he replied.
This morning, he took it one step further. Come out and see me spin tonite :). Attached to the message was a poster for an event. A date. So this could be more than chess.
The poster, however—which featured two women in sequins photoshopped over a low-resolution image of outer space—felt like the greatest test of my Say yes philosophy yet. I hadn’t set foot in a club since before I was married. This also meant it was time to drop the w-bomb, which was dicey territory. At least three or four men had ghosted me since I’d started taking the widow-first approach. I was still getting used to the idea of rejection being a good thing.
Just a heads-up, I said to Mo after three drafts. I’m excited to see you tonight, but I’m going to have to move pretty slow on the whole relationship thing. I was married for nine years so I’m a bit rusty.
Mo had replied right away. Divorced?
I held my breath and typed. Cancer, I sent.
Mo had responded with condolences.
He had just gotten out of a three-year relationship with a girl he’d met in dentistry school. So I’m not looking for anything serious, he’d said.
Me neither, I’d replied. And then added, At least not right away.
I had a feeling he was on the same page. This afternoon he had sent me the link to buy tickets to his show, and I admit it had been thrilling to walk past the chattery, smoky line in a new dress tonight, giving my name at the door and watching the security man open the velvet rope.
From behind the DJ booth, Mo sent a wave in my direction. I lifted my cup in response, my VIP pink band glowing around my wrist. I was sipping something called a Golddust Gimlet, a drink so full of sugar and grain alcohol I could barely hold it in my mouth before my body started reacting to it as a foreign poison, but hell, it was necessary. As the night wore on, it seemed that Mo was either at the beginning of his DJ career or close to the end. Techno fell discordantly into some kind of metal, something Levi would like. Outkast bled into The Eagles, which switched suddenly to Lauryn Hill with a jerky, uneven tempo. At least he looked good up there, confidently turning knobs. I imagined what it would be like to be his girlfriend, dressed up like this every weekend, watching him from the wings. I sipped more Golddust and leaned back when prompted. The fabric of my new dress rode up my thighs as I danced, and I let it.
When another DJ took over, I spotted Mo weaving toward me in the crowd, pausing every few feet to speak to people. As he approached, I felt bold and warm.
“Glad you came,” he called as he bobbed his head. He smelled like woodsy, leathery cologne. “This crowd is dope.”
Before I could respond, Mo’s friends soon began to circle him, all nodding politely as I moved out of the way for their handshakes and one-armed hugs. The women among them gave me lip-glossed smiles, carrying their bodies effortlessly. One of them handed him a celebratory shot. I waited for Mo to introduce me, which he seemed to be forgetting to do. They were wearing the same pink bracelets I was wearing, I noticed. So I wasn’t the only VIP.
The headlining DJ put on driving, electronic sounds. Everyone was pressing closer together now, becoming less loving, more young, more restless.
“So how do you choose your songs?” I called to Mo, over what sounded like a synchronized Star Wars battle.
“What?” he called down to me.
“How—do—you—choose—” I began, but Mo shook his head, holding his hand up to his ear, laughing. He really did have a beautiful smile. And high cheekbones.
Soon, Mo’s eyes were glazing, his smile getting more lopsided, his long arms continually landing on the shoulders of the glittery women, who kept shooting photos and videos in circles of light. I ducked out of their frames and checked my own phone. It was barely ten.
I think I might go, I tried mouthing to Mo.
He seemed to understand, and to my delight, it seemed like he might want to come with me. He exchanged a few words with his friends, and together we steered through the sea of elbows and polyester, away from the battering sounds. I took comfort in his hand at the small of my back.
But when I had paused to fish out my coat-check ticket, Mo had swerved away from the exit, taking a smaller side door out to a smokers’ patio. I glanced back at the coat-check counter, which was unmanned. I could either wait or brave the cold. Out there it would be quiet, at least.
Mo was lighting up a cigarette. “Don’t judge,” he said as he exhaled, smiling.
“Interesting vice for a dentist,” I said.
“I only have one after shows.”
If I were being honest, I might have advised him to drop the cigarette and keep his day job, but what did I know about DJing? Maybe it was just a bad night. And I liked being out here with him, especially now that we could hear each other. My heart pounded.
He looked at my hands, which were trying to rub the thirty-five-degree cold out of my arms. “You cold?” he said.
“Yeah. Can I—” I gestured toward him. Watching the dancers move together, being near so many bodies, had made me feel the absence of touch on my own. Want touch, even.
“Sure,” he said, looking pleasantly surprised.
I rested my cheek against his shoulder. The warmth underneath his jacket wasn’t exactly a blanket, but it was nice. I was reminded of waiting for Gabe after some ribbon-cutting or council meeting, flashes of a distant July, the snapping fwoof of Roman candles, Gabe’s tenor amplified down Brokenridge’s old brick Main Street on a rare hot night. And I’d like to thank my wife, Robin. I’d felt so much pride, knowing it would be me he found at the end of the night. Those were the parts I looked forward to most, the moments after he had turned off his politician self and I was nestled against him. Gabe in his socks and slippers, an IPA in his hand, only having eyes for me.
I circled my arms around Mo’s waist, tilting my head toward his. “I’d be really into kissing you right now.”
Mo looked down at me with an awkward smile. “Oh, for real?”
At his refusal, I stepped back, loosening from his arms, my gut tight. “What?”
He looked confused. “I’m not—we’re not—” He moved his hand between us. “It just doesn’t seem like that’s the vibe.”
It dawned on me with quiet horror. Come see me spin, I remembered, but now with new significance. His friends inside, the women orbiting him. The lack of introduction. This was not a date. Evacuate, my thoughts seemed to chant, alarm bells cleaning. I repeat, this is not a date. “So you were on the app to . . .”
“Trying to spread the word about my shows, you know?” Mo said. “We both said we weren’t looking for anything serious, so . . .”
I tried to smile. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”
We stood for a moment in silence as he ground his cigarette in the ashtray. My insides seemed to burn and freeze at the same time. I was holding my breath for too long, I realized with a woozy dip in my vision, and the only thing that kept me from fainting was the sudden desire to bury myself under the pavement.
Mo cringed. “You okay, Robin L?”
At least he remembered my name. “Yep!”
He rubbed the back of his head. “You want to come back in?”
“Nope,” I said, though I wanted to. I wanted to go back in, rewind time, and start the night over with the right expectations, cool and casual. But I couldn’t do that. I could only stand here, pretending to look at a very important something on my phone.
“It was nice meeting you!” Mo called as he returned to his fans. “Tell your friends about the set, okay?”
I activated my frozen hands to give him a thumbs-up, trying to keep them steady as the cold penetrated my bones. It occurred to me that this was why Levi had pushed me to think about what I wanted from Bubbl. I wasn’t looking for anything serious, no, but nor was I looking for a night in a foggy room where you had to stand for hours and shout to be heard, where your only purpose was to promote the career of a dentist-slash-amateur-DJ.
I began to walk.
The beat of the club still pounded in my tenderized eardrums as I wandered the rows of cars in the parking garage, aiming my key fob, listening for the beep-boop of the Volvo. No sounds. Nothing except for traffic and someone yelling on the street below. My feet were starting to get cold. My whole body was cold. Overwhelmed with embarrassment, I’d walked away without retrieving my coat. The plan now was to drive back toward the club, find a closer spot, grab the coat, get home, put on pajamas, and not move from the couch for twenty-four hours. But part one of this plan was hindered by the lack of Volvo. Maybe I’d parked elsewhere.
I kept replaying the meager attempt I’d made at kissing Mo, wondering if I needed to be so humiliated, if being rejected like this on a date was really that monumental or if I was just making too big a deal out of two mouths. When I had kissed Gabe for the first time, I hadn’t thought about it at all. In his twin bed, I had moved my mouth along his neck and met his lips, as if it were a destination I’d expected to reach all along. I could see him in my mind’s eye, raising his eyebrows. I’m trying, I told him. You can’t say I’m not trying.
