Page 5 of Summer Romance
“I am so horrified,” I say, because I’m so horrified. “I swear he doesn’t do this. I mean he did it once when I brought my daughter home from the hospital. Because she was born, not sick. Anyway, she’s his favorite.”
“So maybe this is a compliment?” I look up and he’ssmiling at me. It doesn’t make any sense given the state of his shoe, but he almost looks glad to see me. He’s probably about my age, though there’s a lightness about him that makes him seem younger than I feel. His eyes are light brown, a shade darker than his hair, and there’s not a hint of anger in them. It’s possible that he’s a guy who knows when a problem can be solved with a run through the washing machine. I’m taking in every detail of his eyes, mainly because I am trying not to look at his shoulders and the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest.
“Do you get peed on often?” the woman asks, and there’s a weird flirtatiousness to it that annoys me. “Because I’d be freaking out.” It strikes me as strange that she, with the great outfit, dry shoes, and potentially aggressive dog, doesn’t have the grace to let me off the hook.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again, and stand up.
“Honestly, it’s nothing. It can all be washed,” he says. There’s almost something about him that I recognize. I don’t recognize him, but the look. He’s looking at me the way men used to look at me when I was younger. Like he sees me. I wonder if my wedding ring served as a cloak of invisibility or if maybe it’s my nearly hard pants. I am at once terrified and delighted. These overalls don’t even have a zipper.
The St. Bernard gallops off after another dog, and the woman reluctantly follows. I didn’t check to see if she was wearing a wedding ring, but this guy is not. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a singles scene at the dog park, but maybe there is one. I run my thumb over my ringless ring finger and am struck by the fact that I am single, that I am aperson who would be part of a singles scene. It’s as if that fact has been buzzing around my head for a year, circling in a way that I could faintly hear, and now it has landed. I am single.
“So what’s his name? The peeing bandit.”
“Ferris,” I say. “He’s a rescue, he came with that name.” I look at the little dog in his arms, pressing his head against his owner’s chest. “What’s his name?”
“Her name’s Brenda.”
“Brenda?”
“Yes, because she totally looks like a Brenda,” he says like he can’t believe I didn’t make that connection myself. “She got walloped by that dog’s giant paw, but I think she’s mostly just scared of other dogs. Maybe now that I’ve been baptized by Ferris, he’ll be familiar to her.” His eyes rest on me like there’s no place else he’d rather look. He holds my gaze until I have to look away.
“Really, I feel terrible.”
“Stop. Maybe he likes me.” Brenda is a dead weight in his arms, and I envy her that kind of comfort. I like this man with the big shoulders. I like his open expression, as if there’s a laugh waiting right behind his eyes. It’s been a really long time since I’ve noticed anything about any man, and it’s possible that I’m over-noticing this one.
“I haven’t seen you here. Do you live in Beechwood?” I might as well have said, “Come here often?” Why am I prolonging this conversation? We are not at a bar. I am not good at being single.
“I’m just visiting my family.”
I nod, and I can’t think of anything to say. This is whyI can’t stand the dog park. There’s no context, no commonality except the indignities our dogs are inflicting on each other, or in this case, us. “Is she your first dog?” I ask. I immediately regret it. It’s clear I’m trying to keep the conversation going, and the answer to this is either going to be “Yes” or a really sad story about a dog dying. That’s the thing about dog stories, they only end one way.
“I’ve always had a dog, besides my freshman year in college,” he says.
“That’s a lot of responsibility. I mean for a college kid.”
“I guess. It’s sort of a habit. I don’t think I’d know how to get up in the morning and do anything but take a dog out.”
“Wait till you have kids,” I say. That’s a weird thing to say on a million levels. I don’t know that he doesn’t have kids. It also makes it obvious that I’ve surmised that he’s single. That I thought about it. “I mean if you don’t already.”
“None of my own, no.”
This got personal fast, and I want to know what that means. You either have kids or you don’t. “I have three. Twelve, eleven, and six.”
“Which one got peed on?” he asks.
“Eleven. Iris,” I say. “She’s adorable. I’m surprised all the dogs don’t pee on her.”
He smiles and it takes over his whole face. “I think you just called me adorable.”
“I did not.” My face goes hot, like prickly hot on my cheeks. I am totally out of control here. I meet one handsome guy in a decade and I completely lose it.
“You did—it’s the transitive property of adorable. If youplay back everything you just said, it adds up to you thinking I’m adorable. I’m a little embarrassed for you.”
I’ve been embarrassed for me since before this conversation began, but now that it’s out in the open, it’s sort of fun. I look around. “Where’s the camera crew? You can’t prove this.”
“It’s obvious to me, the dogs, I’m guessing everyone at the park. You’re totally into me.”
“I am not,” I say, and fold my arms over my chest.
