32

claire

In the days that follow, Daniel sends me a text to make sure I swapped out the spare tire for a new one. I respond and let him know that I did. He follows up with a voice mail a day later, letting me know that there’s a big accident on the parkway and cautioning me to take a different route so I don’t get stuck in the gridlock in case I’m headed that way. The e-mail he sends a few days after that, with the funny video that’s gone viral, brings a smile to my face.

His last text, which came in at midnight when I was already in bed, says, I pulled over a guy who wasn’t wearing pants tonight. He told me he knew he’d forgotten something, but couldn’t figure out what it was. But no worries because he had underwear on. Women’s underwear, but still.

I laugh and type out a response while I’m drinking my coffee. You are a lucky, lucky man.

The guilt I once felt about Daniel has been slowly replaced with anticipation: When will he call next? When I check my phone will there be a text from him? It’s subtle yet omnipresent, weaving its way through the minutiae of my ordinary life. Lifting it up. Making it more exciting. The rationalizing has already started: I’m not doing anything wrong. I speak to clients on the phone all the time, and I’ve become very friendly with many of them over the years. It’s no big deal.

Daniel texts me a week later. I’m off tomorrow. Do you want to go for a ride? There won’t be very many nice days left.

It’s early October and the weather isn’t going to hold out much longer. Soon I’ll be bundling the kids into warmer coats and buying their new winter boots.

Sure. What time?

Noon?

Okay. See you then.

 • • •

The sound of thunder wakes me the next morning and when I go downstairs to start the coffee, I open the blinds and watch the raindrops hit the window. I feel a wave of disappointment, but when I check my phone there’s a text from Daniel and it says, Come anyway. I text him back and say Okay.

After I get the kids off to school I shower and then stand in the middle of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. We’re not going for a motorcycle ride, that much is clear, but I don’t know what Daniel has planned for an alternative. I choose my favorite pair of jeans and a simple, white T-shirt, worn untucked to hide my pump, which is clipped to my belt. I put on my favorite burnt-orange cardigan, that one that I dig out every fall, and pull on my well-worn brown leather boots. Silver hoop earrings and my wedding ring are my only jewelry. I spritz on perfume and apply mascara and blush. The humidity wreaks havoc with my hair, so I let it air-dry and leave it alone, not daring to even finger-comb the waves in order to avoid the frizz.

When I pull into Daniel’s driveway I park and grab my umbrella, then walk quickly toward the front door. It opens and Daniel stands in the doorway, waiting. I’m about to cross the threshold when a loud clap of thunder startles me and I jump. We both laugh and he pulls me inside, shutting the door behind me.

“I guess we’re not going for that ride,” I say.

“Not today,” Daniel says. “We’ll have to take my car instead.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He grabs his car keys off the coffee table and smiles. “I thought we could go to lunch. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

Once we’re in the car Daniel backs out of the garage, turns on the windshield wipers, and presses buttons on the radio. “What kind of music do you like?”

“I usually just listen to whatever the kids want. I know the words to every Disney soundtrack.”

Daniel laughs. “Impressive.” He chooses a station. “Is this okay?”

I hear the opening verse of “Mr. Jones” by Counting Crows. “I love that song. It reminds me of my senior year of high school.”

“I like it, too,” he says. “Someone was always blasting it in my frat house.”

It seems odd, driving somewhere together. I can’t help but feel that there’s something covert about it, and I worry that someone will see us, which is ridiculous because we aren’t doing anything wrong. And it’s not as if I don’t have male friends. I do. I just haven’t seen most of them since college. Aware that I’m fidgeting, I try to relax, lacing my fingers together and resting my hands on my lap. He didn’t ask for my input on lunch, so I’m curious about where we’re going. “Do you have a destination in mind?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Have you ever been to Bella Cucina?”

I shake my head. “No. I’ve heard it’s good, though.”

“It’s a little out of the way, but I think it’s worth the trip.”

The gray sky batters the car with a relentless deluge. It’s the kind of weather most people would not venture out in, but Daniel seems undeterred, his hands resting easily on the wheel. When he pulls into the restaurant parking lot twenty minutes later, he tells me he’ll drop me off at the door.

“I admire your chivalry, but I’m not that delicate.”

“Humor me,” he says, smiling and stopping in front of the restaurant entrance.

“I bet you help little old ladies across the street, don’t you?”

He laughs. “Only when I’m not getting the kitty cats out of the trees.”

Smiling at him, I say, “That’s the fire department.”

“Actually, it’s animal control.”

I grin, step out of the car, and open my umbrella, which isn’t really necessary since I have to take only ten steps before reaching the striped awning over the front door. Daniel parks the car and joins me.

The smell hits me when we walk in: sizzling pancetta, yeasty focaccia bread, garlic, and tomatoes. My stomach rumbles.

“I hope you like Italian,” Daniel says, shaking the raindrops from his umbrella and holding out his hand for mine. “Or this was a really bad move on my part.”

I hand him my umbrella and say, “I love Italian.”

There are very few patrons, and Daniel requests a small table in the corner, tucked away on the other side of the bar. Once we’re seated, our knees almost touching underneath the table, the waitress takes our drink order—iced tea for both of us—and we peruse our menus. “What’s good here?” I ask.

“Everything. The marinara especially. It’s got a bit of a kick, though.”

Daniel orders pasta and I choose the chicken parmesan with a side of steamed broccoli. We help ourselves to the bread basket and I select a sourdough roll while Daniel goes for the focaccia. We dip the bread in olive oil that has been sprinkled with freshly ground black pepper. It’s delicious. When our entrees come I take a bite of my chicken. It’s smothered in the marinara and Daniel’s right: It does have a bit of a kick.

It occurs to me suddenly that I haven’t been out with my own husband in a very long time, but this is the second meal I’ve shared with Daniel.

“Are you working on any new projects?” he asks.

“I have a few new clients. I take yoga classes almost every morning and I’ve been hired to design some brochures and promotional materials for the studio. I’m looking forward to digging into that project.”

“I hope I’m not keeping you from getting your work done.”

“I worked for a few hours this morning. I’ll work some more after the kids are in bed. I’m kind of a night owl.”

“Me, too,” he says. “That’s why I’m glad I switched from the morning to the afternoon shift. I don’t have to be there as early now.”

When we’re done eating the waitress clears our plates and asks if we want dessert. “Claire?” Daniel says.

“No thank you.”

Daniel shakes his head. She leaves the check and I reach for my wallet, but Daniel says, “I’ve got it.” He puts his credit card on the table and the waitress takes it away.