from our senior/freshman year! And he’s looking at me! He’s looking right at me!
Okay, I know. Everyone’s looking at me. I think Raisin-Eyes has demoted me to a six.
“Are you all right?” the breasted bartender asks.
“Yeah, fine. I’m sorry about that. I really don’t know how this happened.” Yes, I do. I know exactly how this happened. And I know that it worked, because Jonathan Gradinger is coming over.
Omigod.
He’s coming over.
I’ve never actually spoken to Jonathan Gradinger.
What can I say to Jonathan Gradinger?
I need a drink. Where’s my drink?
Oh, yeah. Damn.
Breathe. Calm. Damn. Think calm thoughts. Hot bath with vanilla-smelling bubbles. The two-hour massage I used to get from Iris in exchange for two dollars in coins (but look how much silver it is!). A couch, my duvet, the cchhhhh of background TV…
Mmm. I’m getting…mmm…sleeeepy.
“Hey,” a very foxy voice pleasantly intrudes upon my reverie. “I recognize you. Are you from Danbury?”
Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.
Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.
Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.
Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.
Wendy is not going to believe this.
Calm. I can do this.
“Shfjkd sjsydhd jksav jasdadgaj dghykg.”
“Excuse me?” he asks, which is a perfectly logical question considering I’m not sure what I just said. Or what I was even trying to say.
“Hi.” One syllable at a time. No problem. “Yeah.” There, I’ve said two words to Jonathan Gradinger. I now have something to tell my grandchildren.
“Did you go to Stapley High?” he asks.
More? Oh, my—he wants to have a conversation.
“Yeah.” I nod. I’m doing it! I’m conversing!
“Were you in my grade?” He’s running his hand through his gorgeous, thick hair—thin hair now, actually. What happened to his gorgeous, thick hair?
“Actually I was a few grades behind you.” If I don’t think and just say all my words in one motion, gosh darnit, I think I can do this.
“Wait a second,” he says and smiles his still very foxy smile. “I remember you. Weren’t you that girl who used to follow me around? Jackie something?”
Oh. My. God. He knows my name. Danny Zukoe knows my name.
I nod. I can’t speak. My tongue has been sewn to the roof of my mouth.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
Jonathan Gradinger is offering to buy me a drink. I nod again. Actually, I don’t think I actually stopped nodding. It’s not that I expect myself to suddenly sound like a loquaciously articulate Dawson’s Creek character, but this is getting old.
“It appears,” he looks at the floor, “that you like Sex on the Beach.”
“Especially if it’s with you,” I say. Just kidding, I didn’t really say that. I continue nodding.
“So, how are you liking Boston?”
“Now that I’m talking to you, I’m liking it a lot.” Wait—this time I really did say that. That so wasn’t supposed to be out loud. But what’s this? He’s laughing! He thinks I’m being funny. He thinks I’m flirting with him. I am flirting with him. I’m flirting with Jonathan Gradinger.
“Actually, I do like it here,” I say seriously. “What about you?” Okay maybe not a witty or sexy response, but two full sentences, one that requires a response. Give me a break here.
“I’ve been here awhile already. I like it. I’m used to it.”
“When did you move here?” That makes two questions. I’m on a roll.
“About eight years ago.”
“You’re practically a Brahmin by now.” Another joke!
He laughs. Yay! “Not quite. I haven’t moved up to Beacon Hill just yet.”
Pause. One-second lapse. Two-second lapse. Uh-oh. What do I do now? Wait, I’ve got an idea. “So, what are you doing in Boston?” The ultimate crowd pleaser—giving men the opportunity to talk about themselves.
“I’m a doctor.”
Reee-lly.
“What kind of doctor?” A pediatrician? An E.R. resident? A heart surgeon?
“A podiatrist.”
“A what?”
“A foot doctor.”
I know that. I’m an editor. Someone who cares for and treats the human foot. “That must be…interesting.” C’mon, what else was I supposed to say? How about that athlete’s foot? At least I have nice feet—they’re a size 6 1/2 and very cute, if I do say so myself. My pedicurist even says they’re a pleasure to work with, although she’s probably just buttering me up for an extra tip, which is ridiculous because she owns her own place. You’re not supposed to tip the owner, everyone knows that, but I once saw a fake-nailed snob leave a four-dollar tip for a twenty-dollar manicure and then I had to leave four dollars, too, and now every time I go I have to leave twenty-four dollars instead of twenty. As far as I’m concerned, she should say, “Don’t be silly! Take your four dollars! You’re insulting me! I’m the owner,” but instead she just takes it. It’s all so absurd.
Anyway.
“So I guess you went to med school here?”
“Tufts. What about you?”
“I’m an editor.”
“Really? Where?”
“Cupid’s”
“Cupid’s?”
“We publish romance novels.”
“Oh, my mom reads those! Do you know Fabio?”
I giggle my oh-that’s-so-clever-and-original flirty-laugh (I’ve been friends with Nat for long enough) and pat him on the shoulder. “Unfortunately not. Do you?”
“He’s actually a patient of mine. He has really nice feet.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“Right. But you know what they say about people with nice feet.”
“What?”
“Nice shoes.”
Can I handle feet jokes? I do the laugh again.
“You have quite a pair of shoes on,” he says, looking down.
“Thanks. Fresh purchase. Single-girl boots.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they’re notice-me boots.”
“I’m noticing.”
He’s noticing?
“Good.” I smile demurely.
“You’ve certainly grown up.”
“You haven’t seen me since I had pink braces and crimped hair.”
“You look great, Jackie.”
“Thanks. So do you.” You’re a hottie. A total hottie with a little less hair and a little more love handles…but still very,