This Time Is Different Read online

  On day three when she thanked me for the basket of candies and snacks I’d brought, I checked her hands. No wedding ring. Not even a little band. But she’d have her hands in people’s mouths all day. There was a good chance she didn’t wear a ring while she worked.

  So I took a page from my unsinkable Cassie’s book, put on my big boy briefs, and decided I’d go fishing on Thursday.

  Teeth and gums checked, and as Dr. Mordasini began to remove her gloves, I went for it. “I want to thank you again, Dr. Mordasini, you and Dr. Forsythe and the whole staff. I cannot thank you enough. If I wanted to get Dr. Forsythe a gift card to her favorite restaurant, what would you suggest?”

  Dr. Mordasini tossed the blue gloves into a trash can. “You don’t. You take her to Brooklyn Bridge. She loves the lobster ravioli and tiramisu.”

  “How’d you know?” I asked, amazed at either how perceptive she was or how rusty my game was. I didn’t want to admit the latter, so I settled on Dr. Mordasini being really good with people.

  “Wasn’t hard. She told me that once the pain meds kicked in you started bragging about how good you are at skiing, how you wanted to take her skiing, about how you would get married on the top of the run and then ski down, holding hands. Something about a penguin, too. You’d have to ask her.” She shrugged and typed some notes into my computerized chart.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I thought the magic carpet ride was the worst bit. Apparently not.

  “When you showed up with the flowers, I knew it wasn’t just the drugs talking,” she continued.

  “Okay. Since you’ve got this all mapped out, how do I get her to say yes to dinner?”

  “That’s up to you. But tomorrow is Friday. You’ll need to be checked before the weekend, and while we’re not normally open on Friday, I’m going to set up an appointment around … what works for you? Five? Five thirty? Then I’ll bail because one of my kids will have something come up, and she’ll cover.”

  “You’re going to lie for me?”

  “No. I have four kids. Preteen to preschooler. There’s always something. I might be secretly setting her up, but I’m not lying.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because she could use a dinner out and you brought flowers and then candy, including some of those Necco wafers that I love but can’t find anywhere.”

  “Methodist Hospital’s gift shop,” I said.

  “Huh. I only ever see them at Hobby Lobby. Anyway, even without the drugs, you seem to like her.”

  “And she’s divorced?” I asked, trying to be cool. I wasn’t up for someone who was separated, and I prayed she hadn’t lost her partner like I had.

  “Yes. That’s all I say.”

  “I’m widowed,” I said, wanting to show her my single man bona fides. And the quickness of my words shocked me. It was the truth. Just over eight years. But that didn’t mean I didn’t think about Laurie every damn day. A sharp pain in my chest. Heart attack or just heart ache? Is this what cheating feels like? Because it sucks. Maybe I shouldn’t get “out there.” Maybe no amount of time or miles would soothe that hurt. And maybe I wanted to keep hurting.

  “I’m sorry. When your emergency contact information wasn’t a woman, I just assumed you were divorced like half the world.” Her eyes were soft and sad, the look I’d grown accustomed to receiving when someone learned of Laurie’s death.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Well, on that awkward note, I’m going to set you up for a quick check at five. I’d suggest making dinner reservations for six fifteen, six thirty.”

  3

  Amy

  “But I don’t work Fridays. You don’t work Fridays,” I whined into my phone.

  “I know, but I don’t want him to go three days without his teeth being checked. They seem to be doing well, but three days is a long time. He’s not a kid. Grown-up teeth are more persnickety. And James is running a fever, and the last thing I want to do is give the poor guy some sort of preschooler plague. He’s had a hell of a week already. And you’re probably going to your Pilates class this afternoon, getting sushi to go, and then bingeing on Netflix?”

  “Don’t hate that I’m living the dream.”

  “You seriously don’t have to, I’ll take care of it,” she sighed. But I couldn’t let her do that.

  Besides the thought of having to go to the office, my Friday would be perfect as always. Sleep late. Coffee in my pajamas. Text with Grady about what he was doing with his friends tonight. Pick up the latest Daniel Silva off of the library’s hold shelf. Remind Grady that he was only to go to the movies and one of the restaurants nearby. Lunch at home with my new spy novel. Pilates. Text Grady that his ten o’clock curfew was not going to be extended. Text confirming that I hadn’t changed my mind. Text confirming that I still hadn’t changed my mind. Quick shower and a swing by the office before I picked up my Pink Dragon roll and side of edamame.

  Part of mine and Bert’s deal post-divorce was that I was the parent on duty on the weekend. With his restaurant, weekends were Bert’s busy time. Monday to Wednesday—that was my busy time.

  So, Bert got to deal with the homework, the soccer practices, the Wednesday night Scout meetings. I got still more soccer, sleepovers, birthday parties and the like. And getting to be the mean parent when Grady begged to stay out late, to stay at someone’s house I didn’t know. And getting to be the nice mom. The one who made him mountains of cottage cheese pancakes on Sunday mornings, the only thing that in Grady’s view topped whatever masterpiece his dad whipped up on a daily basis.

  Once Grady turned sixteen and got his driver’s license, I staked out Fridays as My-days. No driving him to school, just shooing him out the door while I sipped on a coffee in my pajamas. Oodles of me time for what felt like the first time my life.

  While I didn’t like the idea of swinging by the office, it wasn’t really going to put a damper on my lifestyle. And with our kids-come-first business model, I wasn’t going to leave Diana hanging. She was my friend first. My partner second.

  “No, really. Stay with James. I’ll take a peek. Won’t even mess with my busy schedule.”

  “There’s the spirit. I’ve got Jana coming in to assist.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you Monday.”

  “Mr. Popov! I thought the appointment was for five,” I said, closing the door to my SUV after spotting him in the parking lot. He was leaning against his car and tapping on a phone, and his face was still a wreck.

  “Yeah, it is. I wanted to beat traffic, so I’ve been taking some calls from your parking lot,” he replied, sliding the phone into his suit pants pocket. Silver hair, light blue dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, showcasing his muscular forearms. Someone plays a lot of softball.

  “Okay, well, Jana should be here soon and then I can take a quick peek and you’l be on your way.”

  “No rush. And please, call me Thomas.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Amy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Amy.”

  He extended his hand, a friendly smile lighting up his face. The bruise was healing nicely, but the impact point was still purple with a large halo of yellow. It was mainly obscured by his salt and pepper scruff. I didn’t blame him for not shaving. Except for his lip, the skin hadn’t broken. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t any less tender from the trauma. In fact, I was impressed that he was able to smile through the ache.

  “And you, Thomas,” I replied, hoisting my purse up my shoulder and clasping his hand. I expected a couple of quick businesslike pumps. What I got was different. His hand was big and warm and soft, making me feel delicate, but before I could process what was different, before I could categorize it into neat little bullet points—

  “I’m here already. Just noticed you. Y’all are early,” called Jana from the office’s bright red front door.

  As I pulled my head out of the clouds, where I’d just begun to wonder how soft the rest of his skin was, I started to withdraw my hand. B
ut not before he gave a little squeeze. Was that a wink?

  “Amy, real quick.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you have dinner with me? I’ve got a table at Brooklyn Bridge at six thirty. And I hear good things about the lobster ravioli and tiramisu.”

  The heat that had been building in me quickly cooled. I hated pity dates. I hated when my friends shoved men into my path and hoped for the best. The only one ever truly happy was the friend doing the shoving. And I’d had enough pity from men to last my lifetime. Being alone was better than being pitied.

  “Did Diana ask you to do this?” I inquired, narrowing my eyes at him, trying to discern his true intention behind his offer of my favorite meal.

  “No. Though she told me what restaurant. So, that’s a yes?”

  She didn’t con him into asking me out? It just didn’t make sense. Men didn’t ask me out because they wanted to. Men asked me out because they were obligated to. “That’s a—”

  “Yes. Let that be a yes,” he said, another gentle squeeze on my hand that I thought I’d pulled away. Maybe he honestly did want to go on a date with me.

  “And tiramisu?” I asked, testing the waters with my toe.

  “Of course. And whatever else you want.”

  A smile tickled at the corners of my mouth. Was he propositioning me? God, really? Me, mother of a seventeen-year-old being propositioned?

  “They have a nice wine selection,” I said, wading further into the waters to see whether his eyes fell—a clear sign that Diana had pushed him into taking me out—or whether they lit up because he wanted to have dinner with me. In the three years since I’d started going on occasional dates, I hadn’t seen much light.

  “There you go. We’ll have wine.” And there was light in his gray blue eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” My head spun. He was asking me on a date because he wanted to. Not because someone had pressured him into it. Or that he felt like he had to take me out. I honestly wasn’t sure if that had ever happened to me before. And I meant ever.

  “Thanks for taking pity on an old man.”

  “Oh, hush your mouth,” I said, letting go of his hand, resettling my purse on my shoulder and turning toward the office. “Let’s see if you’re ready to eat that lobster ravioli.”

  As I checked his teeth and gums and lips for healing, I got caught up in his eyes. Thick dark lashes rimmed the soft gray blue.

  “Whaaa?” he asked, around my fingers and I remembered where I was—paused with my hands in my patient-turned-date’s mouth. Blue gloves, yoga pants, a lightweight hoodie over a blue tank top, and whatever random pile I swept my hair up into for my post-Pilates shower at the gym. Yeah, no fairy godmothers here. But at least I’d taken that shower.

  “Looks good, Mr. Popov. I mean, Thomas,” I said, swiveling on the stool, stripping off the blue gloves and tossing them in the bin. “The lip looks good. Your gums are healing nicely and the teeth have firmed up. No discoloration or signs of stress. You got lucky.”

  He pushed up from the exam chair, swinging his legs to the floor. “I did,” he said, looking at me square in the face.

  Am I blushing? My cheeks felt warm. Is it warm in here? Is this perimenopause? Is this a hot flash? Because I hadn’t had a period in nearly two decades and was sneaking up on forty, every time I unexpectedly got warm, I wondered if I was entering menopause.

  But I quickly realized that it wasn’t a life change. It was the big, handsome, and very forward man in my office. I didn’t know what to do because he clearly wasn’t talking about his softball accident. I spun around and typed a few notes into his record so that Diana could pull them up on Monday. I logged out of the computer, but not before taking a quick peek at the birthdate at the header of his profile. He was fourteen years and two months older than me to the day. May eleventh. He’d just turned fifty-three.

  “Okay, you guys, let’s hit it. Thanks for coming in, Jana. I really appreciate it,” I said.

  “Happy to, Dr. Forsythe. I’m going to go lock up,” said Jana, leaving the two of us alone.

  “Am I cleared to eat?” he asked, standing up and offering his hand to me.

  “Absolutely. As long as there’s no pain. Pasta would be a good starting food on the injured side.”

  I placed my hand in his and it happened again. The warmth. The electricity. The parking lot wasn’t a fluke.

  Once standing, I looked down at myself, taking in the gray yoga pants and swirly neon sneakers that Grady absolutely detested. Embarrassing, he’d called them. “Um, I’m not really dressed for dinner. Can I get a raincheck?”

  “No,” he said, with another quick firm squeeze of my hand. “You look great.”

  “That’s sweet, but I’m really not going out for dinner in this.”

  “Okay, I can grab a coffee and pick you up in a bit, if that works for you. Or I can meet you at the restaurant.”

  I should say meet at the restaurant. I don’t know him. I really should say I’ll see you at the restaurant. He could be a serial killer. But I don’t want to meet him at the restaurant. Thoughts of holding his hand while he drives us, his left hand draped across the steering wheel with his silver watch glinting in the evening sun. Those thoughts won out.

  “You can pick me up at six,” I said, scribbling down my address on a piece of paper. “Google Maps works. Behind the Laurelwood shopping center.”

  “Gotcha,” he replied, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I waved at him through my car window as I pulled away. Then the smile on my face turned to panic. Holy hell. I dialed Diana. A heads up would have been nice. Then I might have gotten dressed after the gym. Oh, who was I kidding. I wouldn’t have truly believed her even if she’d told me, but would have just put on fresh exercise clothes like I had because I wouldn’t want to tempt fate and think I’d be asked on a date only to find myself scarfing sushi on my sofa.

  But there was no answer. She must be screening my calls. Or busy. I remembered that time in my life. Grady always seemed to need something. Back at my house and staring at my closet, I felt the panic begin to rise. I truly had no idea what to wear. I’d gotten asked out for coffee in February. Diana had helped me put together that outfit with a cream cashmere sweater, and I rocked it even though the date was a dud. But, I couldn’t wear a cashmere sweater in June.

  My phone rang, answering my prayers.

  “Help me!” I squeaked, pawing through my overly stuffed closet, trying to find something, anything that would work.

  “Hey,” she answered. “So, this means that you’re going out with him?”

  “I have a date. I have a date,” I said, repeating myself so that I knew it was real.

  “He’s taking you to Brooklyn Bridge, right?”

  “No, we’re going to Arby’s. Of course we’re going to Brooklyn Bridge. Thanks for telling him to take me to my favorite restaurant, by the way. At least the food will be good if nothing else.”

  “I think you should be thanking me for more than that.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I said with a wry smile, before my shoulders drooped in exhaustion at the thought of trying to turn into some semblance of a datable woman. The outfit was the first stop. Then I had to figure out some way to tame my headful of curls. “He’s picking me up in forty-five minutes. And without breaking any patient privacy laws, Thomas Popov. Fifty-three. Birthday May eleventh.”

  “Is this you asking me to Internet stalk him?”

  “Yes. I have to get dressed, do makeup, and do something with my hair, and I have no friggin’ idea what.”

  “That’s so easy. French braid over one shoulder. That long white silk blouse we bought a couple of weeks ago. Put it with some dark jeans. Those black wedge espadrilles. And, for accessories, go with that chunky brass and turquoise long necklace that looks like a locket.”

  I could see it in my head. It wouldn’t only work. It would be great. Casual and chic.
And friendly. And the sheerness on the top would be sexy, but not too sexy in case I’d misread and there wasn’t a special light in his eyes after all.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I exhaled in a rush.

  “Okay, let me do some snooping and call you back. You work on you. Forty-three minutes,” she said.

  “Don’t make me have a panic attack,” I cautioned her, trying to make a joke of my nerves.

  “You’ve got this.”

  I relaxed some at those words of confidence, but I didn’t believe her. Diana had seen me at my worst, and our friendship was cemented when she held my hand through my divorce. Never tugging me along, but providing me the guidance I needed when I could no longer make sense of the world. I thought back to the day she’d been there with me as my marriage ended and I completely fell apart.

  I never really loved you. I never really loved you. The words pinged around in my head as I sat in my lawyer’s office, pen in hand, staring at the papers that would sever Bert from my life. Well, sever him as much as possible considering the bond we would always share because of our son.

  I knew his words were lies. But they stung and sowed a doubt deep in my soul that took root and, like kudzu, with time obliterated everything else.

  But I love you. I loved you. If that wasn’t love . . . Breathe. Breathe. You asked for this. This is what you want. The words on the paper blurred into a gray blob. I’m a fucking mess. A big cliché. Stereotypical divorced white lady complete with yoga pants and a Louis Vuitton at my feet. And then my trademark awkward laugh joined the tears. Awesome.

  Diana had passed me a tissue without comment.

  “Thanks,” I muttered as I dabbed at my eyes. Completely ridiculous. I’m being completely ridiculous.

  “No worries. And you’re not. You’re not any of those hateful things that are going through your head right now. Take your time. When you’re done, we’re going for drinks.”