All Grown Up(9)

He had a point. I’d been hesitant to delve too deeply into who Donovan was over the last few days. The more we chatted, the more I liked him. And I had no intention of getting involved with a boy of his age. Finding things in common would make it even more difficult to cut this tie at the end of the week. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again.

Donovan: Not even a little curious?

Valentina: Of course. I just didn’t want to be too intrusive.

Donovan: Intrusive = Afraid to get to know you for fear I might actually like you.

Valentina: That’s not it at all.

That’s totally it!

Donovan: Well, then, I’m good with intrusive. So ask away.

I sighed. Looking around the yard, I realized I had met a ton of very nice people today. But I was more interested in talking to Donovan. I took a seat and bit the bullet.

Valentina: Dearest Donovan, might I ask what it is you do for a living?

Donovan: Sure thing, Val. I’m glad you asked. I’m in real estate.

Totally not what I expected him to say. I had this picture of Donovan riding a bike with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder or working as a first-year fireman. Definitely not a suit-wearing, Manhattan real estate wheeler-dealer.

Valentina: Wow. That wasn’t what I thought you were going to say.

Donovan: What did you think I did?

I didn’t want to insult him and say I thought he might be a messenger, so I went with fireman, thinking it was harmless.

Valentina: I don’t know. Fireman might have been my guess.

Or fantasy. Whatever.

Donovan: Women tend to think firemen are hot, correct?

Valentina: Don’t get ahead of yourself now.

Donovan: Okay, then. What, exactly, made you think I might have been a fireman?

Shit. I was drawing a blank.

Just then, Adam returned.

“Sorry about that. It was my daughter. She’s sixteen, and it was a crisis. Her mother took away her flat iron for leaving it on, and she thought calling me and demanding I tell her mother to give it back was a good idea.”

I smiled. “I take it she wasn’t happy when she hung up.”

“You can say that again. My ex and I don’t agree on much, but we’ve done well at supporting each other’s parental decisions.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Nine years. You?”

“How did you know I was divorced?”

“Eve might have mentioned it.”

I forced a smile. “Sorry about that. She means well. But she insists I need to get back into the dating world even though it’s only been eighteen months.”

“Would I be overstepping if I asked how long things weren’t great before the divorce? For me it was at least five years. So when we finally split up, it had been a long time since either of us was happy, and we were both ready to move on.”

“I suppose you’re right. We were separated for two years before the divorce, and things hadn’t been great in a while.” My phone buzzed in my hand, and I looked down.

“Do you want to take that? I can go grab us some drinks. How about a refill for that margarita?”

“I’d love that. Thank you, Adam.”

Returning to my phone, there were three successive texts from Donovan, a minute apart.

Donovan: Got nothing, huh?

Donovan: Admit it. You think I’m hot.

Donovan: Got a buddy who’s on NYFD. I can borrow his uniform if you go out with me.

Valentina: Sorry. I was talking with someone.

Donovan: Man or woman?

Valentina: Why do you ask?

Donovan: Because if it’s a man, I want to know if you think he’s hot, too.

Valentina: You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?

Donovan: Me? You’re the one having hot and sweaty fireman dreams about me.

Valentina: I never said…

My texting was interrupted by another from him. He had fast fingers.

Donovan: Admit it.

Valentina: Why is it so important to you?

Donovan: Because I like you. And if you’re fantasizing about me, there’s a better chance I can talk you into going out with me.

I really wished he were a bit older—even just a few years and into his early thirties would be more appropriate.

Valentina: I like you, too, Donovan. I don’t want to lead you on. I’ve enjoyed this time chatting with you…I really have. But you’re just too young for me.

Donovan: I’m actually not that young. I did some serious thinking about this yesterday. The average life expectancy of a man is 68.5 and for a woman it’s 73.5. That means you’re probably going to live five years longer than me. Therefore, I have a 5 handicap.

Valentina: A handicap?

Donovan: Yeah. Like in golf. I get to add five years to my age. So we’re really only seven years apart, and you can certainly get past that.

I chuckled and shook my head.

Valentina: Nice try. But your logic is flawed. We measure life by how long we’ve been here. Therefore, you receive no handicap.

Donovan: It’s time you changed that outlook, Val. Age shouldn’t be counted by the time we’ve been alive. It should be counted by the years we have left. Look forward, not back.

It was just a funny exchange. I didn’t think it was meant to be profound or anything of the sort. Yet his words hit me. I had been looking back, for a long time now. Donovan was right.