The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(28)

He departed and Pam took a deep breath, said something about Thursdays I couldn’t quite make out over the din in the bar, then smiled widely at me. She had fresh lipstick on.

“How’s your week been, Henry Dickey?” she said.

“You remembered my name.”

“I did. I even googled you, but nothing came up.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “I’d just as soon have no online presence.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded. You’re a mystery man.”

Our drinks arrived, and Pam asked if I wanted to order some food, and together we looked at the menu, deciding on a few appetizers. I was sorely regretting all the chicken wings I’d eaten earlier.

“So were you googling me for your friend?” I said, after we ordered.

She looked confused, and I said, “For Janey. I got the feeling on Tuesday you were trying to set us up.”

“Oh, right,” Pam said. “No, now that I know you an infinitesimal amount”—she held up her thumb and forefinger so that they were almost touching—“I’m not sure you’re a good match for Janey.”

“Probably not,” I said.

“So who are you a good match for?” Pam said.

I took a tiny sip of my delicious drink. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe no one. My sister says that I fall in love too often to get married, whatever that means.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” Pam said.

“One of what?”

“A serial monogamist.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t think it’s bad, but it is what it is. You have one intense relationship after another but they never quite reach the marriage stage, right?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I think it’s fine. Honestly, what do I know? I used to have all sorts of ideas about what kind of relationship I wanted to have when I got married, and I was also really judgmental about other people’s relationships. My parents. My friends. Now that I’m older and I’ve been through the ringer a couple of times I don’t judge so much.”

“I like that you call yourself older. You’re still in your twenties I’m guessing?”

“Thank you but no. I’m actually thirty-two.”

“Well, you don’t look it.”

“Thanks for that, but I feel it. I feel old, and I feel alone.”

“If I recall correctly,” I said, “you mentioned something about being in a relationship. Last time we were sitting at this bar.”

“Oh, did I? I probably also mentioned that it wasn’t making anyone happy, so there’s that. I’m hoping to extricate myself from that ASAP. Pete, look this way, will you?” She was holding up her empty glass.

“Well, I’m here if you want to unburden yourself of the details.”

“I would but then you’d lose all respect for me.”

“Okay,” I said, and decided to drop it, finishing my own drink.

Pam managed to wave down Pete and we ordered new drinks just as our food arrived. Before we were finished eating, Pam said something too quiet for me to catch, but she was looking at the entrance, so I did, as well. Janey, with three other women, and one man, was standing with the hostess looking around the bar.

“It’s your crew,” I said.

“I know, and I’m kind of hoping they don’t look this way. Is that terrible?”

“We need to protect our food.”

“Yes, we do,” Pam said, smiling. Janey had spotted her and was skipping toward us.

She awkwardly hugged Pam around the shoulders then said an extended “Hey” to me.

“It’s Henry,” I said. “We met two nights ago.”

“I remember,” she said. “Nice to see you. We’re just waiting for one of the big booths at the back. You guys will join us, right?”

I started to say I was planning on leaving soon, but Pam jumped in, and said, “We’ll never fit, will we?”

“We’ll all crowd in. Besides, Marsha won’t stay more than ten minutes, at most.”

“We’ll swing by in a bit,” Pam said, as Janey plucked up the second-to-last snapper dumpling from the plate and popped it in her mouth.

“Sorry,” Janey said, pointing at her cheek, then maneuvered away.

“I don’t expect you to come hang out with my friends from work,” Pam said.

“I don’t expect to, either.”

“Ha. I can sit here for a while. They won’t miss me.”

“I won’t stay long,” I said. “I have to drive back to Cambridge, remember? And it’s a school night.”

“Are you teaching tomorrow?” she said. I knew she was probably wondering about my work status. Writing poetry and teaching adult ed classes was no one’s idea of a lucrative living. I told her I was doing some private tutoring tomorrow for a high school student struggling with writing her college essay.

“I do a fair amount of that,” I said. “It’s probably how I make most of my money.”

“Well, you’re a writer, so you have to find something.”

“I’m shopping a manuscript of my poetry for publication. But even if I find a home for it, it won’t get me any money, and, as far as I can tell, it won’t change my life, at all. I’ll just be able to say I published a book.”