The One That I Want(7)
“Why would anyone do that to you?”
“God, look at me. I’m skinny and awkward. My mousy-brown hair never does what it’s told and I’m a boring accountant. I wouldn’t want to be with me, so I don’t know what you’re doing here.” I was channeling a whiny teenage girl.
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I have bad taste?”
I chuckled at the thought. He wore designer suits like he was born with Armani tattooed on his ass.
“Hardly.”
Paul smiled, and it felt like I’d been punched in the chest, my breath knocked out of me.
“Why didn’t you shave this morning before you came to work?” I didn’t know why I asked, but I needed to know.
“Because I caught the red-eye last night so I could be waiting for you. I haven’t been home yet.”
“Oh, sorry. But you’ve shaved now, and changed your suit.” He looked a lot less disheveled than he did first thing this morning.
“I always keep a spare suit in my office, and I showered and shaved after I cornered you this morning.” Paul pointed at my plate. “Eat, you’ll need all your energy for tomorrow afternoon.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I HAVE a delivery here for Mr. Jason Jennings.”
“That’s me. Thanks,” I said, signing the slip for the enormous package.
Once I closed my apartment door, I put the box on the counter and read the accompanying card.
Put these on. All of them. I’ll pick you up at 1:00 p.m. P xxx
Pushing aside the enormous amounts of tissue paper, I pulled out the items one by one. Black jeans, white T-shirt, and black boots. A black leather jacket with T-birds written on the back. Finally, a black wig, complete with sideburns and Danny Zuko big hair.
It occurred to me then that Paul wanted me to go out—in public—looking like this. Oh no. Where the hell was he taking me dressed like this?
My phone buzzed with a message.
Stop thinking and start dressing. P xx
I did as I was told and stopped thinking about it, but when I looked in the mirror after dressing, I looked ridiculous. I sure hoped Paul was dressed as Sandy. That would be the only way he’d look even remotely as ridiculous as I did.
But when I opened my door to Paul, my heart stopped.
Kenickie Murdock was standing in front of me. Complete with cigarette behind the ear. Paul was dressed in blue jeans and sky-blue T-shirt, just like Kenickie. His wig was the same as mine but brown instead of black. He wore a pair of aviators, chewed gum, and had slung his leather jacket over one shoulder.
I was going to come on the spot.
He snapped his gum. “Hey, baby, you wanna hickey from Kenickie?”
“Ungh.”
Paul chuckled. “I see words have fled your company again. Come here, I need to kiss you.”
I put my hand on his chest, stopping his advance. “Uh uh. If you touch me I’ll come in my pants.”
Paul laughed so loud, Dave ran off down the hallway. “Okay, I’ll try not to touch you. C’mon, I want to get there early.”
“There? You actually want to go out looking like this?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll blend right in.”
AND BLEND in we did. Paul took me back to the same theater from last week’s Grease performance but this time we didn’t have to sit down if we didn’t want to. It was a dance party. There were Sandys and Rizzos, Frenchys, Doodies and Sonnys everywhere. I spotted the odd Eugene and even a few Teen Angels. The same performance was on stage, but we were encouraged to dance in the aisles and sing our hearts out. Some of the actors on stage laughed at the antics of the audience, and I’d never been so exhausted in my life. I didn’t sit down once, and my feet were killing me in the costume shoes. But it was so worth it. Paul danced and sang with me and didn’t fall asleep once. Sometimes he appeared happy to sit and watch me carry on like a man possessed by the spirit of Danny Zuko, a huge grin lighting his eyes.
When the shortened intermission was announced, we both gulped a load of water and rushed back to our seats, in a hurry to rejoin the fun. The performers were more relaxed during this showing, and it was evident when they screwed up their lines and laughed and improvised instead of trying to cover their mistakes.
Everyone had a blast, and there wasn’t a single person sitting down during the final song.
And I shoo-wopped with them all.
AFTER THE Grease dance-off, Paul took me home and showed me how much he missed me during that week apart. Then he showed me again the following morning.
He made me promise never to turn my phone off, and I made him promise to call me when he said he was going to call. He never missed a call and neither did I.
In the next few months, we ate lunch together most days. Sometimes work got in the way for Paul as he had meetings that he couldn’t get out of. During those meetings I’d get a text telling me how boring it was and how much he’d rather be sharing a BLT with me instead. I could picture him trying to send a text, his fingers working the buttons under the table out of sight. I asked him once if he had ever been caught. He replied, all the f*cking time. Oops, just got busted again.
We made love every weekend, sometimes all weekend. Yes, made love. Sometimes we f*cked like monkeys, but there was always an underlying tenderness. We hadn’t said the words yet, but they were there, on the tip of my tongue. I wouldn’t say them yet, no matter how strongly I felt them. In my limited experience, they were the kiss of death to a budding relationship.