Too Good to Be True(75)
Granted, yes, I’d been planning to tell the family that Wyatt and I had parted ways—Natalie’s wedding would demand attendance, and obviously Wyatt couldn’t show, being imaginary and all. But the idea of spending a Friday night listening to Mémé detail her nasal polyps and having Mom and Dad indulge in their endless bickering, sitting in the glow of Andrew and Natalie while Margaret sniped at everyone…nope. Callahan O’ Shea was right. I did a lot for my family. More than enough. Wyatt Dunn could give me one last excuse before, alas, we were forced to break up for good.
“But it’s my birthday.” Mémé frowned. “Cancel your plans.”
“No,” I said with a smile.
“In my day, people showed respect to their elders,” she began.
“See, I was thinking the Inuit have it right,” Margaret said. “The ice floe? What do you say, Mémé?”
I laughed, receiving a glare from my grandmother. “Hey, listen, I have to go. Papers to grade and all that. Love you guys. See you at home, Margs.”
“Cheers, Grace,” she said, toasting me with a knowing grin. “Hey, does Wyatt have a brother?”
I smiled, patted her shoulder and left.
When I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later, I looked over at Callahan’s house. Maybe he was home. Maybe he’d want company. Maybe he’d almost kiss me again. Maybe there’d be no “almost” about it.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, getting out of the car. Angus’s sweet little head popped up in the window, and he began his yarping song of welcome. “One second, sweetie boy!” I called, then walked over to 36 Maple. Right up the path. Knocked on the door. Firmly. Waited.
There was no answer. I knocked again, my spirits slipping a notch. Glancing down the street, I noticed belatedly that Cal’s truck wasn’t there. With a sigh, I turned around and went home.
The truck wasn’t there the next day, or the next. Not that I was spying, of course…just glancing out my window every ten minutes or so in great irritation, acknowledging the fact that…yikes…I missed him. Missed the joking, the knowing looks, the brawny arms. The tingling wave of desire that one look from Callahan O’ Shea could incite. And God, when he touched my face that night on the roof, I’d felt like the most beautiful creature on earth.
So where was he, dang it? Why did it bug me so much that he’d gone off for a few days? Maybe he was back in an orange jumpsuit, stabbing trash on the side of the freeway, having broken parole somehow. Maybe he was a CIA mole and had been called up to serve, like Clive Owen’s assassin character in The Bourne Identity. “Must go kill someone, dear…I’ll be late for dinner!” Seemed to fit Callahan more than being an accountant, that’s for sure.
Maybe—maybe he had a girlfriend. I didn’t think so, but I just didn’t know, did I?
On Friday night, tired of torturing myself about Callahan, I decided that going to Julian’s singles’ night with Kiki was a better way to spend my time than wondering where the hell Callahan O’ Shea had gone. I was supposed to be in New York with Wyatt, and Margaret was growling in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of paper and an open bottle of wine, complaining about having to go to dinner with our family.
And so it was that at nine o’clock, instead of watching Mémé wrestle food past her hiatal hernia and listening to my parents snipe, I was instead dancing to Gloria Estefan at Jitterbug’s singles’ night. Dancing with Julian, dancing with Kiki, dancing with Cambry the waiter and having a blast.
There were no men here for me…Kiki had claimed the only reasonably attractive straight guy, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Apparently, Cambry had brought a lot of his friends, so aside from a scattering of middle-aged women (Julian’s usual crowd for this event), the night had taken on a decidedly g*y-man feel.
I didn’t mind a bit. This only meant that the men danced well, dressed beautifully and flirted outrageously in one of the unfairnesses of life—gay men were generally better boyfriends than straight guys, except on the sex front, where things tended to fall apart. Still, I’d bet a g*y boyfriend would at least tell me if he was going out of town for a few days. Not that Callahan was my boyfriend, of course.
I let the music push those thoughts away and found that after a while, I was twirling, laughing, showing off my dancing skills, being told I was fabulous again and again by Cambry’s pals.
As the music pulsed in my ears and I salsa-stepped with one good-looking guy after another, I felt a warm wave of happiness. It was nice to be away from my family, nice not to be looking for love, nice to be just out having fun.
Good old Wyatt Dunn. This last date was definitely our best.
When Julian went to the back to change the music, I followed him. “This is great!” I exclaimed. “Look at all the people here! You should make this a regular thing. Gay Singles’ Night.”
“I know,” he said, grinning as he shuffled through his song list. “What should we do next? It’s ten o’clock already.
Man! The night has flown by. Maybe some slower stuff, what do you think?”
“Sounds good to me. I’m beat. This is quite a bit livelier than Dancin’ with the Oldies. My feet are killing me.”
Julian grinned. He looked as ridiculously handsome as ever, but happier, too. The shadow that made him so tragically appealing seemed to have lifted. “How are things with Cambry?” I asked.