Page 10 of Intoxicated
As the poignant words ofMiddlemarchentrance me, I’m slightly distracted by the black Chevrolet Camaro rolling up to parallel park right in front of my window. NW 23rdis a hot cruising spot for every middle-aged guy who has recently bought his first sports car. People will drive down from the hillsjustto show off. Tourists and locals alike frequent this place. Sure enough, everyone within a quarter mile radius stops to admire and take a picture of the black convertible turning off its motor.
Out steps Mr. Benton.
Wait, do you start the sign of the cross on yourleftside, or the right? I can never remember. I’m a Heathen. My appearance may be impeccable, but my religious references? Sloppy.
He’s got the tightest pair of denim jeans clinging to his legs. A half-unbuttoned black linen shirt flutters in the breeze, his sunglasses adding an air of mystery to his otherwise young form. My Googling tells me he’s recently turned thirty. The guy doesn’t look a day over twenty-three. You know, thatI may have just graduated college, but I’m totally a mature adult,look.
I stab a cube of cheese. My teeth pluck it right off the toothpick. I cross my legs and lower my sunglasses so I get a better view of that ass as Drew feeds the parking meter and smiles at a pair of young women in jumpers. I can hear their giggles from here.
There’s only a one minute window between him disappearing from view and making it to my table. Now’s my chance to gussy up. Freshen up my makeup. Ensure that every hair is in the proper place. Pull the wrinkles out of my silk jumpsuit and think about what I’ll say to greet him.
I don’t do any of those things.
“Afternoon.” Drew doesn’t remove his sunglasses until he’s standing at my table. “I’m looking for a beautiful woman named Cher. Do you happen to know her?”
My elbow digs into the table. My hair slides down my shoulders as I cock my head up and say, “No.”
“Pity.” Drew helps himself to the table, anyway. His cologne is a respectable Calvin Klein, but I can understand why he went for that instead of the supreme quality they keep under lock and key in department stores. It’s a fragrance that enhances him, all right. You know a man is familiar with his own scent and what it needs when he’s always got you thinking about cuddling up to him.
Give it a few moments. The olfactory fatigue will settle in soon enough.
“Guess I’ll sit with you, then. What should I call you?” He tucks his sunglasses into the only pocket on his shirt. “You look like an… Annalise.”
Can you believe this guy? This is what he thinks is flirting. Then again, he’s surprised me, hasn’t he? I bet that’s his only goal. Keep me guessing, or whatever. Those types tend to be exhausting. Maybe I don’t want to guess. Maybe I want to know who you are up front, because God knows I’m keeping the real me from you.
“Not even close,” I say.
“A… Margaret, but everyone calls you Maggie.”
“Isn’t that your grandmother’s name?”
He laughs. Damn him and his dazzling white smile. “So you’ve been looking me up.”
“I had to make sure you are who you say you are. Any guy can claim to be a Benton. How do I know you’re not impersonating one to seduce women?”
“At least I look the part?” He stretches his arms above his head, shirt stretching across his broad chest. Yes, yes, those are lovely chest hairs poking out between his glass buttons. Whoop-dee-doo. “What do you think? Do I look and smell like I could pass for a Benton?”
“Yes.” I pick up another cube of cheese. “The baby of the family.”
His smile slightly falters. “You really dig in, don’t you?”
He doesn’t mean the cheese plate. He means the information I mined about him. “Your family is easy to Google. When were you going to tell me that you’re not inheriting the company? Although I’m sure your sister will do a mighty fine job, being the oldest and all.”
“That’s what you care most about, yes?”
“I didn’t say that. Yet you’re acting like you’re all that because you’ve got money.”
“I don’tjusthave money.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve introduced me to your trouser snake.”
Some guys are put off by my flippancy. Drew, however, digs right in, like he’s about to tear apart the tapas plate he’s ordered to go with a glass of Chardonnay. Not the drink I’d peg him to like, but I’m not surprised, either. He’s always trying to circumvent expectations. Yet he’s still a guy driving a Camaro and wearing Calvin Klein cologne.
I don’t hate the conversation we indulge, although it takes me a little while to loosen up. The wine helps, although I’ve purposely picked one I know doesn’t turn me into a giggly mess of bad decisions too quickly. I politely inquire about his field of work – naturally, he does things here and there for his family, but deep in his heart he’s anartist– and he asks me about my family. When I tell him I’m a native Portlander but that my parents have moved to Arizona for an early retirement and a cheaper condo, he expresses surprise, as if I’m not the type to hang around Portland for too long.
“What, do you think I moved here from California?”
“No,” he says.
