“Her husband’s health isn’t good. She needed to stay with him.”
Super lie!
“What’s wrong with him?”
Oh God, a doctor would ask that. Quickly, I calculated the likelihood of Edward’s ever meeting my mother or her boyfriends and decided, “He has lung cancer. Stage six.”
“Stage six. Thatisserious.”
“I know.”
Our salads arrived. Caesar, the only salad they served. But that was fine. It was wonderful. The conversation got easier. I asked Edward to tell me funny stories about the ER. He tried to but didn’t do such a great job. He didn’t seem to want to criticize anyone which, to me, seemed the core of any funny story.
“So have you ever had a patient come in with a lightbulb up their butt?” I asked.
“No. I think that’s an urban myth.”
“This is a rural area. Maybe it happens in bigger cities.”
“Maybe. I’m just as glad I’ve never had to deal with that kind of extraction.”
My steak was fabulous, and there were long pauses while I chewed. In between I attempted to turn the conversation to things I understood well, likeSex and the CityandAmerica’s Next Top Model.
“Do you thinkSex and the Cityis ending because the girls hate each other?” I asked, though Edward seemed a little confused by the question.
“I don’t get a lot of backstage gossip in the ER.”
“You probably would if you lived in L.A.” Which, to me, was the perfect reason to leave Wyandot County for L.A.
He attempted to talk politics, but it went right over my head. Apparently, there were protests in Tehran—probably because they didn’t getSex in the Citythere. Seriously, if they just gave HBO to everyone in the world peace would breakout everywhere.
I couldn’t believe how well it was going. Who would’ve ever thought I’d come to Masons Bay and find a man like this? He thought taking care of Nana Cole was, like, admirable. Seriously? Well, maybe it was. And then maybe Edward was my gift for taking care of her.
Well, not directly. I didn’t think there was some kind of Santa Claus in the sky checking off boxes, like: Took care of old lady; give him a hot doctor. Not intellectually, at least. Emotionally though, emotionally I could totally believe it. Hewasmy gift for being good—even if I hadn’t exactly been good on purpose.
As much as I wanted dessert, I turned it down. My plan was to have sex with him on the first date, and I didn’t want too much in my stomach. The wine and the steak and the salad and the popcorn perch were more than enough. He got the bill and paid it. I didn’t even offer to go dutch; I never did.
“Next time it’s on you,” he said with a charming smile.
“How do you feel about Burger King?”
He laughed, a rumbling dark sound.
Once we were out of the restaurant, he said, “Do you want to go for a little walk?”
“No, we can just go to your place.”
Edward laughed again. Apparently, I missed my calling as a comedian. He said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I think I’d like to wait.”
“Oh, you don’t like me.”
“I like you a lot. That’s why I want to wait.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Casual doesn’t work out for me.”
And that made me ask myself, ‘Did it work out for me?’ When I lived in L.A. it happened a lot, and sometimes it was fun. Was that what it meant to ‘work out’? That it was fun? Or did he mean ‘work out’ as in something longer. Deeper.
