Midnight Valentine

21

And sweet Jesus, can Craig talk. Once he sits down, he doesn’t take a breath. On and on he goes, about his work, his company, his plans for expansion, yada yada yada. It’s exhausting. Not once does he ask Suzanne or me a question. It’s like we were only born to sit and listen to him blather on while we smile supportively and strain our spines as we show off our boobs.

I don’t even have the pleasure of getting plastered, because I never drink unless I’m at home. And I can tell by Suzanne’s third glass of wine that I’m going to be the one driving there.

At quarter past eight, my patience has been worn to a nub by Craig’s ceaseless drone. I catch the waitress’s eye and motion for the check. When it comes, Craig takes it from her hand, waving dismissively when I protest.

“It’s my pleasure.” He smiles at Suzanne, who smiles dreamily back at him.

I doubt it would be his pleasure if he knew I’m seriously considering not hiring him for my ridiculously expensive renovation, but maybe Suzanne’s ample assets will soften the blow.

“I can’t believe we’ve never met before,” she complains prettily, toying with the sleeve of his shirt. “I give my clients referrals for your company all the time, but I’ve only met your foreman.”

“Well, now you’ve met me.” Craig’s smile looks dangerous. “I hope it wasn’t a disappointment.”

Suzanne giggles like a schoolgirl, and it’s all I can do not to throw my napkin in her face. “This was wonderful,” I say, “and it was so nice to see you, Craig.” I slide toward the edge of the booth, hoping they’ll take the hint. When they don’t, I add pointedly, “But I’m feeling a bit tired, so…”

Pulling himself out of the spell of Suzanne’s boobs, Craig remembers his manners and stands. “Of course. I should let you ladies go. Megan, it was a pleasure to see you again. I’ll be sending that paperwork over Monday.”

He shakes my hand. I try not to feel like we’re making a deal. He turns to Suzanne, still sitting in the booth, looking forlorn that he’s leaving. “Suzanne, I honestly can’t remember the last time I had so much fun talking to someone.”

She says, “You need to get my number so you can have fun again soon.”

Damn. This girl is a go-getter, that’s for sure.

But, shockingly, Craig doesn’t take the bait. He says lightly, “Yeah, if I need a real estate agent I’ll definitely give you a call. I can get your number from Megan.”

Suzanne’s smile freezes in place.

Craig says, “Ladies,” makes a motion like he’s tipping his hat, then turns around and walks away.

When he’s gone, Suzanne’s voice comes out flat. “What the hell was that?”

“He must have a girlfriend.” When she looks at me, I shrug. “You guys obviously had mad chemistry. It’s the only explanation.”

“So it wasn’t in my head? He was flirting with me, right?”

“Totally. At one point, I thought he was going to take his junk out and ask you to fondle it under the table.”

“Which I totally would’ve. The man is smoking hot!”

She says that so loudly it has people’s heads turning. I stand, take her hand, and help her out of the booth, staggering a little when she gives me her weight because I wasn’t ready for it.

“Whoa,” she says, steadying herself. “I think you might have to drive home, sweetie. The room is tilted.”

“All right, hotshot, I’ve got you. Don’t impale my feet with those heels of yours. Here we go.”

We make our way through the restaurant—my arm around her shoulders, her arm around my waist—and I try to ignore the snickers I hear as we go.

I have a funny feeling this isn’t the first time Suzanne hasn’t been able to walk out of a restaurant unassisted.

7

Though it’s less than a ten-minute drive from Booger’s to where Suzanne lives, she promptly falls asleep in the car after giving me her home address. I don’t mind, because I’m used to being alone with my thoughts, but I’m a little worried about her.

In a small town, everyone knows everyone, and their dirty laundry too. Maybe all those stares she got on the way in weren’t about her outfit.

I use the map app in my phone to navigate to her house. She lives in a lovely little bungalow with pink azaleas lining a white picket fence that encloses a tidy yard. I park the car in the driveway, then go around to her side to help her out. When I open the door and unbuckle her seat belt, she’s snoring.

“Suzanne.” I gently poke her arm. “We’re home. Wake up.”

She rolls her head toward me, mumbling something about cats. I write it off to the booze, then drag her out of the car as gently as I can, wondering if she was drinking before she came to pick me up, because she’s really out of it.

We stagger to the front door. I have to rummage around in her purse for the keys because she’s literally sleeping standing up, leaning against me. When I get the front door open, I’m assaulted by the smell of cat piss.

Then the little beasts descend in full force, caterwauling to raise the dead.

“De Niro!” Suzanne slurs, cracking open an eye. “Pacino! Stallone! Shut the hell up, Mommy’s head hurts!”

I help Suzanne over the threshold and into the house. She collapses onto the living room sofa, and all three cats—a calico, an orange tabby, and one big, fuzzy black bastard—jump up on her like they’re about to eat off her face.