The Dating Bender Page 9

  What kind of married person pranced around a single girl’s home wearing antlers while dropping the “I love you” bomb? It was just wrong. You’re just now grasping this? People shouldn’t be allowed to blurt out crap like that. According to Fortune magazine, when uttered by a boss or colleague, it might even be considered sexual harassment.

  I no longer felt the Yule and had to wonder if I would ever feel it again. I’d have to stop throwing Christmas parties if this is what I could expect as a closer.

  As Frankie continued to unveil inappropriate intimate details, I nodded a lot and threw in a bunch of you-don’t-says. Kick this man out of your life, or at least your home.

  Instead of listening intently, I realized that I should have said something more along the lines of: “This is completely inappropriate, you married bastard, please leave.” Instead, I said nothing.

  “We just haven’t been connecting ever since little Frankie was born,” he droned on. “I tried to leave so many times but couldn’t muster the courage, until now. You inspired me.”

  Oh please. I tuned him out while he continued to whine and even managed to maintain a pleasant state of concerned detachment. Mom would have been proud that I never made eye contact, not even once. I cleaned the coffee table where I had accidently spit out my eggnog when he made his absurd declaration.

  “Sam, I have never met anybody like you. You’re the strongest woman I know. In fact, you glow.”

  Glowing, wow, I’d never heard that one before, only read about it in Allure magazine. They spoke in terms of cheeks, so not totally applicable.

  “No matter how much I love my children, I’m not doing them any favors by staying with a woman I don’t love. I don’t expect you to act on, or even respond, to what I’m saying. I just had to tell you how I felt.”

  Kick him out now!

  “You are my hope and my destiny. Even if you never return my feelings, I will go on being a better person having known you. Well, I guess I ought to let you get some sleep. You look tired.”

  He came closer, hesitating to adjust his pant pleats. When he was done with all that rustling he looked at me with another glassy-eyed stare and said, “Thank you, Samantha Serrano, for being this kind of woman. Goodnight.”

  He walked out, closing the door gently, though not hard enough for it to shut completely. I sat in the entryway staring out into a front yard covered in virgin snow. The same flakes that had stopped falling the moment that Frankie left. The lawn remained pristine except for a lonesome trail of prints left by a preppy pair of loafers.

  Finally, I mustered the strength to shut the door, and while the wind stopped biting, a wave of something else replaced it: the feeling you got when you realized for the first time in your life that someone saw the good in you that had gone unnoticed until now.

  I vomited all over my kitchen floor, which was where I spent the remainder of the night cowered in the fetal position. Somebody finally loved me, only it was the wrong guy.

  ***

  I went to church the next morning to pray for God’s forgiveness for allowing Frankie to spew his sinful confessions all over my home. The Catholic Church and my parental teachings were finally getting put to good use. But then I did what we Serranos always eventually do: I denied the events of the prior night. I lit a holy candle and wished for the disappearance of all of the touching sentiments that Frankie’s puffy lips spouted.

  Due to the epic amounts of champagne we had consumed, I assumed (or at least hoped) that Frankie wouldn’t remember anything. Men always seem to forget when they tell someone they love them—a fact that typically perturbed me, but in this instance, I prayed for it.

  To distract myself from my troubles, I planned how I would pounce into the open and available arms of my loving boyfriend on my lunch break. I hoped Ryan had cut off that overgrown beard like he promised. It wasn’t helping matters. The mountain man look didn’t work for him or for me. The forest of whiskers made it hard to find his lips when kissing time came around. If only Frankie would grow one. Facial hair aside, it was Ryan and not Frankie that was the man for me. Of that, I was certain.

  Talking to God within the confines of church did nothing to allay my panic, so I decided to go into work early. My drive to the office taxed me mentally despite my attempts at singing myself happy. “I Will Survive” and “Dancing Queen” could only get me so far out of the rabbit hole.

  I snuck in the back entryway hoping to avoid our receptionist, Perky Pam, who for unknown reasons arrived hours before everyone else—likely to tweet meaningless drivel to her countless followers. Candy arrived at my office door before I had a chance to sit down. What was she in so early for?

  She loomed, trying to force eye contact. When I didn’t cave, she entered. I sunk into my chair and began tapping on my keyboard pretending to be focused on an urgent email.

  She tilted my monitor to the side so she could glare at me without obstruction. I could tell by her expression that she knew I was not typing a real message. Perhaps it was the string of expletives that gave me away. E-cursing comforted me.

  “Sam, did you drink too much last night? You look green. Is there anything I should know about?”

  How this chipper clairvoyant was so perceptive, I would never know.

  “Yeah, I’m not feeling so hot. And, well, technically it wasn’t me that did the ‘something.’ It was someone else. Never mind. I resumed church services.”

  She looked at me blankly.

  I rambled, willing myself to shut up.

  “Frankie made it to the party.”

  She forced me out of my chair and into the center of my own office. She turned me in circles as she looked me over.

  “Holy crap, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  This time I stared blankly.

  “He was supposed to be our nemesis. Reel in your hormones already. And what about Ryan?” she said.

  “I know. You’re right. You’re always right. Ryan is my soul mate, not Frankie. How could I be in love with someone who owns fifty pairs of pleated pants and picks at them constantly?”

  “Holy Christ! You are in love with him. I was half-kidding. You need to cease and desist all personal contact with him,” she said as she wagged her finger at me. “No late-night meetings, no Irish bars. Convene only in groups of three or more, and avoid direct eye contact with him. If you follow my instructions, everything will be okay. Okay?”

  Her words hung in an attempt to convince both of us that what she said was true.

  ***

  I tried to ignore Frankie the best I could for the next week. He was the only one in the office who looked worse than I did. On Friday afternoon, he ambushed me in the breakroom and ushered me into his office like a drill sergeant.

  “I just thought you should know I served Sherry divorce papers yesterday,” he said as he fumbled with his pleats.

  I wondered if this was a guilt-ridden tick of his and not a crotch adjustment as I had previously thought.

  While I was sorry to hear his news, it perturbed me. It had nothing to do with business and therefore was not my concern.

  Luckily, Boogie interrupted by knocking on Frankie’s door. His nose was unkempt as usual. I tried to skirt out of the room but wasn’t quite quick enough. Then I tried to adjust my own pleats. Impossible, since I was wearing a turtleneck sweater dress, my attempt at dressing myself dowdy.

  While I straightened my non-existent hemline to avoid eye contact, Frankie said, “Right after the holidays we’re headed to New York to lock down our next round of funding.”

  This was clearly another one of his ploys to get me alone and profess his undying love for me in a new city. I would not fall prey to his seduction. I wasn’t a moron. Well, that’s debatable.

  “Frankie, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. I’ve not been feeling well, female problems. You know how it is.”

  “Well, actually, I don’t. What I do know is, unless you’re about to get admitted into the
hospital, you’re coming with me. Our IPO has been delayed and we need to get it back on track. The company’s future depends on it,” he said.

  Likely story. It was hard to place stock in words uttered during a pleated-pant-pick.

  “Wow, that sounds super serious. Maybe Ryan should go. He is a much more accomplished presenter than I am. Plus, he’s a man. I’ve heard that financial types respond better to men. I think Wired just ran a story about it.”

  “Be that as it may, you’re still going. Here is your ticket. We fly out on the fifth of January.”

  He had certainly turned out to be a bossy bleeding-heart desperately separated sad sack of a man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  New York had a reputation for being a romantic cesspool of deception, but I would not get trapped in its web. I went to church before leaving and called the airlines to move my seat seven rows apart from Frankie. Seven was my lucky number, which would hopefully work in my favor to ward off any unwelcome romantic inclinations.

  I didn’t sleep the night before our flight to ensure that I looked haggard. How sexy could Frankie find me in a brown corduroy jumper and scuffed Mary Janes?

  We shared a cab from JFK to our hotel, but I sat in the front seat with the cabbie to maintain a safe distance. He and the driver droned on in man-speak while I stared out the window, waiting for the cityscape to come into view. When it did, despite all the chaos, it lulled me into a state of calm.

  Until we got out of the cab and Frankie stared at me lovingly.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in an ornate mirror that hung near the lobby in the Plaza Hotel. The face looking back at me was painted with guilt. I couldn’t tell if it was because of my piss-poor looks or the fact that I had offered my hand in friendship to a married man who recently told me that he loved me.

  “This hotel is spectacular, isn’t it?” I gushed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so stunning. It’s a bit spendy for a pseudo-start-up, don’t you think? Not that I’m complaining, it just seems like a lot of money when we’re here trying to raise money. I mean, you’d think the company might have resorted to having us share a room to save funds if we were going to stay here, not that that would be a good idea. I’m just saying…”

  Stop babbling, you moron.

  “Sam, take it easy. How about we get checked in and then we can take a walk? It’s a magnificent afternoon. We should enjoy it now, since work will take over later.”

  The smart thing to do in this situation would have been to counter Frankie’s invitation with a polite yet firm, No, thank you. I need to call my boyfriend, have phone sex, and then go to sleep. Instead, I stood silent and frozen, like the picturesque statue perched out in front of the hotel.

  “I’ll check us in and you can wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in five so we can take that walk.” Wink.

  Oh, for the love of God, I wished he’d stop twinkling his eyes at me. It was just wrong.

  Lucky for us, it was still light outside. Nothing ever happened to people in daylight. When he finished checking us in, he pushed me outside, only adjusting his pleats once.

  “There’s nothing like a brisk sunset walk in Central Park, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Say something, Samantha. Good girls don’t take strolls in Central Park with taken men. Despite my attempts at speaking, nothing came out.

  The next thing I knew I was in the midst of a romantic stroll with a married man-whore. The leaves crackled underfoot, yet the park remained peaceful. Damn Giuliani for making it safe so many years ago.

  Frankie’s eyes became glassier with each step. I should have been freezing but my thumping libido warmed me on the inside.

  Minutes into our walk, I discovered we were holding hands. Good God! How had that happened? Friends and colleagues didn’t hold hands. That would be unprofessional. But there we were, boss and subordinate, married and unmarried, walking hand in hand through Strawberry Fields. Damn him, how did he know the thought of John Lennon would ignite me?

  He sang the song “All You Need is Love,” completely out of tune as he stopped at a bench.

  I felt his soft and supple lips on mine. He had stealthily swept me up on the bench with him.

  In my head, I went tearing out of the park. In reality, I kissed him back. Step away from the lips. They’re married to someone else. I engaged in a hot and passionate lip tango with my boss. John Lennon beamed down on us.

  It’s true what they say about Italian men: they really did know how to make use of their assets, Frankie’s being sensual lips and a huge penis. Okay, the latter was speculation based on the size of his feet, his very big feet.

  His apparatus stayed safely tucked within his stupid khakis, but his tongue worked wonders on mine. I was in way too deep.

  Damn you, New York City, for luring me into your luscious world of love and deception.

  ***

  I wish I could say that I avoided him for the rest of the trip, but it was impossible. Instead, we wined and dined the investors relentlessly. Thankfully, my guilt-ridden alter-ego stepped in and prevented further loose-lip action in the after hours.

  I told myself the kiss was a fluke, never to be repeated or talked about again. If my mom were present she would have offered us bagels and cream cheese to encourage the denial. Instead, in tribute to her, I drank a lot of red hot schnapps and passed out in my hotel room every night. Manhattan had swiftly become fuel for my flailing moral code. Good thing we were leaving.

  I must have awakened as my mother because I made no eye contact with Frankie for the entire cab ride to the airport. I kept my peepers plastered out the window as the skyline melted out of sight.

  It was fitting we flew out of Newark, an ugly, stinking airport, which helped to squelch any romantic inclinations I might have been tempted to have.

  As we entered the terminal, I acted quickly.

  “I have to pee.”

  I made a move toward the ladies’ room, and when Frankie wasn’t looking, diverted my route toward the check-in counter. There was no way I was going to sit next to him for the entire flight. I would cease and desist with all personal contact, just like Candy had instructed.

  Luckily, God was on my side and I got my seat moved far away from Frankie. So what if I would be sitting right next to the pint-sized plane potty? A fitting place for a stinky sewage girl like you.

  The flight would grant me some time to think, and to conjure up a delicate way to tell Ryan about my lip-smacking indiscretion. Hopefully, he would understand and forgive me.

  I had three vodka tonics and dozed off.

  Four hours later, we banged onto the runway, waking me from a peaceful slumber, the type of sleep where men and women and bosses and subordinates could just be friends and not inappropriately kiss one another in Central Park.

  Thank God we were home. You’re going to need a lot more than God’s help to get you out of this mess.

  Frankie and his smoking hot lips waited for me at the gate. He gazed into my eyes, placed a note in my sweaty palm, and folded my fingers around it.

  I thought about opening it, contemplated giving it back to him, but settled on sprinting down the airport corridor.

  When I stopped for a water break, I stuffed the note into the breast pocket of my sensible pink oxford shirt, which I buttoned up to the top while making a personal vow to God and myself never to read the letter. I made my way outside, where I waved my arms at a cabbie. It started to hail yet I stood there getting pelted, immobilized by my deceitful behavior in New York.

  “Get in the frickin’ car, lady, or I’m moving on,” the fat, cranky driver said through his barely cracked window.

  That New York attitude had followed me home.

  “Can you hand me one of those paper towels? I’m covered in sleet. Your behavior is deplorable for someone in the service industry,” I said.

  It felt better reprimanding him than admitting my own bad behavior. He repeatedly clicked the automatic door button to rattle me. I
one-upped him by pulling out a notepad and pretending to write down his license plate, but he locked the car door, again.

  “If you don’t open up your door, you oversized goof, I will call your superiors.”

  I banged so fiercely on the windows that he finally acquiesced and unlocked the door. I slipped into the back seat and spit on him. I forgot about the Plexiglas partition, so technically, I spat on myself. The driver failed to notice any of it.

  Once I came down off the adrenaline high of my outburst, I softened my inner voice just long enough to convince myself to open Frankie’s letter.

  Samantha, I knew from the moment I saw you in our first staff meeting that you were the one for me even though it defied all of the rules. Over the last several months, out of respect for you and my children, I have stayed away. I kept my distance. But after the moment we shared in New York, I can no longer do it. I cannot look back. I can only focus forward. I know that I asked for nothing from you, but now that is not so. I know you feel the same way. I know it is not appropriate, and it makes no sense at all, other than when something feels so right, there is no way it can be all wrong. I have done my part by proceeding with a divorce and leaving my family. By choosing a chance at living with the woman of my dreams. I have already given up all that I know, and all that I ask for in return is you. I am asking you to give me your heart. I promise to hold it gently, and forever, right next to mine.

  Love, Frankie.

  Shit!

  I read and reread that letter trying to find the evil, trying to find the reasons to tear it up and go running to my boyfriend. I tried to block the kiss and note out of my mind. It was the most love-filled thing I had ever received, the only downer being the iffy marital status of its sender.

  I spent the entire weekend in bed with the note lodged under my pillow, praying for God to strike me down or fill me with some sanity. I prayed for Him to give me the strength to bail myself out of my slutty situation and to grant me the courage to recognize right from wrong.