Your Big Break (25 page)

Sean and I look at each other. Sean dumps the soiled casserole in the sink. “I'll order a pizza,” he says, red-faced. He picks up the phone and dials. “Go find out what Jude likes on his.”

“Who cares,” I say, not bothering to move.

“Dani,”
Sean says, nudging me toward the door. “We've already screwed up enough as it is. The least we can do is spring for some food.”

“Oh, all right,” I huff, heading into the living room. I can't believe I have to speak to Jude. “Hey, Jude,” I ask, and then I can't stop thinking of the Beatles song. “We're getting a pizza. Do you have any requests?”

“No.” Jude stands up. “I have no intention of eating pizza.”

Here it comes,
I think,
the big blowup that will end their relationship. Jude's about to reveal what a snob he is.

“Your mother worked very hard on that casserole, and the two of you went in there like spoiled brats and destroyed it.” Jude shakes his head sadly. “I was hoping we could all be adult about this and have a nice dinner, but apparently that's not the case.” He turns to my mother. “Come on, Beth. I'm taking you out. The children”—he nods toward me and Sean—“can eat pizza.”

“It's now or never,” Sean whispers, nudging me hard. “Go find those mags!”

I'm not sure if I can go through with this.
Wasn't sabotaging
Mom's casserole enough? Do we really need to sabotage her relationship, too?
Maybe we should give Jude a fair chance. We ought to at least get to know him before we decide to hate him. I look at Sean, and can tell by his face that it's too late to back out now. I dash out of the room and into the hall. I fling open the closet door just as Jude and Mom get there. I make a grab for the yoga bag, which Jude has placed on the shelf over the coats, instead of on the floor like a normal person. I snatch it. It's heavier than it looks, and as I pull it toward me, I hear a small ruffling noise. I watch as a few copies of
Playgirl
slide out and onto the floor.

“Dani!” Mom says, spying the
Playgirl
s. “Why on earth do you have a bunch of magazines with half-naked men on the cover?”

“The guys inside are completely naked!” I blurt.

“Yes, but why do
you
have them?”

“They were, uh, in Jude's bag,” I mumble.

Jude stares at me. “No they weren't.”

Mom sighs. “Dani, exploring one's sexuality is a perfectly normal thing.” She comes over and strokes my hair. “If you want to look at naked men, there's nothing wrong with that.”

“But I wasn't looking at naked men!” I shriek. “Jude was!” Even to my own ears, this sounds ludicrous. I see Sean appear in the hallway and then quickly duck out of view. I'm going to kill him for coming up with this asinine plan.
Why did I ever think it would work?

“Those aren't mine,” Jude says again.

Mom winks at me. “A healthy interest in sex is perfectly normal.”

Mom and Jude go out to dinner, and Sean and I are left alone. We order a pizza, and it's cold and soggy by the time it arrives. We sit in the kitchen—the scene of the crime—and pick at it.

“We've blown it,” Sean says. “We acted like two-year-olds.”

I feel horrified, ashamed. “I know,” I tell him.

For a long time neither of us says anything, and then I ask, “Do you think things will ever be okay again?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. But I can't keep living like this.”

27

Here's Hoping He's Not: a Psycho, a Nerd, or “a Little Out of Shape”

Brady owns a trendy, spacious studio in Kenmore Square, near the Boston University campus. I arrive at his building at exactly five minutes past eight. I've timed my entrance perfectly. I don't want to seem rude, but I don't want to appear overeager. Brady buzzes me in and I take the elevator up to the ninth floor. “Hi, Dani! You look great,” he says as he ushers me into his apartment.

I'm wearing a charcoal pencil skirt, a dark blue camisole top, and low, black heels. I was afraid I might be overdressed, but I'm glad to see Brady's wearing nice black slacks and a smooth, button-down, French-cuffed shirt. I'm carrying a bottle of red wine and two DVDs:
About a Boy
and
Jerry Maguire,
both of which were suggested by Sean. “You want the film to be romantic, but you don't want to bludgeon him over the head with something like
An Affair to Remember
. Not on the first date, anyway,” Sean had said. As we walk into the makeshift living room, Brady glances at the movies in my hand. “Good choices,” he says.

“Oh, have you already seen them?” I ask.

“I own
Jerry Maguire,
but I've never seen
About a Boy
. Should I pour us some wine?” he asks, taking the bottle from my hands.

“That'd be nice,” I say.

He goes over to the kitchen, a sprawling alcove with a gorgeous granite-topped island and grill-top stove. There's a small wineglass rack, which holds a dozen or so glasses, hanging from the ceiling. Brady gets a corkscrew out of the drawer and then grabs two glasses from the rack. He proceeds to uncork the bottle of Chianti.

“Dinner smells wonderful,” I say. “What are we having?”

“Hazelnut pesto lasagna,” he says, “with salad and some bruschetta pomodoro to start.”

I blink in surprise. “You know how to cook all that?”

“Si,”
he says, bowing playfully. “Well, I made the bruschetta and the salad,” he admits. “The lasagna's from Masetti's. I am a master when it comes to ordering in.” He takes a small dish of gourmet pitted olives out of the fridge. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Why don't we sit and relax?”

I follow him over to the living room. He sets down the olives on the coffee table and sits on the couch; I ease down on the opposite end, leaving one couch cushion between us.

“So, how have you been lately?” I ask.

“Busy. As soon as school let out, I flew to Scottsdale.”

“You said you were out there on legal business?” I say, picking up an olive.

He nods. “There were some concerns over my dad's will.”

“You're licensed to practice in Arizona?” I'm amazed.

“No.” Brady laughs. “But my mother wanted me to look over the paperwork anyway, to make sure the attorney wasn't ‘screwing her over.' ”

“Lawyers have a reputation for doing that kind of thing, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair. “I want to hear about
your
job. What's it like being a Web designer? Do you use Dreamweaver and Adobe GoLive? Have you done any sites I might have seen?”

“Uh, I'm not that involved with the design end of things,” I say, feeling my skin flush pink. “My job mainly consists of writing promotional copy,” I clarify, “the text you see on websites.”
Why can't I just tell him the truth?
I curse myself for not having the courage to be honest. The closer I get to it, the harder it is for me to be myself. I want to pull away, to hide. Anything to avoid being hurt, anything to maintain control.

“So, you're a writer,” he says, leaning forward and picking up an olive.

“Not exactly. I mean, I write a lot of letters.” I feel my face flame up.
What am I doing?
I might as well just come right out and tell him about the Dear Brady note.

“Letters?” He looks confused.

“Uh, yeah. You know . . . letters of the alphabet. A, B, C, D. All the usual suspects.”

It's a lame joke, a poor attempt to save face, and it falls flat. “It's more like advertising. I have to be really flattering toward the client,” I improvise.

He chews on the olive for a minute and then swallows. “So you get a chance to be creative. And there's lots of variety, which I bet is nice.”

I nod. “It has its moments.”

“What did you study in college?” Brady asks.

“I've got a journalism degree from the University of Massachusetts and a master's in communications from Tulane. What about you? Where'd you go to law school?”

Brady finishes his glass of wine and pours himself a fresh one before answering. “Harvard.”

Brady went to Harvard Law? “Very impressive!”

He shrugs. “I had every intention of becoming an English teacher when I graduated from college. That was always my passion.”

“Why didn't you?”

“My father was dead set against it,” he answers, looking uncomfortable. “He thought I was throwing my life away. . . .” His voice trails off and he shifts positions on the couch.

“So instead you went to Harvard Law?” I ask, trying to draw him out.

“Yeah.” He looks me in the eyes. “And for a long time, I thought I'd made the right decision. From the outside, my life seemed perfect. But when you fool yourself into taking the wrong path, eventually you reach a point where nothing in life makes sense anymore. You can't keep up the act. I just didn't want to do it anymore.”

“Was it hard leaving your law practice?”

“It was the best day of my life. The hard part was finding a teaching job. There aren't a lot of openings in late April. That's why I wound up at Addington. Private schools have more leeway on when they can bring in new staff.”

“It wasn't your first choice?” I ask, surprised.

“I'd prefer to teach public school. I think there's more potential to make an impact. I'll start looking to move in a year or two.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “I'm sorry, I'm rambling.” He leans across the couch and quickly squeezes my hand. I feel a small rush. “Tell me about your hobbies.”

“Making things,” I tell him. “Like homemade cards and gifts.”
Also known as breakup letters and recovery kits.

“Really?” Brady asks, interested.

I nod. “I made this terrific card in Quark for my best friend, Krista, not too long ago. On the front cover it said: “Good luck meeting your Internet boyfriend!” Then, inside were three clip-art pictures: a scary guy holding a meat cleaver, a dorky scientist with huge glasses, and an enormous beer-bellied trucker. I wrote: “Here's hoping he's not a psycho, a nerd, or ‘a little out of shape.'”

Brady smiles. “So how'd the date turn out?”

“It didn't. He never showed up.”

Brady sets down his wineglass on the coffee table. “That's probably a good thing. Who knows? He might have matched the description in your card to a tee.” He rises from the couch. “Let me check on dinner.”

I stand up and stretch as he heads over to the kitchen and begins tinkering around in the oven. I feel comfortable, relaxed. Brady's “dining room” is actually a small table in the far corner of the loft. He's already set it with nice dinnerware and a few candles.

“This looks about ready. Have a seat, Dani. I'll bring everything over.”

“You want some help?”

“Don't be silly. You're the guest,” he says. “I'll wait on you.”

A modern man. I like it.
I arrange myself in one of the chairs. A few minutes later, Brady comes over with a platter of bruschetta topped with tomatoes. He shuffles back and forth to the kitchen, bringing in the large salad bowl, a basket of bread, and then, finally, the hazelnut pesto lasagna. I've never had pesto lasagna before; it smells divine.

Brady sits down across from me. “I hope it's good!” he says.

I sample the hazelnut pesto lasagna. “It's fabulous,” I say, and he beams. “I love your apartment, too,” I add. “How long have you lived here?”

“I bought this place a year ago,” he says, spearing a forkful of salad. “I love the area.”

The conversation shifts to architecture, and then to art. Brady's not afraid to share his opinions, but he's open to new ideas as well. By the time we've finished dinner, coffee, and dessert—tiramisu from a local bakery—we've bantered about everything from European travel to shopping to politics. We've just begun a discussion about movies when Brady says, “Speaking of which, maybe we ought to put on one of the DVDs? It's getting late.”

I glance at my watch. “I can't believe it's already ten-forty-five!”

“Time flies when you're having fun.” Brady smiles and begins clearing the table.

I pick up our empty coffee mugs and follow him to the kitchen. “Which one do you want to watch?” I ask, setting the dishes in the sink.

“Since I've seen
Jerry Maguire
fifteen times, why don't we go with
About a Boy
?”

“Works for me.”

“It's based on a Nick Hornby book, isn't it? You helped me pick out
High Fidelity
when we first met. I really loved it.”

Brady and I settle down on the couch to watch
About a Boy
. He sits closer to me this time, with one cheek on the middle cushion.
About a Boy
turns out to be a good choice. Brady laughs at all the right places, gets all the same jokes I do.

When I leave that night, around one in the morning, Brady walks me downstairs to my car. As we stroll through the apartment's parking garage, he tells me what a wonderful time he's had and thanks me for coming over. “Or, should I say
grazie
?”

“Ah, yes,” I say. “I almost forgot you're fluent in Italian.”

He laughs. “I know ten words. That's hardly fluent.”

“So what are they?” I ask. “That P.S. in your last e-mail got me wondering.”