The Ground Rules Part 8

Gabe looks over my menu and decides he's having the beef. He suggests I try the red curry chicken. I'm not sure why he always feels the need to order for me. It's probably about him wanting to eat my food too and making sure I'll order something he likes.

The server takes our orders and leaves us. Bridget digs for something in her flashy purse, creating a lull in the conversation.

"Thank you again," I tell them. "Thank you for the beautiful roses." I know I've thanked Weston already, but I feel the need to thank Bridget as well.

She smiles, pulling out a tissue from her purse. "It was our pleasure. You should really thank Weston. He was the one on top of it."

I'm thrilled to hear it. I don't know why. Just the thought of him picking the flowers and...

"You wrote the card?"

He pulls out the familiar small plastic bottle from his suit jacket. "Yes, I wrote the card," he informs me, his expression neutral, "or rather, I dictated it. The woman at the flower shop wrote the card." He rubs his hands with disinfectant.

He's put on his "all-business" face again.

Which is fine.

I decide to drop the subject.

But...

Just one more thing.

"The flowers she chose were beautiful. Please thank her on my behalf."

He smiles and looks over at Bridget and Gabe who are discussing the restaurant's furniture...I think-I'm not sure-I'm not really listening to them.

"I chose them," he corrects me, his eyes are dark and absolutely devastating. "I chose the flowers."

This is where I should offer a simple thank you, but my intuition tells me we're having a between-the-lines conversation.

I bite my lip and after a long, intense moment I ask, my voice quavering, "Why lavender?"

He doesn't answer me. He doesn't even look at me. Instead, he fiddles with his place setting, readjusting the cutlery just so.

The man is driving me insane.

I seriously start to think he might be missing some synapses in his brain, particularly in the lobe responsible for social interaction skills. Or something like that...

And just as I look away, he says, so softly, I barely hear him. "You know why."

The server comes over to top off our water gla.s.ses, and my head is spinning. Suddenly my senses are heightened. I'm overwhelmed by the clatter of dishes and utensils and the buzz of the conversations around the room.

I'm smothered, suffocated, trapped in this wooden h.e.l.l of a booth.

I can't breathe.

And I seriously worry I'm about to have a full-on panic attack-I'm very p.r.o.ne to them. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I nudge Gabe who's still in conversation with Bridget and completely oblivious.

"I need to get out. I need to go to the washroom."

He slides out, not even taking his eyes off Bridget-I might as well not even be in the room. I glance at Weston as I leave the table.

He's noticed my sudden panicked reaction.

He looks mortified.

I've overreacted. I press my back against the cold hard tiles of the bathroom stall. I'm safe here, relaxed.

Away from the situation.

But something is happening between Weston and me.

And it's scaring me to death. I've never faced this kind of situation before. Yes, I've found some men attractive, but never like this. I'm simply not equipped to handle this. I vow to keep my composure around him, from now on.

All business-no more flirting, no more between-the-lines conversations.

Surprisingly, the rest of dinner flows smoothly. We talk about our children, our families, and our lives. I bore them with stories of my Irish Catholic upbringing. Bridget can't believe Gabe and I have been together for eighteen years, and I'm shocked to learn Bridget is actually a year older than Weston.

Weston and Bridget met in Boston. He was doing his Masters, and she was a freshman. Despite this, he was actually a year younger than her-he had skipped six grades.

"A real mathematical prodigy," Bridget comments. Weston's mouth curves up at the corners as he looks away, and I can't quite tell if he likes the attention or not.

"He was such a cute sweet little thing. I absolutely had to corrupt him."

"Well, I'm sure he didn't mind," Gabe chimes in.

Weston smiles a little, still not quite looking at us.

"Then I fell in love," she says, looking over sweetly at Weston. "I never thought I would fall for a nerd."

Well if he was a nerd, he surely isn't anymore, I think, eyeing the clean smooth lines of his build and fantastic head of hair.

"I bet you liked the jocks," Gabe ventures, flirting with her.

"Oh yes," she tells him.

"You would have liked me," he says, completely serious.

He is so arrogant.

"For sure," she laughs.

I decide to change the subject-enough with the flirting already. "So tell us about your kids."

Yes, you are married with kids, remember?

A smile lights up her face. "Well, Ashton is just like his father, a real whiz." She rolls her eyes, like this trait irritates her somehow. "They spend hours building things, gadgets."

"It looks like you have two nerds on your hands," I tease.

She laughs. "I do."

Weston smiles in my direction, taking it all in stride.

"And Lizzie's my little girly-girl. We do everything together...shopping, shows, mani-pedis."

"Sounds fabulous," I say, realizing I've never gone for a mani-pedi with my girls. We should try it out sometime.

"But Weston spends a lot of time with her too. He's such a good dad." Somehow, that's easy to believe. He seems tenderhearted. I'm not sure why-maybe it's just intuition.

"When she was little, they'd play tea party for hours."

I smile at the vision-absolutely adorable. I look over at him, and he averts his gaze, a sweet smile on his face. I'm not sure he likes all this talk about him.

"Our two girls love to have tea parties too," I tell them, redirecting the focus. "We usually have iced tea and animal crackers."

So the conversation goes, the usual small talk-nothing electrifying. But somehow, there seems to be a charge in the air. My intuition is telling me we should all be very careful.

Learning so much about Weston and Bridget, and the reality of their lives, makes whatever happened between Weston and I seem insubstantial.

Which is a good thing.

A great thing.

The gallery decor is very "urban country"-exposed brick walls, large reclaimed wood beams, ultra modern chrome light fixtures, and white walls accentuated with bursts of color as far as the eye can see. Wine is flowing, and conversations are filling the room. I've dressed appropriately-it seems almost everyone is wearing black. I spot a woman in red, and my gaze is drawn to her, like the focal point in a painting.

The artwork is incredible-rich colors, impressionist style, splatters and diluted washes mixing together beautifully. It's messy and loose and somehow breathtaking. This is what true talent is, I muse, standing next to a painting of an old man pulling a rickshaw, the sun beaming hard on his back. I'm in awe. Gwen and I take a watercolor cla.s.s on Sat.u.r.day mornings, but I am nowhere as good as this, and I realize I never will be. It's an innate talent I just don't have. I try too hard, according to my teacher. I need to loosen up, she says. Apparently, it comes from the soul.

Bridget spots her friend and practically runs to her. "Hi, Simone. These are fantastic," she says, hugging her delicately, trying not to spill her wine gla.s.s.

"Thanks for coming, Bridget," Simone says. "Where's Weston?"

"Somewhere," Bridget tells her, and we all turn and scan the gallery.

He's standing there by his lonesome, staring at a piece, gla.s.s of wine in hand, looking very introspective.

"That suit is fabulous on him," Simone says without reserve. Obviously these two are close.

"I know...right?" Bridget agrees with a sly smile. "And lucky me, I get to take it off tonight," she adds, laughing.

They both giggle like junior high school girls, and I want to vomit a little.

Yeah, I'm jealous.

I'm jealous she gets to take that suit off. There is something fundamentally wrong with me, I realize as I gaze at the colorful paintings lining the walls.

"Oh my G.o.d," Simone suddenly blurts out. "Who is he talking to? He's gorgeous."

I peel my eyes off the paintings and turn my attention back to Weston. He and Gabe seem to be in deep conversation. What could they be talking about?

Bridget laughs under her breath. "That's Gabe, a friend of ours," Bridget answers. "Mirella's husband," she adds. "I'm sorry I haven't introduced you two."

Simone offers her hand, and I notice how beautiful she is, European features, dark complexion, long silky black hair.

"Well, your husband is gorgeous," is all she says-very forward, in my opinion.

"Uh...thank you," I stammer a little.

It isn't long before Bridget ends up on Gabe's arm, walking through the gallery, introducing him to people. He's so friendly and charismatic-he's enjoying every second of it. I notice how, occasionally, he puts a hand gently on the small of her back. It doesn't bother me too much-he's a very touchy-feely person. And I notice how he whispers things in her ear, and she laughs out loud.

I'm standing next to Weston. We've been walking together, discussing the art-which pieces stand out and which pieces evoke emotion. He seems genuinely interested, and I discover he's quite the art aficionado, unlike Gabe who seems more interested in the women and their sleek little black dresses than the art.

I tell Weston all about the watercolor cla.s.s Gwen and I take on Sat.u.r.day mornings.

"We're the youngest there. We're in a seniors' cla.s.s."

A grin stretches across his face. "How did you manage that?"

I smirk at him. "Oh...I have my contacts. I like it, but it's kind of strange."

"You don't like seniors?"

"I didn't say that."

"You'll age too one day," he points out.

I stare at him, mildly irked.

"And those big, beautiful brown eyes of yours will get droopy."

My heart does a little skip. He thinks I'm "beautiful."

Well, not really.

He likes my eyes. Too bad about the rest of my face-my teeth and my horrid freckles. "Oh...the horror."

"Don't worry. I'm sure your husband will always love you."

The mention of Gabe brings me back to reality.

I lighten the conversation and tell him all about Cecilia. Cecilia is an eighty-ish year old woman in our art cla.s.s who's completely deaf, or so the word goes.

"But I swear, sometimes she is totally listening to our conversation. When Gwen and I start talking about anything juicy, like s.e.x, her little wrinkled face seems to perk up."

Weston laughs. "Be a little considerate. Give the old lady something to live for."

We both laugh, and I instinctively turn away.