Ethan

Q: Surf, ski, or another word that starts with “S”?

When our food arrives, Raylene launches into a discussion about her favorite vacation spots, Hawaii and the Desert, which I’ve learned is what people in Los Angeles call Palm Springs. Because LA is such a rainforest.

“We should go together!” she says, wiping every single bead of condensation off her water glass. “Either place. Or, oh my gawd—both! Not anytime soon, don’t worry. Just someday. No pressure. It’s only a suggestion, but wouldn’t it be so fun?”

I take a moment to frame an answer that isn’t flat-out rude.

“Actually, I’m not much for the beach, Raylene. I grew up in Colorado, so mountains are more—”

“I bet you look amazing in swim trunks.” She sets the water glass back in its symmetrically optimal location and smiles at me, wrinkling her nose. “I thought I felt a six-pack earlier. Did I? Do you? Have one?”

The answer is yes. I’ve always had a strong stomach, but I will eat this entire plate of Chinese noodles—which I can’t even look at—before I admit that. “Well, Raylene, I—whoa!”

I jam myself against the end of the booth as she reaches for my abs.

“Oh, I’m only playing with you!” She laughs. She retracts her claws and shakes her head like I’m being ridiculous. “Some things are so much better if you wait for them. Anticipation is the best, don’t you think? Plus, I did feel a six-pack before when my elbow brushed against you, so I already know!”

As a psych major, I spent a whole quarter learning about the symptoms of shock. I’m definitely sweating. Can’t cool down. Shortness of breath? Check. Confusion, anxiety, agitation? Triple check.

Raylene picks up her fork. “Do you also have those lower stomach muscles that sweep down? You know those V-shaped ones? My girlfriend Mona calls them dick indicators. What a name, right?” She covers a smile behind her hand. “My gawd! I can’t believe I just said that, but I feel so comfortable around you! You’re so nice, Ethan. This food is so good. But you’re not eating very much. Isn’t this night the best?”

“Yeah, the food is really . . . fragrant.” The smell in here is going to kill me dead if Raylene doesn’t take me out first.

As Raylene takes a few bites, I steal another glance at Mia. She’s in professional mode, the expression on her face a little reserved, the intelligence in her eyes out in full, sparkling force. That means she’s not into the Robster, which is the only item in tonight’s plus column. But I hate the fact that he’s put away four drinks in the past hour—and that he’s still talking directly at her rack.

“Can you believe that, Ethan James?” Raylene says, scaling the walls of my mental fortress. “I mean, it’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

I missed the moment I became Ethan James.

“I, uh . . .” My mind does a little rewind and playback, searching for what I’m supposed to have a hard time believing. “Wow. It really gets to be a hundred and ten degrees in the Desert? I can’t even imagine that kind of heat.”

Which is a fucking lie, because I’m pretty sure that’s my body temp right now.

Raylene nods slowly, a smile spreading over her lips. “That heat exists, Ethan James. I will prove it to you!”

I tug open the top button of my shirt and stare at my water glass, tempted to dump it over my head. Raylene has officially broken my soul.

It’s an asshole thing to do, but as soon as she finishes a few more bites, I ask for the check. A glance over at Mia’s table shows me that she and the Robster haven’t even gotten their main courses yet, but I can’t stay in this booth any longer. I will suffer permanent damage if I don’t leave now.

“Aren’t you eager?” Raylene says, doing her coy behind-the-shoulder smile. “Okay.”

“Sorry, Raylene. It’s just that I have work early tomorrow. But I had fun. Best night. And I’ll walk you to your car. Jesus, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

Raylene looks at the button I undid and says, “Very hot.”

“Okay, let’s go!” I push her out of the booth, sort of gently, and catch our waitress, who has our bill. I sign my name somewhere on the receipt before she can hand it to me, and then make a beeline for the front door.

I’m outside in two seconds flat.

A steady flow of teenagers weave around me, talking about a slasher movie they just saw, but I just stand there, breathing like I’m in the Alaskan tundra. At the edge of the world. Free again.

Raylene hooks her arm through mine. “I am having so much fun, Ethan James. So much! My car is this way. I found street parking, how lucky is that? Are you okay?”

She gets under my arm somehow as she talks. I can’t imagine it’s a very fun place to be as I’m approaching post-soccer match sweat.

“Yeah, yeah. Great.” It’s time to manage her expectations. “Listen, Raylene. I’m going to walk you to your car, and then I’m going to head home, okay?”

And for the first time, her deer in headlights eyes dim.

It catches me so off guard I almost trip on the curb.

“Okay. Yeah. That’s okay. But we had fun, right? This is it right here. Wow. What a night, don’t you think?”

She stops in front of a white Lexus SUV, and when our eyes meet, I think she must see the truth in mine because she looks down quickly at her purse. “I guess you don’t want me to come over. That’s okay. I understand. It’s just that I got a sitter and everything.”

“Raylene?” I say. “Can I talk?”

She nods. “I know I talk a lot. Okay. Your turn.”

“Thanks.” I rub my hand over my face, still trying to shake off the heat and stench of Rock Sugar. “Why are you doing this? The cuff links. Hawaii and The Desert. Why all of that? You barely know me.”

“You were born in Fort Collins, Colorado, on August 11th. You’re mildly color-blind. You played four years of soccer at UCLA, and your favorite book is The Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield.”

“Good memory, but that doesn’t answer my question. Why all the hurry? Why me?”

Raylene’s eyes well up with tears.

Aw, shit.

“Whoa,” I say. “Raylene . . . I didn’t want to make you upset. I was just wondering if you’re actually okay.”

And that’s all it takes to break the floodgates.

“No,” she says. “No, I’m really not.”

Suddenly, she’s sobbing and I can’t understand a word she’s saying. I manage to get her keys and open her car. I don’t know what my plan is. All I know is that she’s crying so hard she can barely stand upright, and the same basic instinct that drove me to flee the restaurant pushes me to help her. To give her some privacy while she breaks down.

I get her into the passenger seat then climb into the driver’s side.

Rooting around in the backseat, I find a box of tissues. There’s also a kid’s backpack and a soccer ball back there, and I feel a lump rise in my throat because Raylene is a mom, and moms shouldn’t hurt this fucking much. Just thinking about my mom crying like this makes me mental.

“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she says between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, feeding her tissues. “This is actually easier on me than dinner was, so no apologies, okay?” That gets a watery laugh, which encourages me. “What happened? What’s going on?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.” What else can I say? She needs help. “Yes, Raylene. I do.”

So she tells me. For the next hour, I hear about the man who was her high school sweetheart. How they married at twenty-three, had a son, and spent nine great years together before, out of nowhere, he walked out on her six months ago. She tells me her heart feels like it breaks every day, every time she looks at her son, Parker, who has no father anymore, and how the divorce is nasty, and how she’s too young to feel so used and tired, and how sorry she was again about putting so much pressure on me, on our date, but she’d been desperate for a night, just one night to get her mind off her troubles. To feel young and wanted again. And that all she really wanted was to laugh.

When she’s finished, I sit back against the seat, processing it all. My eyes wander across the street to Mia’s Prius, and I promise myself that as soon as I can, I’ll head back to the restaurant to check that she’s okay.

“Admit it,” Raylene says as she smooths out the wrinkles of a used tissue and folds it back into its pre-used shape. “You think I’m a mess.”

I shake my head. “No. Just a little surprised that we went from dick indicators to divorce so fast, but I’m adjusting.”

Raylene covers her face with her hands. “Gawd. Sorry about that. It’s just that it’s been such a long time. And it feels so good to be able to touch somebody, and I guess I miss it.”

I can relate to that. Since Saturday night, I haven’t been able to get the five minutes I spent with Mia in her mom’s studio out of my mind. I scan the steps leading to the mall for her.

“Well, then admit this,” Raylene says, reassembling another used tissue. “Tonight is the worst date you’ve ever had.”

“I’ll admit it’s a strong contender. But it’s not my worst night.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “No. Not by a long shot.” But I’m not going there. I’ve experienced enough trauma this evening. If Alison comes into the picture, I’m going to need a straitjacket. So I turn things back to her.

“I’m sorry you’re going through all of that, Raylene.”

“I know you are. I can tell you are. You have kind eyes, Ethan. I noticed right away.” She gives me a sad smile and stares at the refolded stack of used tissue in her lap, letting out a long breath. “What am I supposed to do?” she says, in that sweeping what is life? way.