Page 44 of Just Watch Me
The minute he’d asked, he kicked himself. Why would he want to talk about that? Why wasn’t he suggesting that they could, for example, leave both sets of kids with the grandparents and go out next Sunday night? Two could play at the “our turn to have a night out” game. The kids could nark at each other all they liked, and he and Skylar could be in some cozy restaurant, the kind with low lighting.
Except that they weren’t doing that. Bugger. He kept forgetting.
“What, you want to hear how he was eaten by a hippo?”
He laughed. “No, seriously. He died in Africa, eh. What was he doing in Africa? Some sort of NGO thing? Working with an AIDS clinic? I assume he was the good-works type, like you.”
“I wasn’t joking. He was eaten by a hippo. Well, chomped by a hippo. Hippos are herbivores. I told you that the story could be seen as funny, viewed from a … a certain angle.”
“Funny? How is that funny? How could you imagineI’dthink it was funny?”
“I made a joke about your wife being hit by a bus. You’re entitled to think it’s funny.”
“Tell me,” he said.
She didn’t have to tell him. Sheknewshe didn’t have to tell him. She said, “It’s a good thing we’re not dating.”
“What?” He was frowning like mad again. “Why? It’s not a good thing as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, that’s nice,” she said, “except that even I know that sitting around telling each other how your spouses died is the definition of What Not to Do On a First Date.”
“We’re not on a first date. We’re on a … third date. Fourth date. Something like that.”
“In what universe are we on a third date?”
He held up a hand. It was a big hand. Also battered, with lumps and scars on the knuckles. He ticked off. “Speed dating.”
“Eightminutes?How does eight minutes count?”
“If we were bull riders, eight seconds would count.”
“Ha,” she said. “Not a date. A brief meeting.”
“A brief meeting we both enjoyed.”
“Still not a date. Also, you hated me at the end there. Move on.”
“OK. In your classroom, then.”
“Not a date. Absolutely not a date. A parent conference.”
“When I asked you out,” he said, “and you told me you were a social warthog. Made me laugh. Right, then. Starting over. We’ll say the first date was after the rugby. The wine and all.”
“If that was meant to be a date,” she said, “I shouldn’t have worn my PJs.”
“And your fuzzy slippers. Nah, you looked good. Soft. Sweet. I’ve had worse dates. I’ve hadmuchworse dates. Before I stopped dating the young ones, when they’d want to go dancing at some club with horrible music, nothing but a bunch of blokes banging heads and thrashing at their guitars and screaming into microphones. They’d talk to me about their problems with their parents, too. Bit creepy, really. ThePJs and wine were a pretty good date, as far as I was concerned.”
“Oh.” That shouldn’t make her feel so warm and fuzzy. Like herslippers.“We’ll call that a half date.”
“Then breakfast the next morning,” he said. “Second date.”
“With our kids sniping.”
“With you enjoying your duck salad. You got flustered again that time, too. Not sure why you keep getting flustered. Also not sure why I like it.”
She put her head in her hands and moaned. “You weren’t supposed to notice that. I’m hopeless.Hopeless.The wrong jeans every time. My PJs. My total lack of cool and sophistication. I’m so out of practice, I don’t even belong on the field.”
“What’s wrong with your jeans? I like your jeans.”
