Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6) Page 11

  “Don’t you two talk?” Kat asked teasingly.

  “I only see him a few times a month,” Elizabeth dipped her chin to her chest, “so the last thing we want to do is talk about current events.”

  “Or talk,” Nico mumbled, earning him an elbow in his rib, which only made him smile wider.

  “It has weightier meaning now than it did last year.” Kat fiddled with her sleeve.

  “Why?” Elizabeth asked.

  Fiona and I swapped looks as I said, “Elizabeth, on the one hand, I do not envy your schedule of working in the emergency room at all hours, sometimes sleeping at work, never having time to watch Game of Thrones or Buffy reruns. But on the other hand, I do envy your blissful ignorance.”

  Meanwhile, Sandra sighed, looking beleaguered. “I’m sorry I brought this up. Let’s talk about something else. Like yarn. Yarn always makes me happy, silk never lets me down.”

  “You say that now, but remember those silk gloves you knit?” Ashley grinned.

  Sandra groaned. “Oh Lord. Don’t remind me.”

  “Were those the gloves that grew, like, ten sizes larger after you blocked them?” I hid my smirk behind my cocktail.

  “Yes,” Sandra bellowed. “The gloves could have fit the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. That is, of course, if he’d had fingers.”

  “Did the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man have fingers?“ Kat wrinkled her nose, glancing to Janie.

  “I have no idea,” Janie said, shaking her head.

  And then the room fell silent. Because that might have been the first time anyone had ever heard Janie say, I have no idea.

  It took us a few moments to recover from the shock and, unsurprisingly, Sandra was the first to speak. “Speaking of not having any idea, did anyone have any idea that Dan split from his girlfriend?”

  We all followed Dan’s love life, yet none of us had admitted as much out loud.

  “Dan the Security Man?” Elizabeth asked, her gaze swinging to her husband. “Did you know about this?”

  Nico gave his wife an evasive grin and an equally evasive answer. “Honey, if I knew about it, why would I keep it from you?”

  “When? When did it happen?” Elizabeth squinted at Nico, but was clearly trying to keep the excitement from her voice as her eyes darted to Kat and then away.

  I fought the urge to also glance at Kat, successfully subduing the compulsion, but just barely.

  Meanwhile, Sandra was pointedly not looking at Kat. “It’s true. They did. Split two months ago. I just found out about it today.”

  “How did you find out?” Surprisingly, this question came from Fiona. And I say surprisingly because she never gossiped. Ever.

  “Alex mentioned it, offhandedly.” Sandra rolled her eyes. “Like it wasn’t the biggest news since Wookie pajamas.”

  “What happened?” Ashley was leaning forward, her face filled the laptop screen, her knitting set aside.

  “I don’t know the details—because Alex is a crypt of information—but I do know it happened two months ago and Dan was the one to call it off.” Sandra’s eyes settled on everyone except Kat.

  “He called it off?” Elizabeth’s gaze jumped back to Kat and remained there, her expression holding some urgency.

  “Well, someone should comfort him,” Nico suggested quietly, his attention squarely focused on his stitches.

  Silence filled the room like a vapor, whispering over us, pressing down from every direction.

  I suspected—no, I knew—each of us were silently rooting for Kat and Dan to make a love connection. I also knew Dan was all for making Kat his, and had been for years. His unrequited affection for her was both beautiful and heartbreaking to watch.

  Furthermore, I suspected Kat really, really liked Dan.

  But Kat’s tendency to freeze up around him was the main problem. Before his most recent girlfriend, Kat had been painfully shy around him. Meaning, it had been painful to watch. She barely spoke to him, and whenever he’d been friendly to her, she ran the other way.

  So. Frustrating.

  I was just about to blurt my suggestion that Kat send him a strippergram—of herself—when Fiona glanced at me, giving me a probing look. “Speaking of relationship shakeups. What’s going on with you and Matt?”

  “Who’s Matt?” Elizabeth glanced at me. “Should I know who Matt is? Why do I never know anything?”

  “Matt is Fiona’s next-door neighbor.” Sandra crossed her arms. “I thought we didn’t like Matt.”

  “Oh. That Matt.” Elizabeth nodded. “I thought our assessment was that he fell into the hot-asshole bucket of shame, right?”

  Hot? . . . Yeah. I guess he is hot.

  “Marie?” Janie prompted.

  I sat straighter in my seat, caught off guard by Fiona’s question; an odd sensation I couldn’t identify made my chest tight. “Nothing is going on with Matt and me. I mean, not really. I asked him to help me with a story I’m writing and he . . . agreed.” I decided saying he agreed would be easier than explaining the details. “Why do you ask?”

  “He texted me right before you arrived,” Fiona held up her phone as evidence, something like concern sharpening in her eyes, “asking me what kind of wine you drink.”

  11

  Sasi

  Semi-supervised Algorithm for Sarcasm Identification.

  Source: Hebrew University, Israel

  Upon arriving home from work on Wednesday, I checked the curry in the crockpot, set the jasmine rice to steam, and then changed my outfit seven times.

  For me, making a new friend was like the beginning of any new relationship. Befriending someone, like dating someone, was a conscious choice. I wanted to make a good, lasting impression. And, like all relationships, I found it harder to establish new friendships as I grew older.

  People, especially parents and/or working professionals, are busy. Time is a commodity. But it wasn’t just lack of time. My expectations for people matured as I matured, and sometimes to my detriment. I wasn’t as playful as I used to be. I wasn’t as open to new experiences.

  The sad truth was, I’d been more open to becoming friends with different types of people when I was younger, more open to people like Matt. Odd people. Exciting people. Playful people. Impulsive people. Artists, intellectuals, musicians, actors, authors.

  And now apparently, brilliant scientists.

  I was just pulling on a cozy gray sweater with a slouchy cowl neck, which exposed my collarbone and one shoulder, when I heard a knock on the door.

  “Oh shit.” I waved my hands in front of me in a panicked motion, still undecided about my black leggings, but then caught sight of myself in the mirror. “Why are you so nervous? Stop being nervous. It’s just Professor Matt.”

  I nodded, feeling better, but still a little worried that my smile would be weird because I wouldn’t know how to calibrate its size.

  My apartment was very small, therefore I made it to the door in ten leaping steps, yanking it open before he knocked again.

  “Matt,” I said, out of breath.

  “Marie,” he said, grinning, and then he looked over my head into my apartment, his expression morphing into one of awe and wonder as he shoved a bottle of wine and a small package at me. “What is that heavenly smell?”

  I smiled at him, and the smile didn’t feel at all calibrated. It just felt right.

  “Come in and find out,” I said, turning toward my kitchen just a few feet away and eyeing the package he’d brought. “What’s this?”

  I heard him close the door and sensed him trail after me. “That’s a book you should read. I, Robot, by Asimov. It should address some of your robot ethics questions.”

  “Huh. Thanks.” I placed it above the refrigerator so it wouldn’t get messed up.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks for the wine, by the way. It’s one of my favorites,” I said as I eyed the bottle, wanting to see if he’d admit to messaging Fiona to ask for wine-selection help.

  “Oh? Is it?” He
sounded genuinely surprised. He was a good liar. If I hadn’t known better, I would have believed his surprise.

  I faced him, my hand on my hip. “Professor Simmons, I know for a fact you asked Fiona for help picking out this wine.”

  “Help is such a strong word,” he hedged, wrinkling his nose and fighting a guilty laugh.

  “You’re a stinker.” I sent him a mock-chastising look, also fighting my laughter.

  “Speaking of stinking, you know what doesn’t stink? Dinner. Seriously, what is that?” Matt had followed me into the kitchen even though there was hardly enough room for one person.

  “It’s coconut curry.”

  “Coconut is my favorite,” he moaned, peeking around me as I opened the crockpot.

  I tried to affect the same tone of voice he’d used about the wine. “Oh? Is it?”

  “First the cookies, now this. Who told you?” Matt placed his hand on my back, trying to lean over the crockpot. His proximity and the deepening of his voice sent involuntary tingles shivering down my spine.

  He is just so . . . sigh.

  I stiffened.

  Oh no.

  We can’t have that.

  “None of your business.” I didn’t shift away from him, but every muscle in my body was tense. “But do you know what is your business? The scatterplots on the table.” I needed him to leave the kitchen ASAP so I could put a cover on whatever was causing my unanticipated sexy-feels to boil over.

  Taking the hint—thank God—Matt left my diminutive galley kitchen. Stealing a look at him, I conducted a quick survey of the good professor.

  Yep. Still hot.

  “Is this where you eat?” he asked, eyeing the small café-style table.

  I had to clear my throat before speaking. “Yes. Nothing bigger will fit in that space.”

  That’s what she said . . . dammit.

  “Yeah, I can see that. It’d be too tight.”

  Jeez, I had a dirty mind. “I—uh—left my notes just there, next to the printouts. Do you mind going through and noting corrections?”

  “Sure. No problem,” he said, throwing me an easy grin.

  “Thanks.” I returned his grin, then turned back to my food prep, my heart fluttering.

  This wasn’t good. These . . . feelings weren’t a good idea. I’d had many male friends over the course of my life and I’d lost a few when one-sided feelings got in the way. Sometimes I was on the side of the unrequited crush, sometimes they were.

  We weren’t even really friends yet, and I was already sabotaging it by having urges.

  Work—his research and my requests for clarifications—dominated discussions over dinner. Well, his research and the transcendently deliciousness of dinner.

  Clearly, his work was his first passion, with food coming in a close second.

  I could’ve listened to him talk about Turing, and the revolutionary research being done with Google’s DeepMind—and how to write learning algorithms for artificial intelligence—all night. He was different when he spoke about it, earnest and confident. And the confidence plus the brain behind it was very sexy.

  I accepted that Matt was transcendently attractive when he spoke about his passions. Yet, I successfully repressed any inappropriate urges relating to either his internal or external attractiveness.

  After dinner, Matt did the dishes while I made new notes on my first draft based on his feedback. Without prompting from me, he pulled the Boston crème pie I’d made for dessert from the fridge.

  “I’m assuming this pie is for us to eat?” he asked.

  I glanced up from my work, finding him already cutting into it before waiting for my confirmation. “And what if it’s not for us? What if I made it for a neighbor?”

  “Then you should write her a note of apology, because she’s not going to eat it.” Matt pulled two forks from a drawer—apparently, he’d already memorized the layout of my kitchen—and brought my plate over to me.

  “What are you doing? Is it essential? Can we eat?” He lifted his chin toward my small living room some four paces from where I was working at the kitchen table.

  “Uh, yes. Sure. This can wait.” I stood and accepted the pie he offered. We both sat on my loveseat because the room had no other place to sit. When I hosted knit night at my apartment, most of the ladies sat on the floor. I used to have two big chairs, but it restricted movement and made the room feel overstuffed with furniture.

  He took a bite, closed his eyes, moaned, then took another bite, and moaned again.

  I watched him. “Are you going to moan after each bite?” I hoped not, because I’d successfully suppressed flutterings and achings thus far. His moaning wasn’t helping.

  “Maybe,” he spoke around a mouthful, chewed, and then swallowed. “Why? Do you have a moaning allergy? Does it bother you?”

  “A little,” I hedged, because bother was one word for it, especially when paired with hot.

  “It’s your fault this tastes so good. Where did you learn to cook?”

  “My mom.” I took my first bite, enjoying the bursts of the sweet, smooth custard contrasted by the bittersweet velvetiness of the dark chocolate.

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s the best. My mother stayed home with us kids—my brother and me—and also helped my dad’s business by doing the books. Both of my parents cook, though. My dad focuses on the savory, and my mom prefers the sweet.”

  “That sounds like an efficient delineation of tasks.”

  “It is. They’ve been married for forty-five years, had children late in life.”

  “What does your dad do?”

  “My father used to be a general contractor, but he retired fifteen years ago.”

  “He builds things,” Matt simplified.

  “Yes. He’d consider you a wizard.”

  “Really? A wizard?” Matt looked pleased by the label.

  “My dad never had a use for computers, so anything with a screen feels like magic to him. I help them with all their technology purchases. But, give the man wood, a saw, and a hammer and he’d build you a mansion.”

  “He sounds great, too.”

  Was that wistfulness I detected in his tone?

  “They are great. I grew up with a stable childhood in every way that matters. They both showed up to be proud for all my major life events: school plays, lacrosse games, graduations. I discovered, when I became an adult, that sometimes we lived paycheck to paycheck, but growing up I had no idea. Sure, we never had the latest and greatest gadgets or clothes, but we didn’t need it. We had each other. I never felt like I was missing out.”

  Matt’s smile was soft, but also struck me as sad.

  “How about your parents?” I nudged his knee. “What were they like?”

  “Do you have any complaints about your childhood?

  I blinked at his question, not as surprised by it as I would have been just a few days ago. I was beginning to understand this was a part of his personality: ready honesty and curiosity.

  “None,” I said, but then a thought surfaced, and I amended my original answer. “Actually, just one. I grew up not knowing or understanding any perspective other than my own.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I grew up in a small town, and we never traveled—which was fine, we didn’t need to travel—but neither of my parents were big readers. We lived simply, with our small cares. They didn’t see the need to expose us to the big wide world, not even the beauty of it.”

  “Is that why you became a journalist?”

  “Maybe.” I considered this theory as a possibility, setting my pie on the ottoman next to my cell phone. The compact piece of furniture also served as storage and a coffee table.

  I’d always been open to new experiences that fed my job as a journalist, but the same could not be said about my personal life, especially recently. I might go to a professional cuddler for a story, but I never would have gone out of a curiosity or willingness to try something new for myself.

&
nbsp; “Tell me something surprising.” Matt took another bite of his pie, then frowned at the plate as though displeased with the small amount remaining.

  “What?”

  “Something I would never guess about you.”

  “Um, let’s see. I’ve passed the bar in two states.”

  His eyebrows jumped. “You went to law school?”

  “No. I didn’t. It was for an article I wrote, when I first started out, on what it’s like to take the bar, how to prepare for it, the time involved, the stress, the relevancy to practice. I thought, if I was going to write about it, I should take it.”

  “Wow. And you passed?”

  “Yes, barely. There’s only a few states that will let you take it without going to law school, but first you have to study under a judge. The first time I took it, in Wyoming, I studied for two years, non-stop. It was all I did, thought about, lived, breathed. I worked for a judge. I dated lawyers. Complete submersion.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I might’ve been a little overzealous. But then, I was fresh out of college and wanted to experience life.”

  “Why go to such lengths?”

  “Because . . .” I gathered a deep breath, trying to figure out how to explain my passion without sounding unhinged. “I love knowing something from the inside out, and then sharing that knowledge with the world. The law is so fascinating, changeable, and open to interpretation, based on each individual interpreter’s life experience. Stories are that way, too. How people read and react to news. Providing insight into different ways of thinking, different walks of life, making the world think about an old issue from a different perspective, I love it. I feel so lucky that I get to be the conduit through which others’ stories are told.”

  Matt was silent after I finished, and I could see him thinking. Deliberating. Considering. As though his ideas about me—on a fundamental level—had just shifted.

  At length, his features settled into a frown, but his tone was shaded with admiration as he said, “You’re brave.”

  That made me smirk. “I’m brave?”

  “Yes. You’re willing to cuddle with a complete stranger. You throw yourself into experiences, all so you can share these experiences with people who might benefit from them, people who, without your stories, may never have been exposed to them otherwise.” I couldn’t decide if he sounded irritated, impressed, or confused.