Leave the Night On Pt. 02

"Nah. Don't get me wrong. He's hot, just not my type."

"You mean hot guys aren't your thing?"

"No, I mean..." She scrunches up her nose. "We all have a type. He doesn't fit my standards, that's all."

See, I don't get that. I like men. My type is the type that attracts me. Julian's very, very attractive. That's it. "What's your type?" I ask, uselessly. I've seen the kind of guy she usually dates. I know exactly why Julian wouldn't fit her particular standards. It's sad, but I like Marnie a little less now.

"The type with no kids," she drops, dryly.

Wisely, I say nothing.

"My advice, Pearl. Don't let principal Isherwood catch you eye fucking a parent."

***

UNUSUALLY TODAY, Julian is late. He called, warning us in advance he wouldn't be able to pick up Hannah in time. An emergency with a patient, apparently.

I find her sitting on one of the hallway benches, waiting. Her head down, into a book. I approach her carefully. "Hey, Hannah."

She lifts her eyes, Julian's eyes, only long enough to register my presence, then she goes back to her book. "Hi, Miss Jones."

I sit beside her, leaving a good few inches between us. I don't want to burst her bubble of personal space. Introverts love their bubble. "Your Daddy called. He's not going to be able to pick you up today. He had an emergency with a patient, but your Grandma is on her way."

"I know," she says. Her voice is low, but clear.

"You do?"

"Daddy never forgets me."

I smile. Her confidence in him is heartwarming. Of course he would never forget her. He's that great a father. I bet her ponytails, perfectly done with a different colored bow every day, are his work. She's the spit image of him. The same sleek black hair, the same soft dark eyes. The same smile, however shy and rare it is. Today though, she's more retreated into herself than I remember seeing her in any of the weeks we've been inhabiting each other's mornings. "You okay, Hannah?" I ask, knowing it is the wrong way to pry any information from her.

She shakes her head yes. Which means she isn't. Not really. I know because I remember telling the same lie while having the same expression on my face. Sad and confused. Wondering if the things said to me were true. Questioning myself.

I don't know if Toby already got to her, or even if anything at all happened. Nevertheless, I hold the moral responsibility to arm her against the kind of situation I know, one day, she'll face. She's a girl. She's minority. She's kindhearted. She also needs to be strong. Whatever might be wrong, if anything is, I know I can't pressure her. She's the kind of person that needs her own time. Then again, she's the too quiet kind. She might never say anything without a little push to tell her she can speak up. Looking for common ground, any cracks through which I can sneak past her defenses, I take a subtle peek at the book she's reading. Coraline. That's one of my favorites.

"You know, Coraline is my favorite heroine ever." That catches her attention. She raises her head then and faces me full on. I continue, "She reminds me of you, actually. Because of how brave and smart she is."

Hannah's lips stretch a tiny fraction. It's a ghost of that knowing smirk she's inherited from her father and that will, one day, be a weapon for detecting bullshit. She's good. She knows I'm circling her like a predator. So, I change my strategy. Maybe being direct with her is a better idea. "You know, Hannah, when I was your age there was this boy at school who liked to say mean things to me."

Julian's eyes go large on her face, big and glossy as two obsidian stones. "His name was Ronnie. He used to say I was the ugliest girl in school and that was why I didn't have any friends. Because my hair was ugly, and I was dumb." She seems to consider my words. Her eyes fly back to her book, a focal point while she looks inward. "It made me really sad," I say. "But then you know what happened?" She shakes her head no, glancing back up at me. "I realized he was wrong and eventually he stopped."

"How?" She asks.

I hold in my smile for squeezing the one word out of her. "I discovered his secret. He said those things to me because he was sad about something and upsetting me was his way of feeling better. He thought I was weak. He wanted to make me as sad as he was. It wasn't okay what he did, but I understood there was a power I could use to make him stop." Years later, I would know about Ronnie's parents' divorce. About his abusive father. About the bruises no one ever saw under his t-shirt.

"I don't have any powers, Miss Jones," Hannah whines.

My heart tightens in my chest. I battle an urge to hold her. "You do, Hannah. Everyone has it. You just have to look for it." I'm surprised by the heaviness in my own voice. The lump suddenly lodged in my throat. I can't allow this girl to grow up dragging meaningless mean words said on her childhood into her adult life. If I can help it, she won't be a woman who doubts herself because she once was a girl who was made to believe she wasn't the most wonderful thing in the world. "I used a superpower called confidence," I say to her. "It works like this. Every time someone says something mean to you; you pretend you didn't hear it. Even if you feel like you want to cry, you have to know in your heart that what they are saying are lies. You know who you are, Hannah. Believe in yourself. Don't let anyone tell you different. When Toby sees you don't care about the things he says, he'll stop saying them." I'm not completely certain Toby is the culprit, but she doesn't contest me when I mention him.

Hannah is quiet for a beat. "Confidence?" She repeats the word, testing it.

"Yes."

She regards me with clear vulnerability. I'm pulled back into the space time continuum. Back into my skinny young self. I hear, again, those same insecurities overcrowding Hannah's sense of self. "Does it really work, Miss Jones?" She asks, hopefully.

"It's not easy. You have to be strong every day, but it worked for me," I reassure her. "But I know you're strong. You're smart and beautiful. I know you can do it."

Her gaze is fixed somewhere distant. When it comes back, she gives me her trademark nod. "Okay."

"Okay." I smile down at her, overwhelmed by the sympathy that this girl raises in me. Just when the lips, seemingly the only physical trait her father didn't pass on to her, threatens to smile back at me, a small old woman opens the door by the end of the corridor.

"Hey, there's your Grandma. Come on, I'll walk you out." She closes her book, safely stores it in her backpack like a treasure. As we walk toward the door where her Grandma is waiting, she actually takes my hand.

***

I RING THE BELL. There's a snake doing loops in my stomach. I'm nervous, clammy palms nervous. This night must be good. Since I'm breaking all my rules, I want a guarantee the fun is worthy of the crime. I inspect myself one last time for good measure. I look good. I feel even better. My top is doing me a lot of favors. The girls, two proportionally sized miracles, are amazing tonight. I cup them on my hands, rearranging for better pushed-up effect. While I'm distracted with a boob in each hand, the door hinges creak.

I raise my head to lock eyes with a bemused Julian. "Hey!" I almost scream and, to my utter horror, squeeze.

He takes in the sight in front of him and the display of his cocky grin is immediate. "Pearl."

"Hi." For God knows what reason, I don't let go. Instead, I squeeze a little harder.

In comes a mortifying silence in which none of us moves or speaks. Julian leans on the threshold, crossing his arms over his perfect broad chest. Wide-eyed, I scan him down. Some obscure force out there must be responsible for making him look so damn fine all the time. There's a kitchen cloth thrown over his shoulder, a simple black t-shirt showcasing the muscles it's supposed to cover up. From his smirking face to his veiny bare feet, he looks good enough to eat me. I swallow dryly, following the lines of those beautifully sculpted arms of his up to his smug face.

"They feel good, don't they?" He tilts his chin to my full hands. "Squishy but firm, right?"

I let go, and my hands are instantly unsure of what to do with themselves. "Oh. I was only..." I trail off. A too-happy-Julian arches a brow eager to hear the excuse I don't have to be squeezing my own breasts at his doorstep. "I-I, uh...ah!" I groan and roll my eyes at myself. This is stupid. He's the last man on earth in front of whom I should measure my words. "I was readjusting them, okay?"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Pearl. If anyone understands why you'd want to grab those that someone is me," he says, a finger pointing to his own chest.

I give him my best roll of eyes. "If anyone is entitled to grab these babies, that someone is me, buddy."

He laughs, the sound so, so good some of my insecurity about this night dissipates. "You've just arrived and it's fun already. I'm so glad you're here. Come on in," he says, sidestepping to let me in.

Hesitation has me set in place for a beat. My choice to be here deliberating whether I should take a step further is a half-made decision. I know I've already decided to give in to Julian; to the things he stirs within me. Crossing the proverbial threshold, however, will cement the change in our relationship. When I cross that line, we won't just be two people sidestepping our mutual attraction with snarky comments and flirtatious looks; we will be two adults in serious risk of developing something based on our physical connection. Problem is the something that might flourish will affect someone other than just us. I would never want this thing to affect Hannah. I wouldn't want to confuse her. I wouldn't want to come in between the special relationship she has with her father. Not to mention I would very much like to keep my job. Most of all though, I don't want to not want Julian. Liking him is too good a sin to abdicate.

So, I step inside, followed by him. He delivers a brief press of his lips to my temple. "You smell good."

The spot where he kissed me feels tingly. A piece of me expected a real kiss. Another piece though, didn't know what to expect. This is a date after all. Kind of. A first date. A trial date, let's say. There's no French-breathtaking-wild-kiss on the first minutes of a first date. "Glad you appreciate my smell. I showered for this occasion specially."

His mouth turns upward in the exact smile I wanted to see. "I'm flattered. Something to drink?"

"Wine would be fun."

Julian saunters around the kitchen isle to the fridge. "White okay?"

"Sure." I catch a whiff of a mouthwatering smell. "What are you cooking?" I ask.

"You said risotto was your favorite dish," he says, matter-of-factly while filling a glass with golden sparkly liquid.

"Did I?" I fail to locate the memory in which I shared that information with him.

He walks over to me, hands me the wine glass. "You did. I paid attention." Boy, he's good.

"Oh, Julian," I say his name like it is butter melting. "Thank you."

His eyes linger warmly over me before he's in motion again. "Come on," he beckons. I'm led outside, past the French doors that give access to his backyard. A few yards from the lake, under a tree with light bulbs hanging from its branches, there's a table set. There are candles, cream-colored folded napkins, and more than one pair of cutleries for each of us.

"Wow." I whistle under my breath. "This is beautiful."

He pulls me a chair. Such a gentleman. "I'm trying to impress you."

"That's not hard to do for you," I confess, sitting down.

The curve of his mouth reveals how much he likes my answer. "Give me a minute." He excuses himself and walks back the way we came. As he strides to the house, I notice, again, he's on bare feet. I love that he didn't bother with shoes to entertain me. I love that, in my own conception, it classifies me as special. In a category above the common dinner guest. With me he's comfortable. With me he feels freedom to be himself. I'm not a foreign element that disrupts his ease under his own roof. He doesn't even need shoes with me there because I've already been allowed a glimpse of what's under the surface. And on his disregard for such a detail of etiquette, I read permission to believe he's also aware of all that my presence in his home tonight entails.

I sip on the sparkling white watching him move around his kitchen over the rim of my glass. He's the sexiest thing on the planet; completely at ease stirring something here, chopping something there, getting some last-minute ingredient from his fridge which he closes with a nudge of his foot. It's like watching porn with a description that reads 'Hot Single Dad cooks dinner for Horny Teacher'.

In a few minutes, Julian strides back outside equilibrating a bowl of salad in one hand and two plates, which are perfectly balanced, on a single arm. "Have you ever worked as a waiter?"

He smiles nostalgically at a picture he alone sees inside an old drawer of his mind. "College."

I take in the wonderful steam blowing off the plate he sets under my nose. "Dear God. This smells like I will never want to eat anything else for the rest of my life." It's a Michelin star worthy dish of shrimp risotto. I'm salivating. I have enough self-control to wait until he is settled on his own seat to dig in.

I feel the weight of his gaze on me as I lift a spoonful to my mouth. I'm elevated to heaven and back with the perfect combination of creamy, cheesy and buttery rice melting on my tongue. I'm moaning and thanking God for blessing me with taste buds.

Julian's laughter distracts me from the affair I'm having with my food. "Who knew I could make you moan like this without even touching you, uh?" He teases, a grin as broad as the twilight on the horizon on his handsome face.

"This is so good!" I am having an out of body experience. Every spoonful in is a moan. "Hmm. I can't believe you made this." He's made the best damn risotto I've ever eaten. My concept of favorite dish is forever changed. I don't just love any risotto now. This here, specifically, is my favorite thing in the world.

"You deserve it," he says, ignoring his own plate. "For what you did for Hannah."

I'm too busy chewing to understand what he just said. "Uh?"

"What you said to her about that kid who bullied her."

Toby did say something to Hannah then. I knew it. I knew she must have been upset because of something he said or did when I wasn't looking. That boy will be a handful this year, I can just see it. If he has started bullying her as I knew he would, he'll do it again. I can't tell Julian that and worry him. I can fortify Hannah though, so when it happens again, she'll be able to defend herself. My personal reason being I empathize. I was Hannah when I was 6.

"I wasn't sure he was bullying her. I suspected it." Whatever happened, Hannah told Julian about it. I'm glad she told him. She talks to him. That's a rare and amazing thing. I wish I could've counted on my father that way. It's embarrassing how I envy a 6-year-old on her dad. "It's my job to take care of those kids when you leave them with me."

"Thank you. Thank you for what you said to her." His face is so candid and so vulnerable it makes him even more handsome. Again, I'm confronted with a side of him I never knew existed. "You have no idea how thankful I am."

I'm thrown by how much I'm affected by his acknowledging I helped his kid. I wasn't even sure I'd said anything useful to Hannah. "You don't have to thank me for doing my job. Besides, Hannah is an amazing child."

Julian smiles something new. It's a tender smooth curve of his lips that says something private about the man he is when no one is looking. I feel privileged for being given a chance to see it. We hold each other's gaze over the table, our food getting cold, and I'm getting another small glimpse of what this spark could become. It frightens me. That's why I find an excuse to break eye contact on my food.

"So, you like the risotto?" He asks, ending the meaningful heavy silence.

I smile genuinely. "I'm in love with it."

"Good," he mutters and finally joins me in devouring his risotto.

We eat together with the ease of people who are used to sharing meals. I treat myself to a second helping because it would be humanly impossible not to do it. Julian refills our glasses more than once. We chit-chat about our respective days. I give him the very positive feedback from the kids on the fieldtrip. He tells me the story about how Hannah got her dog, his eyes softening anytime his daughter's name is mentioned.

I'm half tipsy, there's a wine induced drowsiness taking over my limbs. I stare at Julian while he talks, my cheek resting on my hand. He's one of those uniquely expressive people who talks using their hands. He's got a quirk too. Every now and then he'll rake his fingers through his bluish dark hair. I'm hung on his words, intently following the mannerisms that work as a compliment to what he says, like illustrations on a comic book.

My body is loose and tired. The thin shield I wear to prevent the ingress of lust is down tonight. I'm flooded by a yearning to lean across the table and touch him to learn, once more, how soft his hair is. I want to kiss him. There's no strength in me that could be used to fight it. Hypnotized, I follow the finger he skims back and forth over the underline of his bottom lip. "So, tell me some more," he says, finger moving away from lip. "There's you, Cami, Mel and...?"

It takes me three whole seconds to remember my best friend's name. "Lil."

"Your favorite."

"Liliane, my favorite. Plus, our cat Mallory."

"Ah yes, the cat. Hannah said you told the class your cat likes to sleep inside your open drawers. She's been asking me for a cat now. I have you to blame for that." He drinks his wine, licks his lips. I don't think he notices me squirming in my chair.

"Cats are divine animals. We don't own them, they own us."

"Fluffies would get jealous of a feline competition."

Only at his mention do I notice the dog's absence. "Where's he?"

"Where Han goes, he follows." There's that light again. The one Hannah has exclusivity over.

"Fluffies is a lucky dog. He's got a doctor at his disposal." And he gets to climb on his lap whenever he likes. Lucky, lucky dog.

"He's never needed me. He's indestructible."

"But you're like The Incredible Dr. Pol," I joke.

He smiles timidly making me brazenly proud for eliciting said smile. "I'm not that cool," he says. "But I get called out a lot. It's the bulk of my income, although I hate leaving Hannah. My mother takes care of her when I have a consult." I recall the short Korean woman, apparently in her mid-fifties, that picked up Hannah at school yesterday.

"You're such a great dad. I could tell so after one day with your child. She worships you." He presents me with a big white-toothed smile. I swear the lights shine brighter. Julian is a great smiler. When he smiles, every muscle on his face is put to work to make him even more gorgeous. His ears go up, his eyes crinkle at their corners. It's that smile I've been seeing Hannah get every morning. Now he's giving it to me. I suppress a crazy yearning to place a kiss on each of his puffy eyelids.

"It's too easy being her Dad. She's a miracle on short legs. The best thing in the world."

He wears his paternity with so much pride. Without him telling me I already deduce Hannah wasn't in the plans. She wasn't what he expected but she made him better. The abyss separating the man across from me from the man I made eyes with across a dancefloor is immense. In all the wanderings and fantasizing I did, never did I picture Julian as such a kind, thoughtful and devoted man, father to a little girl. Before, in the privacy of my thoughts, I accused him of wanting me for my body only. And that is the reason I credited for his no-show at our date over a year ago. Now I'm forced to question myself: Didn't I enjoy our purely sexual encounters just as much as he did? Didn't I objectify him, restricted him to a shallow persona I created in the realm of my imagination? Perhaps I didn't really offer him the window to display what lay beyond the guy enjoying his Saturday nights.