Mansplainer Page 7

  “Okay.” He weaves through traffic, honking his horn on occasion. I’m a little nervous with the way he’s driving, but it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Taxi driving in Manhattan plays like a contact sport.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulls up to the entrance of the restaurant. After I pay him and give him a tip, I slam the door shut and walk inside. The upscale restaurant has a warm ambiance with lit candles all around.

  The host smiles when he sees me. “Hi, Meadow! It’s good to see you.”

  “Same here,” I say. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

  “Julio.”

  “Right.” I nod, glancing over heads to see if Henry’s already here.

  “Do you have reservations this evening?”

  “Two for Hughes.”

  He punches something into the screen. “Why, yes. I see it right here.” He picks up two menus. “Right this way.”

  He leads me to a booth near the bar before placing the menus on the table. “Enjoy!”

  I pick up the menu and start to look at all of the delicious seafood dishes… halibut, red snapper, and seafood cobb salad. My mouth waters as I read the descriptions. But I’ve been here so many times that I almost don’t need the menu. Even though I’m a foodie, I’m not very good about venturing outside my tried and true favorites.

  This is my go-to place for meetings with artists and wealthy clients. I try to see it with new eyes as if for the first time, and I hope that Henry likes the place. My unabashed need to impress him doesn’t go unnoticed by my critical conscience. Speaking of Henry, I check my watch. He’s running twelve minutes late.

  Ten minutes late is fashionable. Twelve minutes annoys me because it says his time is more valuable than my time.

  A waitress with short brown hair approaches my table. “Good evening, I’m Belinda. I’ll be taking care of you. I see that you’re waiting for a guest.”

  I nod. “Yes. He should be here any minute.”

  She stares at the empty bench opposite me like I’m some loser who’s been stood up. “Would you like to get started with anything to drink while you wait, perhaps some wine?”

  “Who can say no to wine?”

  “What can I get for you this evening?”

  “How about a glass of Riesling and the bread basket.”

  Carbs may not soften my anxiety, but I’ll give them a try anyway. I’m lucky that if I get a little extra food-induced padding on my body, it always seems to land in exactly the right places. As she walks away, I don’t want to check the time again, but I can’t help it. Now, Henry is fourteen minutes late. I send him a text that reads: “I’m here.”

  I really wanted to type, “What’s taking you so long?” but decide to take a nicer approach, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot with Henry like a passive aggressive witch. I know that artists can be a bit temperamental and some of them can’t keep track of time if their lives depend on it. They get so lost in the work, some of them have no concept of time at all.

  Just then, Henry walks into the restaurant wearing True Religion jeans, a yellow button-down that shows off his olive skin to perfection, and about a day’s worth of sexy scruff that highlights his chiseled jawline. My eyes drink in the sight of him, and I can’t help but notice how a bunch of female heads turn and do a double take. Some of the men at the bar even puff up their chests at the newcomer.

  It’s not a date… not a date… not a date.

  Part of me wants him to lift his proverbial leg and piss all over me to mark me as his.

  I shake my head, eradicating that thought. Christ, Meadow, he’s your client. Nothing more. Stop putting the dude on a pedestal before you even know him.

  Despite his urban vibe and rugged handsomeness, he glances around like a lost puppy. Usually, when I’m meeting somebody at a restaurant, I’ll wave to them and call out their name. But since I’m enjoying watching him too much without being caught, my hand stalls on the table. After a few moments, Julio points the way. My mouth tugs into a smile before I can stop it, and I’m grinning like a fool as he walks toward me, his eyes catching mine.

  “Hi, Meadow.”

  I have to crane my neck to look at him. “Hey.”

  “So-so… sorry… I’m a l-l-it… little late. I had to… had to f-finish up in the s-s-studio…” He clears his throat, his mouth tightening into a thin line before he continues more calmly. “Then I had to shower, and well… you know how it is with us artists. I try really hard not to be late, I really do.”

  Am I that intimidating? Why is he stuttering? And is he sweating? It’s cute, but it’s bizarre at the same time. How can such a hot guy be so shy? I bet he’s had more women than Dean Martin had vodka martinis. I look around for Belinda, wondering if it’s too late to change my glass of Riesling into something stronger. It’s going to take much more than wine for me to survive this meeting.

  He possesses a raw sex appeal that practically pulses in the space that stands between us. I want to climb him like a tree.

  Henry sits across from me, and in the process, he knocks over a glass of water on the table. It spills all over the floor, and his eyes grow wide. “I’m s-s-so… sorry. I’m s-s-sorry.”

  Belinda hurries back to our table and uses a towel to clean up the mess. “Nothing to worry about. Accidents happen.” She stands up. “Can I get you anything to drink, sir?”

  The muscle in his jaw ticks as the server and I both stare at him. His eyes flash with something I don’t understand when he finally says, “Lem-lemo–”

  “Limoncello?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “L-lemon… ade.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any lemonade. But we do have iced tea. With lemon.”

  He nods. There’s such a tragic expression on his face, I don’t know what to do. I can’t figure out why he’s so freaked out, even though he totally warned me that he doesn’t enjoy the public. He certainly wasn’t kidding. “Okay. I’ll have an i-i-iced tea.”

  “Sure thing. Sweetened or unsweetened?”

  “S-swe… sweetened.”

  “I’ll be right back with that.”

  “And Belinda?” I look at her.

  “Yes?”

  “If it’s not too late can you please bring me an extra dirty martini with a splash of vermouth?”

  She smiles while giving Henry a healthy dose of side-eye. “Okay. I’ll be right back with those drinks.”

  She walks away. When she said right back, for my sake, I hope she means immediately. I take a deep breath, not exactly sure what to say. How to comfort him. I’m used to artists and their ever-swaying moods, but this is something I’ve never encountered in my years of being in the art world.

  “I… I… don’t like it here… can we g… go somewhere else?” I can tell he’s having trouble articulating himself, and I wonder if he’s been drinking all day while he works. Or doing something harder. Shit. If he’s a druggie, I can’t tolerate it. I can’t have that associated with me or my gallery in any way.

  I frown. “What’s wrong? Have you been drinking?”

  The couple sitting at the table adjacent to us glances at Henry. It clearly makes him uncomfortable. But hell, it’s not their fault. Nobody told him to leave the house after he’d been drinking, and why is he stuttering? I’ve been to his studio and talked to him on the phone. He was able to articulate perfectly well on those two occasions.

  He looks down, appearing to be suddenly fascinated with the tablecloth. He even flicks at a non-existent piece of lint.

  “Henry, are you okay?”

  Belinda comes back with our drinks and a basket of assorted bread. “Here’s your bread basket, Meadow.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a sip of my martini. Just the taste of the vodka calms me a little.

  Henry doesn’t say a word as he takes a sip of his iced tea. I wish I could see inside his brain so I could help him. What’s going on in that mind of his?

  “Do you need a little more t
ime to look at the menu or are you ready to order?” Belinda asks.

  Henry looks panicked. “I… I… I…”

  I lean in his direction. “Do you like Manhattan clam chowder?”

  He nods.

  I glance at her. “Can you please bring us two bowls to start with?”

  “Sure thing,” Belinda says before making her way across the room to check on another table.

  “Henry?”

  He looks at me, and I can’t see anything but fear inside the depths of his eyes. This is not the Henry Garrison I met at his loft. This is some bizarre imposter.

  I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. “Are you okay?”

  He nods but doesn’t speak again.

  I rub his wrist with the pad of my thumb, feeling the rocket of his pulse. “If you go, that means I’ll have to eat dinner all by myself. You don’t want that to happen, do you? I’ll look like a loser that can’t keep a man’s attention long enough to share a meal. You don’t want me to look bad in front of these people?”

  He smiles a little. “No.”

  “Good.” I feel as if I’ve just entered an alternate universe where couples have digressed into complete role-reversal. I hand him a piece of bread. “Here, try this. It’s really good.”

  He takes a bite and nods. “Good.”

  I grab a piece and chew, trying to ignore the fact he’s now talking in single syllables like a Cro-Magnon man from the prehistoric era. “The bread here is delicious. But I like everything about this place. I always bring my artists here.”

  “Yes?”

  “And clients too. Especially the rich ones. The rich ones are the best.”

  He smiles a little, and the sensitive artist crisis has been averted at least for the time being.

  “I know you said that you wanted to leave, but I’m glad you decided to stay and give it a chance. I think it’ll grow on you. Who knows, this might become one of your favorite eateries just like it is mine.”

  Chapter 8

  Henry

  I sit across from Meadow, trying to hold my shit together. Prying eyes stare me down, serving as judge and jury, marking me a freak before they even know me. It reminds me of my first day of art camp at the YMCA back when I was twelve.

  My mom forced me to wear khakis and a sweater that day. Somehow, I succeeded at looking goofy and preppy at the same time. And back then, I had the old-style wire braces along with some puberty inspired acne.

  As I walked into the old brick building with my backpack, this big, tall kid stuck out his foot to trip me. I fell face-first onto the cement. Sure, there was physical pain. Sure, there was blood. But the humiliation mortified me even more.

  The bully pointed and laughed. “Take that, freak! Why don’t you go create a sculpture about it on your sissy pottery wheel!”

  It seemed like an eternity passed before a volunteer stepped in. “Alright, everyone, break it up.”

  She helped me to my feet. Before I even saw it, I felt the blood running from my nose. Offering me a tissue, the woman’s kind eyes showered me with a pity I didn’t want. I just wanted to be normal. To fit in. It was the beginning of my horrifying adolescence. I had always been an awkward child, even back as a toddler, molding Play-Doh. Different. And different meant tormented.

  But throughout my childhood, the bullying never let up. I got called so many names, if somebody said “Dipshit,” I turned around, automatically assuming they were talking about me. Each day was worse than the one before it. Finally, I reached a point where I’d use any excuse to get out of going outside.

  I loved to learn, and my favorite outside activity was Mrs. Reid’s art history class at the local community center. But I would have rather stayed confined to my bedroom than to face those cruel kids there. I became more and more isolated with each passing year. With each incident that led me to believe I was less than.

  And the worst part of all? I was a freak. They were right about me all along. Everything was made worse by the fact that I stuttered. Bad. Even though I was a smart kid, I could never engage in a war with words with my tormenters. That just worsened the bullying.

  Those are just a few of the memories I’m desperate to forget as I look into Meadow’s eyes. Despite their warm and empathetic glow, I just want to flee. Because of the people behind her? They’re staring at me like they long to expose my secrets just to humiliate me.

  I don’t stutter in my loft or any place I’m comfortable being, but I haven’t been able to speak properly since I walked through these doors.

  I make it through the soup course. But before we even have a chance to discuss the details of the showing that could save my loft, white-hot panic weaves its way through my chest again. She’s going to ask me to talk, and I can’t get out any multi-syllable words without tripping over them. For some reason, looking like a stuttering fool in front of this woman seems worse than any of the torture that I endured before I became an adult.

  “I… I… re… really need to go.”

  She frowns. “But, Henry–”

  “So… sor…” I stand up and hurry toward the door before I lose it.

  When I get outside, I feel relief flow over me since she didn’t follow me. I know I let her down. And she has every right to be disappointed in me, but I can’t even think about that right now. I just can’t stand to be around those people in that restaurant for another second.

  ***

  The next morning, I throw on a ratty pair of jeans and a worn Van Halen t-shirt. I fill Verdi’s bowl with fresh water and head out the door.

  I need to clear my head. Whenever I feel this way, a trip to Central Park or Washington Square can lift my spirits. But something inside of me feels like that won’t be enough. I take the subway to Grand Central Station. Then, I take the Metro-North train to Connecticut.

  Toward home.

  Seeing my folks is another beast entirely, and I find my sword too heavy to lift to wage that war. Mom will just have to wait a little longer to fuss over me in person. I have no intention on even telling her I’m in the state. I really don’t want to see people I know at all. After I get off the train, I take a long bus ride.

  As I’m about to doze off, I make it to Johnson Orchards. I walk into the big barn that has been converted into a retail shop. Inside, there are about two dozen kids on a field trip with a teacher who looks exhausted. I smile at the sight of them pointing at all of the apple treats.

  “I didn’t know you could make apple muffins,” a boy says. “I’ve only seen blueberry.”

  “I knew that, everybody knows that,” a girl says. “But I didn’t know about apple and squash soup.”

  “Okay, quiet down everybody,” the teacher says, handing each of them a bag. “And when we go out picking today, please remember to follow all of the rules. And most of all, we always stick together, right? Never lose sight of your assigned buddy.”

  “Right,” they reply in that sing-song unison that only the bloom of youth can pull off.

  As the pack of kids heads outside, the old woman standing behind the counter glances at me and says, “Cute bunch, aren’t they?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I was probably around the same age as them when I first came here.”

  Oh, perfect speech. Why did you forsake me last night?

  “Well, we appreciate the business. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to ‘pick my own.’”

  “Sure thing.” She hands me a clear plastic bag. “It’s two dollars per pound, and we’ll weigh back here when you’re all done. Would you like to walk to the orchard or catch a hayride? Wallace just left to take the kids, but he’ll be back in a few.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll walk.”

  “Alrighty then. Have a good time, young man.”

  “Thanks.” I walk out and head down the dusty road toward hundreds of apple trees in the distance. Half a mile into it, I’m wishing I had a bottle of water or some of the cold apple cider they were selling at the barn. Sweat pour
s down my face as I climb up a steep hill. When I reach the top, I smile at all of the trees. The air smells so sweet. I wipe away my sweat with the back of my hand and make my way toward the perfect apple tree.

  I inspect the apples carefully to avoid the ones with bruises and worms. I want to pick the best ones. In the distance, I hear children laughing. When I look up, I see all of the kids on the field trip walking past me with their bags. They all look so happy.

  So free. Unencumbered by darkness of any kind. The light fairly glistens around them like a protective shield.

  I assume they’re about eight or nine years old, and I remember that age. At around that time, I discovered my passion for pottery. It was a good time in my life. Before the bullies, before my stuttering ruined everything. A time when I actually had friends. Younger kids always seem to be kinder.

  I grab the perfect apple off the tree and toss it into my bag. I spot two more good ones and snap them off too. As I inspect and pick, the teacher guides the children down the hill. A few of the kids take off running and can’t control their speed with all the momentum. Two of them bump into each other. They almost tumble down ass over tea kettle, but at the last moment, they right themselves and laugh.

  Everyone shares in their mirth, including me. I look at those kids and hope that they will grow up to be kind and good-hearted adults. It pains me to think of any of them becoming bullies like the kids who terrorized me.

  I move on to another tree and grab a few more apples. As I continue to pick, I feel a creative jolt. All the sudden, I imagine all the vases I want to sculpt. I can’t wait to get back to the potter’s wheel. This nostalgic day trip to the orchard was just what I needed.

  After I pick a bag full of apples, I pay for them at the barn and take the bus back to the Metro-North. As I wait on the empty platform, I think about how my parents are just a few miles away. I know they would probably like to see me, but I’m not really in the mood to be grilled about my lack of a normal life. Disappointment always seems to flicker to life in my mom’s eyes. And I don’t want to see it because then I’ll have to deal with it.

  I just want to go back to the studio and create again and plug into the source of my happiness. I board the train and take a seat. I look out of the window at all of the trees and highways as I head back to the city.