The Final Chapter

And you thought it would never end...

Chapter 13 of the Larry Smith Saga

Plan B

It was an unseasonably warm January morning. There was pretty music on the iPod, the mountains in the distance were quite handsome, and an attractive woman sat in the seat next to me. Al Gore might have had a problem with the temperature, but I was OK with the situation at large.

Nadine gave me one of her serious looks. It could mean that she was thinking about doing illegal things to me later. It could mean that she just remembered something insensitive I said to her last March. It could mean that I was about to run into a deer. I had no idea what she was thinking, and that was always a little frightening.

“Who are we listening to right now?”

“Death Cab for Cutie.”

“Pretty stuff,” she replied, turning away. I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Ten seconds later, she added, “They need to write a new song called ‘I’m just using you for sex, you dumb bitch.’”

I laughed out loud, and that’s rare.

“What part do you not like? ‘She’s beautiful but she didn’t mean a thing to me’?”

“I prefer ‘Someday you will be loved.’ In parentheses they should add ‘Not by me.’”

“’Love is watching someone die. Who’s going to watch you die?’” I added.

“Asshole women-haters,” she said, not at all serious but playing it well.

I found the iPod with my fingers and shuffled over to Ben Kweller. His music was generally happy.

“You didn’t have to change the music. I was kidding,” Nadine said.

“It was time for a change,” I replied, and that was the end of it.

It’s never easy to do something for the first time. There are the obvious ones like first kiss, first day of school, first girl you slept with and couldn’t remember her name, first home…

Then there was the first that I intended on completing in the next fifty miles or so. There is no way to prepare for a first anything. You can pretend that you know what you’re doing, but ultimately that line of thought is folly.

The glory of the NFL Divisional Playoffs would unfold this weekend as well. Only one quarterback was starting in his first playoff game. That was Philip Rivers of the San Diego Chargers. He had the misfortune of squaring off against the playoff juggernaut New England Patriots, led by the luminous Tom Brady. Brady was victorious in his playoff debut. Playoff punching bag Peyton Manning lost his first three, and was back for more.

Perhaps scheduling a second so-called romantic trip on a major football weekend was a mistake. I couldn’t help that the birth of Martin Luther King, Jr. happened to coincide with the best football weekend of the year. Now that I had one of them thar regular jobs, any national holiday was a blessing.

Last year I brought an intelligent, beautiful woman to the cabin, but Ben Gibbard had it right. She didn’t mean a thing to me. I didn’t mean a thing to her either. That was the one thing we had in common.

At the minimum, I could remember Nadine’s name. I even remembered it when we barely spoke last November. For whatever it meant, Nadine knew me. It’s hard to be elusive when you have to drop your pants twice a day for nine weeks. That cyst was a real pain in the, you know, but it resulted in the growth of something else. Something relationshipesque.

We stopped at the check-in cabin. The same nice woman as last year verified my personal information while Nadine browsed the video section. I looked over and she gathered a few titles. Rumors of improved selection were true.

“Thank you, mister Smith,” the woman at the counter said, giving me the “you’re such a player” look. I smiled bashfully because that’s what she expected, accepted my keys and tin of cookies, and walked outside alone. Nadine followed me.

“What’s that?” she asked, motioning to our left. I saw a skee ball machine, an air hockey table, foosball, and a pop-a-shot game. Pop-a-shot is a simple but fun game. There are two basketball goals next to each other. Under that is a large vat of mini-basketballs. Click a button and the 60 second clock starts counting down. Both players shoot at the same time, but the mixed pool of balls means that there’s some jostling involved.

If I could do the John Belushi one eyebrow wiggle, I would have. Our hands touched momentarily as we battled over one of the balls. I yielded. Nadine rewarded my sportsmanship by throwing the ball toward my goal, knocking a ball I had thrown a second earlier off course. So much for fair play. 30 seconds into the game a made basket changed from two to three points. It was tight, but Nadine won. With two seconds left and the victory in hand I threw a ball disgustedly at the bottom of my net. I made an interesting discovery.

“Two out of three,” I said confidently. “Loser does dishes tonight.”

“Bring it,” she said confidently.

My plan worked brilliantly. I shot underhanded for the first thirty seconds, allowing Nadine to take a modest lead. At the thirty-second mark I started aiming directly for the metal sensor at the bottom of the goal. It was easier and more direct to hit the sensor than make a shot, so my score jumped ahead of hers. By the time Nadine noticed my move, it was too late. I won by a large margin.

“Cheater!” she yelled.

“A win’s a win,” I replied.

She paused, giving me another one of those serious looks. “You know what? I’ll beat you anyway.”

I grabbed a basketball and pointed it at my goal.

We started the game again. I pelted the sensor while Nadine kept trying to put her shots into the basket. Ten seconds in, I had a giant lead. Nadine paused.

“Larry?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, still shooting.

“I don’t like cheaters.”

I didn’t look at her. Wanting not only to win, but to crush her, was my first mistake. She turned and threw the ball at my head. I didn’t have time to duck. The ball bounced off my forehead and went into my goal. Again I kept my eyes off Nadine. She dropped to the ground and pulled down my sweatpants. My underwear went down as well.

“Merry Christmas,” she said before standing up. I immediately fell over. Nadine turned to the game. I had to turn around to twist my boxers back into position. By the time I was no longer publicly nude, the game was over. I couldn’t tell if she had won, but at that point the score was somewhat irrelevant. I turned and saw her, standing over me with one of the plastic mini basketballs in her right hand. She held it over her head, prepared to go for the kill shot. Her cheeks were flushed and her narrow brown eyes flashed anger.

Ten long seconds later her face relaxed and she tossed the ball over her shoulder. It didn’t go in the goal. That’s when I saw the score. She won by one point. She then leaned down and helped me pull my sweatpants up. At least that’s what I thought she was doing. By the time I stood up, my keys were in her hand.

“Losers walk,” she said, walking to the car. She turned the engine, gave me a semi-friendly number-one sign, and drove away.

I accepted my fate and leisurely started walking a few seconds after the dust settled. She may have won, but at least I knew where the cabin was.

It was a nice day for a walk. The air was chilly, but only slightly so. Trees were stripped bare but seemed on the verge of blooming with this unseasonable warmth. As I turned onto the road that led to our cabin, I thought of the previous year’s activities. I particularly thought of what happened when she pushed me onto that fake leather couch.

I could remember quick, unexpected, very male sex, but I couldn’t remember her name. Blonde hair, pale skin, dark brown eyes, almost black, skinny in some ways but a little too muscular in others. LaDainian Tomlinson didn’t have abs as rock-hard as hers. That was one health trend that needed to get the boot.

I didn’t have long to marinate on the past. I heard tires crunching gravel behind me. The car jolted forward, stalling, before Nadine got out. She had a sheepish look in her eyes.

“I didn’t know where the cabin was, plus I can’t drive a stick.”

“Move in with me,” I replied.

Sometimes when you say something for the first time, you just say it.

“Never ask a woman a question when she’s angry, especially if you want her to say yes,” she said as we stood at the door to the cabin.

I let silence rule for a minute while I put away the rest of the provisions. I opened what the British call a Newkie Brown, and quickly surveyed the room for an ideal place to make a speech.

Standing in front of the TV worked. It was a brand-new widescreen model. Perfect for football later. “How long do you want to live in that condo?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she said with a frown. I was getting the kind of reception that Hugh Hefner would get in a room full of feminists.

“Exactly. You’re not worried about your future housing situation because it’s not a priority to you. You probably also don’t like paying your bills.”

“Who likes paying bills? When I can borrow your computer to pay bills online it’s not so bad.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. It would be easier for you if there were someone available who could take care of some of the tasks that you don’t like to do.”

“I’m not going to move in with you just so I can borrow your computer.”

“If that were all that I could offer you, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“I’m listening.”

I self-consciously took a sip of my beer. I thought it better to put it down for a while. “The housing market is in the dumper. It’s an incredible time to buy. I want to get a place that would normally be way beyond my means. It’s well within the budget if the two of us do it together.”

“You can probably swing that by yourself.”

“I could, if I want to live off Ramen noodles for the next three years. I didn’t even like them in college. You have a steady job, and that means a ton when you’re talking to a bank.”

“You have a job too, mister office manager.”

“Yeah, since last November. Plus, I’m not going to be there for much longer.”

“Didn’t Tom tell you that you were doing a great job? You got a Christmas bonus!”

“Holiday bonus. Didn’t you get one?”

“A twenty-dollar gift card at Chilis from my boss.”

“That’s not bad. Listen, I’d really like you to join me here. Your steady job, along with that steady income, would be huge. I’m about to launch a big project, but it might not pay off for three or six months.”

“This has to be the least romantic proposition in history. I hope that you haven’t used your best selling points yet.”

“Not entirely. I thought it would be good to set the foundation with the economic side of it. When you sign the mortgage, that’s all the bank cares about. The bank doesn’t care if we’re deeply in love or have a lot in common.”

“We don’t have a lot in common,” she replied, ignoring the other part.

“We can talk. We’re not fans of traditional relationships.”

“I know this will shock you, but I was in a long-term relationship once. I kind of dug it.”

“What happened?” I had to ask.

“I blew it.”

“How’d you do that?”

“He really really wanted kids. He also wanted me to drop out of school and be a housewife when he graduated. Neither of those things was going to happen.”

There was more. I knew it. I also felt compelled to share rather than digging deeper, which was my normal route. I sat down next to her and touched her hand. “Right after I graduated from Wake Forest, I put a personal ad out, searching for someone to take a one-month trip around the country. I dated the girl who said yes for a year after the trip.”

“What happened?”

“I moved to Charlotte. She wanted to stay in Winston-Salem.”

“Is that far?”

“Far enough.”

“His name was Joe,” she said.

“Amanda,” I replied.

There was a short pause for me to remember why we were there. Nadine was nice enough to continue.

“From time to time, I like to be courted, not taken for granted. I can dig on some romance. That night in Piedmont Park, that was romance. Since then, bupkis,” she said. Her manner was typically evasive.

I had enough game to elongate the argument. “I got you half a day at that spa for Christmas.”

“Wait, wait a second. The half day was excellent, and I believe you were duly rewarded that night. Didn’t Tom give that to you?”

“I hate the fact that mystery is a required part of romance. Yes, the partners at Tom’s firm got half-day spa coupons for the wives for a holiday gift. Yes, Tom isn’t seeing anyone and didn’t want it for himself, so he gave it to me. Do I lose points for that?”

“Well, duh,” she replied. Again, it was half-joke, and half-serious. I paid attention to the serious part. “You spent hours, maybe days, going over the figures, didn’t you?”

“Do I have to fit into a box like the rest of America? I want this. I’m asking you to move in with me. Anything can be analyzed to death and minimalized.”

“I’ve never really lived with someone before,” she replied.

“Me neither,” I replied, taking a confident sip. Three drops went down my windpipe and I coughed, loudly.

“Watch yourself there, studly. Do you have anything stronger than that beer?”

I offered her a glass of McWilliams Shiraz. She accepted, and immediately consumed half the glass. I like my wine to breathe a bit, but we all have different tactics.

“Good?” I asked.

“I could drink the whole bottle in fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t recommend that.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m still angry at you.”

“Was the pitch all right?”

“Your little speech? Is that why you couldn’t see me all last week?”

“There was that, and I wanted to build a little anticipation for this week.”

We have the cabin for a week. My friend who used to own the entire lot of them divested himself, but he kept interest in one cabin. This cabin. We used to be business partners. I introduced him to his wife, but only after she clearly and completely shot me down.

“I guess it’s kind of like a dry run, eh?”

“I don’t expect you to change your life for me. Keep your normal schedule this week,” I said, thinking that any change to routine would be bad.

“If you sleep nights and I sleep during the day, we might not see a lot of each other.”

“For most of the week we’re just going to be sitting on our cans, watching tube.”

“That sounds like a great vacation, to be honest. You surprised me today, you know.” Nadine reached out for my hand and squeezed. It felt like victory.

“I’ll take that as a complement.”

“I like that when you make me angry, that you don’t try to immediately make up for it.”

“I think you like being angry at me, a little anyway.”

She sighed theatrically. “It never lasts.” She lifted her glass, perilously close to being empty. “I haven’t said yes or no. As long as you understand that, we’ll be fine. Now, fill my glass.”

I did.

“Ah, so you can take orders. I might like you again by the end of the week. How much of this wine did you bring?”

“A case.”

“I like you a little more already. I want you to remember two things.”

“Yes.”

“First, don’t forget our deal. Second, when I tell you to take me to bed, do so immediately.”

Our deal involved me watching a pile of chick flicks on Monday, the day after Divisional Playoff weekend ended. I agreed solely because my needs were met first.

I nodded. She patted me on the head.

“You’re unpolished, but there’s potential.”

She stood up and offered me her hand.

“Take me to bed.”

I took her hand.

A few minutes later she had one thing to say before falling asleep.

“Thank you for doing this.”

She was asleep before I could ascertain exactly what “this” was.

I thought about going upstairs, brooding and typing some bullshit for the world to see. Instead I rolled over on the extraordinarily soft king-sized bed and fell asleep.

Game one featured the Indianapolis Colts and the Baltimore Ravens. Peyton Manning faced the top defense in the NFL. The irony of the game was that the Colts used to be the Baltimore Colts, and the Ravens used to be the Cleveland Browns. It was widely believed that the Colts didn’t have the run defense to survive a long playoff run. Manning threw two interceptions and defenders dropped two more, but it didn’t matter. On third and long in the closing minutes Manning hit Dallas Clark, and four plays later Adam Vinatieri hit a short field goal to make the score 15-6. The game was effectively over, so I turned on the electric grill. I started a fire at the beginning of the second half, but it made me sweat, so I let it die.

I put the pork on, along with a couple of sweet potatoes. There was salad stuff in the fridge if we got desperate, and I didn’t expect that we would. Nadine joined me in watching the New Orleans Saints, America’s team, take on the Philadelphia Eagles. I tried not to think of the growing murder rate in the French Quarter as the announcers threw bouquets as the players, with a salary of a million five per on average, saved the city with a dramatic 27-24 victory.

“You can be so cynical, you know,” Nadine said as we adjoined to the Jacuzzi. I had a couple of beers during the game but had switched to water. Nadine slowly but surely emptied the wine bottle.

“I hate it how the success of one football team is supposed to change a city. New Orleans is like a third-world country in the middle of the United States and it doesn’t matter as long as a professional sports franchise flourishes.”

“You have to admit that it’s a good story. Ignore the city’s plight. The Saints have never been to the NFC Championship, and weren’t they really terrible last year?”

“They’re the first team to go from 3-13 to one game from the Super Bowl in one year,” I replied.

“Didn’t your Titans go 3-13 last year?”

“They did improve by five games.”

“Tell me about this new home,” she said. After seeing my look of surprise she added, “Give me some credit. You wouldn’t have asked me without an actual home to go to. You’ve probably already signed a mortgage with my name forged as a co-signer.”

I was impressed. I’d never forge a co-signer on a mortgage unless I was really desperate. “It’s a two-bedroom, two-bathroom town house off Lennox.”

“What about your place?”

“I have someone.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I found an incoming freshman at Georgia Tech. He signed a two-year lease and will move in on June first.”

“Doesn’t school start in the fall?”

“He has an internship this summer.”

“What about my place?”

“We’ll take care of it,” I said with a reassuring smile and a firm hand on her shoulder. She didn’t talk for fifteen seconds so I continued.

“I don’t think finding a lessee will be a problem. If that’s your main concern, seriously, it won’t be a problem.”

“There’s always a solution for you.”

“If you don’t plan your own future, someone else will be more than happy to do it for you.”

Nadine reached under water, holding me in a very special location. With her other hand she splashed water in my face.

“I can take care of myself, buddy. If I need your help, I’ll let you know.”

I spit out some of the water. She had to release me to cover her face.

“We’re both tough and don’t need anyone else. That’s established. I suggest that we cool off and talk about this like adults on Tuesday.”

“Can we wait that long?”

“I’m going to watch football for seven hours tomorrow. Chances are, you’ll be drunk. We’re going to watch chick flicks all day on Monday. I can guarantee drunkenness on my part.”

Nadine found a towel and wiped off her eyes.

“Can you make the deal without me?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Tell me that you can.”

“It’s tougher to get pre-approved if you’re a freelancer. I’m working on some things that will make my cash flow more stable, but they’re a good six months off.”

“What about the job?”

“I’m quitting as soon as I sign the papers. I took this week off as vacation and I was hoping not to have to return next Monday, to be blunt.”

“So you need me.”

I took her hand. “When I moved here, I really struggled to pay the mortgage for nearly a year. If I take on this new place without help, it won’t be much different. I don’t want to go through that again. This place is an opportunity. My condo, and your condo, are not going to appreciate in value for years. This place will.”

“You’ve made an excellent financial case. I need more.”

“You need me to say that I can’t bear to be without you.”

“Something like that would be nice.”

“That’s not how I talk.”

“All you have to tell me is that you care.”

“What do you think?”

“Tell me that you have feelings, because all I’m seeing is you calculating. I’m not ready to take this step if in a year you do the books and I’m a liability.”

“I work at a CPA firm, so it’s all debits and credits to me.” I sighed. The joke failed, and suddenly the outside air seemed much colder. “We probably need to get in soon.”

“We are turning into prunes.”

A moment later she kissed me once, stood up and left the Jacuzzi. I sat alone for a couple of minutes. It was cool but not cold. I preferred it when it was cold, snowy, and in my head, clear.

I put the cover on the Jacuzzi while she grabbed some clothes and changed in the bathroom. I put my wet towel and swimsuit on the floor and found some pajamas. When I turned around she had picked up the wet stuff and put it in the dryer. Her cheeks were flushed.

“Are you going to sleep?” she asked.

“I can stay up a while.”

“I’d like that,” she replied.

The entire week was a test. Unlike in New York, Nadine wasn’t going to change her sleep schedule for me. On the first night I stayed up until three in the morning, but on subsequent nights and days we fell into a routine. I’d go to sleep around eleven. Nadine would wake me up, mainly so I could make her breakfast, around seven. A couple of hours later she would go to sleep and I would wake her up in the middle of the afternoon. I liked to get eight or nine hours a night, but Nadine generally slept four or five hours. She told me that it worked, although she did sleep ten or twelve hours once a week to catch up. After she woke up we’d watch a movie or take a walk and I’d make dinner. Our staggered schedule worked perfectly because Nadine could read, watch TV, or peruse my Internet history while I slept and I could get some writing done while she was asleep. I didn’t see why this couldn’t work.

On Sunday we watched two more excellent games. The top-seeded Bears held off the Seahawks in overtime. I liked watching the snow on TV. In the last game of the weekend the Patriots rallied to beat the heavily favored Chargers. This led to a classic showdown between Manning and Brady the following weekend.

“Damn, boy, that’s some solid chicken,” Nadine said. The TV was off. We had a late lunch so dinner at 8:30 wasn’t much of a chore.

“It is pretty good, eh?”

“What about the sleeping arrangements?” she asked.

I put a dollop of the mango salsa over a bite of the chicken marinated in honey and soy. The flavors blended marvelously. A sip of red wine washed it all down. “Same bed, different times.”

“So you’re fine with me working the night shift?”

“Yes, I’m completely fine with it.”

“What if I decide to work days?”

“I never stop working, really.”

“All you do is hunch over that laptop.”

“A true writer is always writing,” I replied. The brown rice was a bit undercooked. Pity, that.

“That’s just what you say to keep from having a real job.”

“But I got a real job.”

“You told me that was to help yourself out of a, what did you call it?”

“A temporary financial ass-fucking.”

“It’s 30 hours a week. Big freaking deal.”

“Here’s the big freaking deal. Working in an office means depending on other people to get things done. Other people constantly fuck up and try to torment you with their bullshit issues. It’s way easier to work for yourself. You get all of the blame and all of the praise.”

“I like working with other people.”

“You have to work with people. Self-nursing is not a growth industry.”

“Other people can inspire you.”

“Other people can annoy you.”

“Then why get a roommate?”

“Because I can live with you.”

I hit a nerve. I may just have pinched it. “You don’t really know that,” she said, and we moved on.

We drove back on Friday. There wasn’t much conversation. I think we were tired of it. On Monday we watched six consecutive chick flicks. Nadine got mad at me for falling asleep during Sleepless in Seattle. Meg Ryan never did it for me. I don’t get it, I mean she was asleep when Tom Brady hit Reche Caldwell for 49 yards on that third and ten play, virtually sealing another dramatic victory for the New England Patriots.

After a much-needed nap, we got out and went for a walk. We did that every day, holding hands except when Nadine thought I was getting too sweaty. On Wednesday night, after going through about ten movies, we agreed to go out to dinner. On Thursday we checked out the local tourist trap, the Biltmore Estate. I’ve heard that it’s much cooler during the holiday season. Some day I’d like to live in an estate.

Every time I brought up moving in together, Nadine gladly talked about it for ten minutes, and gracefully shut me down with a vague commitment to talk about it later. I think we started getting on each other’s nerves by Wednesday night. We were in each other’s company constantly for the first time since New York, and New York had much better distractions.

I found out that her long-term boyfriend hit the road in part because she couldn’t have kids. I also found out why. A long, painful battle with ovarian cancer forced her to drop out of school and created a rift with her family, who wasn’t as supportive as you’d expect a family to be. I instantly knew why she left home.

I told her some of the details of my drive across America. I wasn’t shy about the details regarding the breakup a year later.

I kept the iPod on shuffle. We held hands even during “Summer Skin” by Death Cab for Cutie, a song that chronicles a summer romance. It was a year ago, this very same week that we met. She was moving into her condo. I introduced myself and didn’t offer to help. I needed her then, but didn’t know it yet.

I carefully parked in a space two slots away from any other car. Nadine looked forward, like she was concentrating on a memory that may or may not stay with her.

“Come in with me,” she said.

She ordered Chinese food, threw her bag on the floor, and we sat on chairs next to each other. Nadine didn’t have a couch. We ate a bit and I ended up spending the night. She stayed with me when I went to sleep, and got up after she was sure that I wasn’t going to wake up for a while. I woke up alone around seven in the morning.

Usually, I can’t sleep at a girl’s place. Most of the time, I leave before sleep becomes an option. I felt comfortable in her bed.

She wore a pair of pink pj bottoms and a white, see-through man’s t-shirt. Yeah me. I stumbled over in my boxers and blue wife beater.

“Let’s talk,” she said.

“You have to put on a real shirt first,” I replied.

“Now you get to be a prude?” she asked.

“Unless you want to talk about the cinematic merits of Deep Throat, yes,” I said. I can be a stickler sometimes.

She sighed, then smirked, knowing that this was the one and only time that I’d ask a woman to put on clothing. When she returned, a purple TCU t-shirt made her decent.

“I’ve been stringing you along all week, and for that I apologize,” she said.

“Don’t apologize until you give me an answer.”

She bit her lip and looked out the window. There were no blinds, so the entire neighborhood could have seen her, virtually topless. Only the bravest dog-walkers would walk the path behind her condo, and none at night.

“No.”

That was it. No commentary, no qualifier, just no. Her eyes were puffy so I knew that she had been thinking about this all night.

“Well, then there’s nothing else to say,” I replied, standing up.

Ten seconds after I stood up, completely bluffing, did she finally speak.

“Don’t go.”

“Nadine, the whole week was about getting you to say yes. I’d call my efforts a failure.”

“Was that all?”

“Of course that’s not all. But that was the point. I wanted to spend time with you, but that was because we were going to do it full-time soon.” I was ready to leave.

“Please sit down.”

“I’m upset, and I like to be alone when I’m upset. Frankly, I can’t do this now. I have to find someone else to sign. I have to sign by Sunday or the deal’s off.”

“Big deal, you’ll probably get Tom to do it. He’s loaded.”

“How did you know that?”

“You always have a backup plan, Larry. When you invited me to trivia, I talked to Tom, Larry. He didn’t need an office manager, but he knew that you needed money and wouldn’t take a handout. He’s a sweet guy.”

“He’s a real peach,” I replied. I couldn’t recall Tom and Nadine talking. I don’t even remember them sitting next to each other. Was I that drunk?

“My mother’s sick, Larry. She can’t run the house like she used to. I need to be there. My dad can’t even boil water by himself.”

“And you’re a cook?”

“It’s time for me to learn. I was an oops baby. My mom was 46 when I was born. There isn’t much time.”

“Do you really want to go back to Detroit?”

“This is family,” she replied, giving me serious. “No, I really fucking hate the cold.”

“What about this place?”

“I got on the lease list as soon as I bought the place. There’s a bulletin board at work. I have to interview some candidates next week.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m giving you the green light, Larry. Dive back into that dating pool. I think it’s where you really want to be.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“It means a lot that you can say that. You always have a backup plan, Larry. I don’t think I want to be Plan A when there’s a Plan B.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said, not completely convinced. What was wrong with having a backup plan? It certainly wasn’t romantic, and Nadine saw that like a beacon.

She didn’t immediately respond, and I couldn’t handle the silence. “I can see that you feel like you have to do this,” I said, looking away. She got me and she was going.

“I do,” she said, finally giving me serious. The playful side washed over her face like the first rays of the sun at dawn. “I also feel like you and me going into that bedroom and making a mess. What do you say?”

She wasn’t going yet. We made a mess. It was the best breakup sex ever.

I walked back to my place. It reminded me of the walk of shame in college. In Atlanta it generally was the drive of shame. It was chilly, but I liked it. I grabbed my bags out of the car and went home. As I walked, I took my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans. A quick scan got me to the number I desired. A little research on my old phone records found me what I was looking for. I pressed the talk button.

“Hello?” said a female voice after the third ring.

“Nicole? Hey, it’s Larry. Larry Smith.”