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Last night, Rex came over carrying something that looked like the beautiful piece of wood I’d seen him working on in his woodshop a few days before.
“What’s this?” I asked him.
“You needed a new kitchen table,” he said. His posture was comfortable and commanding like usual, but I could see uncertainty in his face, no doubt because of my totally ungrateful response to his previous efforts regarding my table.
I took a deep breath. No one had ever made anything for me before, and I couldn’t even imagine how many hours it must have taken Rex to craft this piece. Rex doing that—showing up like that—was a test. Not that Rex engineered it as one; he’s not manipulative like that. But it was a test of whether or not this could be okay between us and I knew it. This was Rex showing me that he cared.
I smiled and stepped aside. Rex fitted in the legs and skimmed the wood with a tender hand. The table reminded me of him: sturdy and comfortable and welcoming.
“It’s amazing,” I said, and Rex’s smile told me I’d passed the test for sure.
So, now, here I am at Mr. Zoo’s because I wanted to get Rex a record or something to say thank you.
“He made me a new kitchen table,” I say. “Mine broke.”
“Whoa! That’s amazing.”
Yeah, it really is. Leo looks at me and then down at Emmylou and gets a weird look on his face.
“What?”
“Um, no offense or anything,” he says, “and I’m sure it’s a good album and all, but that’s kind of a lame present for someone who, like, carved you something out of a tree with his bare hands.”
Shit. Shit, he’s totally right.
“Sorry!” he says.
“No, you’re fucking right,” I say, letting out a breath.
“You swear a lot.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Sorry.” He just smiles. “So, you got any better ideas?” I ask. “And if you insinuate anything to do with sexual favors, so help me….”
“Well, what have you already done for him?”
“Done?”
“Yeah, like, what nice things, so I don’t repeat them.”
Nice things. What nice things have I done for Rex? Fuck all, that’s what. Better question: what nice things has Rex done for me? Rescued me after a car accident and given me a place to stay for the night even though I was a total stranger. Saved the dog I hit with my car. Fixed the desk in my office when he barely even knew me. Warned me about the weather. Come to pick me up in the middle of a snowstorm when my car died. Cooked for me. Taken me to dinner. Given me a massage. Gotten the Internet at his house for me even though he doesn’t use it himself. Made me a kitchen table even after I yelled at him the last time he brought it up.
And me? I took his fucking dog for a walk when he had a debilitating fucking migraine. I fucking disgust myself.
I drop my head down onto my arms on the counter and groan.
“Shit, Leo!” I say.
“What? What’s wrong?” Now I’ve scared the kid.
“What’s wrong is that I’m a shit boyfriend. Absolute shit. I don’t know what I’m doing. I have no fucking clue.”
Leo is wide-eyed, staring at me with his mouth half open. God knows why he liked me in the first place, but whatever hero worship he had is, I’m sure, dying a writhing death on the counter between us as we speak. I’m a grown man and I have no idea how to date someone. No idea at all.
“Um,” Leo starts, with a mommy-and-daddy-are-fighting expression. “Well, my sister always says she’ll forgive a guy anything if he buys her flowers.”
“Uh-huh, and how old is your sister?”
“Sixteen.”
“Yeah. Well, you should tell your sister that’s a crap policy.”
“Okay, well, why don’t you take him on a really nice date? My sister says—”
“No offense, Leo, but I’m going to go ahead and say I don’t care what your little sister thinks about dating.”
“No, no, this is a good one. She says a well-conceived date shows that you pay attention to the person. That you know what they like to do and you want to show them a good time.”
That makes sense. I was probably supposed to ask Rex out on a date after he took me to dinner, so things were equal. I’ve never asked someone on a date before. Never planned one. But I know what Rex likes. Old movies and good food. This will be fine.
“Right, okay.” I tell Leo. “A date. I can do that.”
But he doesn’t look totally convinced.
ON FRIDAY, I pick Rex up at his house because it seems a date-like thing to do. He looks amazing in tight black jeans that mold to his muscular thighs and round ass and one of those thick oatmeal-colored sweaters that I associate with ski lodges and Irish whiskey ads. The thick sweater makes him look even larger than usual, like if he held me I’d be warm and safe forever.
