Page 27 of The Frog Prince
“Why?”
“Nobody’s coming.”
“Why?”
I almost smile, my first real smile. This is funny to me. “Olivia says it’s been done to death.”
He nods, runs his tongue across his back teeth, picking out little bits of shredded chicken. “You need a new angle.”
“Exactly.”
He points at me. “All you have to do is something new.”
I nearly slap the table. “Exactly.”
“You can do it, baby.”
I hate the “baby.” The “baby” needs to die. Fortunately, more food arrives, and for the next half hour we’re diverted by platters and samplers, and we eat so much that my waistband starts to cut me in half. And yet Tom really wants me to order coffee and dessert, and I do.
If only to put off what’s coming next.
I don’t want to get into his car with him. It’s not just that he’s been drinking, but I have an idea how this is going to play out, and I want no part of it.
I linger over my coffee until Tom’s paid the bill, pocketed his credit card, and climbed to his feet. He reaches for my hand and I feel as if he were inviting me to dance.
We walk arm in arm (I’m not happy about this) through the restaurant and exit onto the street.
The fog’s moved in, and as the valet attendant runs off to get Tom’s car, Tom uses the opportunity to put his arm around me.
I stiffen instinctively. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone touch me, so long since I let a man get close, and this is not the man I want close. Tom’s arm feels heavy. His touch is strange. We’re not a couple, and yet he’s moving ahead, surging forward, as if everything were already planned.
The cold, damp fog chills me, and I shiver. I don’t mean to; I don’t mean to give Tom anything at all, but Tom seizes on yet another opportunity and wraps the other arm around me, sandwiching me between his arms, against his chest.
“Cold, baby?” His voice drops, and he places a kiss on the top of my head. Ugh. And now he’s rubbing my upper arm with the palm of his hand.
I shiver again, this time repulsed.
“Poor baby.” He brings me even closer. I can smell his dinner. Feel the hair on his chest press through his shirt. His body is sturdy, square, and it probably isn’t horrendous naked, but I don’t want his body touching mine.
I try to pull away. He doesn’t notice. Tom just keeps rubbing my arm, back and forth, back and forth, while the word “baby” screams like a banshee in my head.
“Baby.”
I wasn’t ready for dating. I know it’s going to be a long time before I can think about making love with someone other than Jean-Marc, and even though it’s a little thing, I don’t want the cutesy nicknames, especially when they mean nothing.
Endearments shouldn’t happen on first dates. I’ve never been comfortable with endearments, but early on, when things are developing, endearments are plain wrong.
Endearments are alienating.
If a man uses an endearment too soon, he’s going to be one of those touchy-feely types. And women aren’t all that comfortable with touchy-feely men. A lot more women have intimacy issues than folks know, and an indiscriminate use of “sweetie” or “baby” is bound to have negative, and lasting, repercussions.
Tom, for example.
He was trying to do so much so right. And I’m going to give him points for trying, but the “baby” thing is playing in my head, over and over like that annoyingly cheerful kids’ song “The Wheels on the Bus” (go round and round, round and round; the wheels on the bus…), and I know this is mean, but when Tom says “baby” and rubs my arm, my first thought, after getting rid of the wheels-on-the-bus refrain, is,Dude, you don’t knowme.
But I don’t say it; I don’t know how to say anything I need. I couldn’t ask Jean-Marc why he stopped loving me, and I can’t ask Tom Lehman to stop touching me.
Instead I fixate on the use of endearments and think maybe Arnold Schwarzenegger (before the whole governor thing started) could get away with a “baby” and still seem masculine, but unless you’re built like the Terminator, or you’re Tarzan and still mastering human language, “baby” is out.