Chapter Five; If I am Marilyn will you be my Joe Dimaggio?

I smile at Nick through the fence as he dismounts his motorcycle and makes his way down my driveway.

“I like your patio,” he grins, ambling through the gate into my backyard.

I seriously think this guy invented the sexy swagger. I try not to dissolve on the spot.

I introduce him to my little girl and she promptly starts showing off with her ribbon. Nick smiles, comments how she is really good at that, and I suddenly feel like this was probably okay.

We aren’t alone for long because soon my boisterous buds and their children are bursting into the backyard and demanding to know where the party is. As night falls, Nick is embraced by my friends as the adults laugh and joke the night away and the children run back and forth for hours between the swing set and the Disney Channel.

I am in full hostess mode and grateful for the brief distractions from Nick's presence that running into my house for more chocolate and wine glasses presents. He fits in really well with my friends and makes conversation with them effortlessly. I’m impressed because good gawd this man has to know that his every utterance and move is being scrutinized closer than a faint fingerprint at a crime scene by my overly protective gal pal posse. I am actually floored that when they found out he was coming they didn’t commandeer a floodlight, plug that sucker into my patio outlet, and start demanding, “Where were you on the night of . . .!” the minute they laid eyes on him.

One of my friends emails me her stamp of approval the next day confessing how she’d paid attention to Nick’s nonverbal queues. “His eyes followed your every move the entire night; I thought that was a great sign, Audra! He seems genuinely into you.”

You see, I haven’t exactly had the best dating experiences. While I’ve watched far too many of my friends divorce, I’ve also watched the majority of them pick up the pieces and fall in love with some amazing men. I’m already a bridesmaid in one wedding and I’m sure two more are in the works. Meanwhile, I seem to have attracted, well, not so amazing men.

“You’re Marilyn Monroe,” one of my girlfriends brands me one day.

“What? Why would you say that?” I ask, baffled, “Good gawd woman, do you not see the breast deficit?”

“Oh be quiet about the boobs. You’re gorgeous. I mean your track record with men. You’re Marilyn Monroe.”

She goes on to explain, “I just finished reading her biography, in it the author suffices that Marilyn struggled with finding and retaining true love because the men who were attracted to her weren’t really attracted to her, they were attracted to how being with her made them feel. I think that’s what keeps happening to you. These men fall all over you simply because you’re so damn pretty, and funny. They like how being around you makes them feel. And that is not the same as actually appreciating you.”

I snort. “Thanks for the arm candy analogy, but I have an overbite,” I object, “its bad.” I demonstrate by doing my best impression of Mr. Ed.

“See? You’re hilarious. And forget the freaking overbite; Angelina Jolie has one, too.” She counters and then adds, "And hers is worse."

“Another chick with a smokin’ rack,” I deadpan.

“Shut up with the boobs, already! Listen, what I am saying is you unintentionally make men feel inadequate. Just like Marilyn did. Her super stardom dwarfed the men she was with, and I think you have that same effect. Your extroverted nature and quick wit makes you a bright star, too, Audra. You are. ”

Sigh.

I tell her I love her.

And then I make her promise to come by and blow smoke up my wrinkled ass every now and again when I am 95 years old living with 72 cats.

She promises.

Pinky swear?

Pinky swear.

Back to my backyard . . .

Nick spends the entire evening sitting right by my side. At one point he leans in next to me and tells me a story about how he and his brother had a cat for years but they could never agree on the name. In fact they both called it something else for the duration of its extremely long life. I laugh at the story but confess that his piercing blue eyed presence distracts my concentration to the point that later on I draw a blank and can’t recall what the two names were.

This is worth noting because normally I have a memory like the elephant version of Rain Man.

To the point where it can really creep people out. “What? You don’t remember sharing your cookie with me on the first day of second grade? It was oatmeal, you had that Little House on the Prairie lunch box, and you were wearing that Holly Hobby shirt that your aunt bought you in Oregon. Come on, you have to remember!”

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized not everyone can do this. I am still waiting for a game show to come along that only quizzes me on the details of my own life.

I’ll take “What I ate for breakfast on June 27, 1985, for a $5,000,” Alex.

I’d freaking ROCK at that show.

I digress.

Everyone stays until midnight and Nick is the last to leave. The children all stayed up far too late, mine included, so when it was time to go, I find myself standing in my driveway under the stars, Nick standing next to his motorcyle, suddenly looking giddy and vulnerable, and one overly tired little girl at my elbow.

“I had such a good time. I love your friends, I loved seeing you with them and getting to know you better,” he smiles and then leans in and whispers, “thanks for letting me come over.”

I look down. My daughter is staring at me like, “Who the heck is this dude and can I go to bed now because its midnight and why are we are in the driveway because I am on the verge of a sleep deprivation meltdown.”

I consciously back away from Nick in an effort to avoid inflicting emotional trauma upon but my child, but I am pretty sure the look on my face is screaming at him, “Holy crap, do I want to kiss you.”

So we just stand there and grin at each other like a couple of idiots.

One tired little girl standing between us.

“Um,” he breaks the silence first, “I’ll just push my bike down the driveway so as not to wake your neighbors?” he offers.

Good call.

He pops up the kick stand, puts his hands on the handlebars but turns to me before he takes one step, “Can I see you again?”

Like he has to ask?

This guy is more addicting than gooey chocolate, a roasted marshmallow, and a couple of cinnamon graham cracker.

Color me infatuated.

“Yes, of course!” I say far too damn enthusiastically. Well, no one has ever accused me of being subtle so that is probably okay but still, I try to tone it down as I offer, “I, um, can make Thursday work?”

“I can’t wait,” he replies, his deep voice rattling some piece of my soul that has never before been rattled, I am pretty sure.

Can he hear my heart beating? I bet he can hear my heart beating. It’s so loud in my own ears I can barely hear anything else.

And then, there he goes. Pushing his motorcycle down my driveway, past my hydrangeas, and into the night. His broad back in a black leather jacket slowly melting into the darkness.

“Mama?” my daughter finally pipes up as he roars away down our street.

“Yeah?” I look down at her tired little face.

“I like Nick.”

“I like him too,” I cautiously confess.

“And,” her small sleepy voice adds as she turns to go into the house, “He’s smokin’ hot.”

I burst out laughing and chastise, “Kid, you are watching far too much Hannah Montanna! Now time for bed, chipmunk, let’s go.”

Exactly eight minutes later my blackberry dings.

I smiled so much on the ride back to my house
that I ate a bug. =)

Of course, I absolutely laugh out loud and respond:

Protein?

He replies:

You’re funny =) But I have one question.

I smile and text back:

And that is?

His reply boomerangs back to my blackberry in a nanosecond:

Is it Thursday yet?

Holy back flipping butterflies, Batman.

Because if anyone wants s’more right now, it’s me. S’more of that smile, s’more of that voice, s’more of that smokin’ hot boy.

And s’more of the possibility that if I am Marilyn Monroe?

Well, maybe, just maybe. If I am?

I may have just found.

My Joe Dimaggio.

******************************

I'll be back on Monday with KFGO radio details my loyal readers, and of course, Chapter Six; Is it Thursday Yet?

Have a tremendous weekend, stay safe, and see you on Monday!
~Audra