Chapter Ten; A Titanic Situation

“Mmmm, hmmm,” Naomi’s listening skills hum in my ear. I’ve just finished giving her my Nick report and she is processing. “So, uh, yeah. Two steak dinners, one fireside soul connecting conversation, and a big bunch of daisies. And now ? A Harley ride with firefighting calendar material hero. Uh, yeah. I think I saw this one. Didn’t it star Kate Hudson and that guy who is allergic to his shirt, what’s his chest, Mathew McConaughey?"

“Bite me,” I deadpan.

“What? I can’t keep up. It’s freaking surreal.”

“Jealous,” I accuse.

“Fuck yeah,” Naomi admits as she continues her assessment, “But seriously, when did your life turn into a Nora Roberts novel? Oh, and remind me not to tell Brenda about the Harley. You remember Brenda? Cute little friend of mine I know from work? Yeah, she pines for a man on a Harley. Underscore pines. Even went to a Harley store once for the sole purpose of finding a man. With a Harley,” and before waiting for my reaction to this story of contrived desperation she responds on my behalf and adds, “I know. Crazy. My point is she is going to kill you when I tell her you literally tripped and oh, looky here! I have a boyfriend. And whatdoyaknow? He has a Harley.”

“Boyfriend?” I challenge.

“Well you’re on the boyfriend highway and taking the boyfriend exit and arriving at boyfriendville in approximately one point two miles at this rate.”

I just smirk to myself.

Boyfriend.

I am liking the sound of that.

“Oh my god,” Naomi announces, “You didn’t say anything.”

“What?”

“Hello? I just said the “b” word and you are hardly flinching. What the hell? Ten days in and you’re running around like Kate Winslet in Titanic,” she justifies and then sidebars, “Yes, thanks, no I don’t need a receipt.”

“Where are you?”

“Grocery store. God, my kids. We’re out of fruit roll ups and you’d think it was on the same level as toilet paper.”

Naomi is the queen of multi-tasking. I once had a cell phone conversation with this woman while she colored her hair and passed a kidney stone. She offered to send me a picture. (Of the stone, not the hair.)

I declined. It was bad enough I was virtually there by audio at the time.

I still shudder with the memory.

“I hate Titanic,” I counter, “that’s a stupid ass infatuation story masquerading as love. It completely ruins a historical event in American history and insults the real people who lived through it. And the ones who didn’t,” I haughtily reply.

She snorts, “You own the movie.”

I tell her to shut up.

Because the truth is. Yes. I am fast becoming infatuated. In fact, instead of a bloodstream, I think I now would bleed endorphins if someone took a blood sample. But I am trying to stay aware of that. Yet at the same time, I am trying to also enjoy it. Because isn’t this the magical dreamlike place where true love takes root? Passion is this amazing component of being human. It’s that innate hunger planted deep within all of us. And every one of us is on a quest to find that one person who ignites it.

And even though Nick gets paid to squelch flames, uh, yeah. He's more like an arsonist in this situation.

If I got any hotter for this guy I'd need an ice bath.

But I'm not apologizing.

I mean come on. Many a classic love story is not about love at all but about the beginning of love. Romeo and Juliet. Whuthering Heights. Or any of Jane Austen’s novels. Naomi is right. Even the pop culture version of Titanic qualifies. Hello, good old Jack and Rose knew each other all of a few days in that flick. And all across America, women and girls swooned to the tune of a multi-million dollar box office opening weekend.

“Jack, come back! Come back! Jack!”

Yeah. If your nose just did that burning thing when you read those words as you pictured Rose in the icy Atlantic as Jack succumbs to his icy doom . . .

. . . AH HA!

That scene illicits emotion in every girl and metro sexual man who watched it. We all want a Jack. We all want to fall madly in love in 6 seconds and have it last for 6 decades. (Obviously skipping the inconvenient part where the leading man dies of hypothermia in a watery grave.)

“Well, I just worry about you,” Naomi finally discloses, “You’re usually more guarded and this is different.”

“Different is a good word,” I tell her, “because you’re right. This is different. Nick is different. I can’t explain it. I just think he’s the most compassionate, empathetic, and articulate man I’ve ever met. I don’t know how to put it into words, Naomi. He looks at me like no one has ever looked at me. Ever. And I don’t know what this is all about. I just love talking to him. I love being around him. It is the most amazing feeling I’ve ever had.”

“If you tell me he completes you, I am going to gag.”

I cackle with laughter, “You’re going to gag? Hello? Kidney stone? I didn’t complain.”

“Hey, don’t talk about Pebbles like that,” she chastises.

And yes. She named her kidney stone. Even sent birth announcements. Forget making lemonade out of life’s lemons. This woman could find humor in a cancer diagnosis.

And I simply love her for it.

“Yeah, I’d like the wax,” I hear her murmur to someone in the background.

“Please don’t tell me you’re at the salon because I refuse to talk to you during bikini area upkeep,” I warn.

“Nope. Car wash,” she clarifies.

Thank god.

“Alright, I gotta run, Kate. Let me know if the firefighter lets you slide down his pole any time soon.”

"Winslet or Hudson?”

“Hudson. You’re too skinny to be Winslet.”

That night I find myself fantasizing about the whole fire station pole analogy.

But you know what? I don’t have to daydream for long. Because one day later.

It's a rock solid reality.