“See,” I said as Mickie helped me pick out a gift. “She was just waiting for the right moment.”
“Yeah,” Mickie said. “Sure.”
“She was,” I protested. “Come on, Mickie—think of it from her perspective.”
“I’ve no doubt she’s thinking of it exactly from her perspective.”
I had thought through Donna’s reticence to be seen with me in public and concluded it had nothing to do with the disparity in our ages. “What I meant was it’s not like you just spring a guy with red eyes on your parents.”
“No, much better to keep him hidden in his car where you can bone him at your convenience.”
Seeing no point continuing the conversation, I bought sterling-silver hoop earrings and picked up a bouquet of flowers. Donna had instructed me to park the Falcon around the back of the house beside her father’s Porsche 911. She greeted me at the back door barefoot. She wore jeans and a low-cut orange mesh sweater over a halter top. The freckles were on full display. She took the flowers, kissed me passionately, and led me inside.
I was nervous about meeting her family, especially her father, who sounded like an ogre. I hoped she had eased the transition by telling everyone about my “condition.” But as I entered a kitchen with more marble than a mausoleum, I began to get the sense we were the only ones in the house.
“My parents are gone,” Donna said, putting the flowers in a vase and filling it with water. “They’ve left for Tahoe for the weekend. Surprise!”
Bewildered and no doubt hearing Mickie’s warnings in the back of my mind, I couldn’t match Donna’s enthusiasm. “I thought we were going to celebrate your birthday.”
“We are. Won’t it be romantic? We don’t have to do it in a car.” I set Donna’s gift on the marble counter. “Well, won’t that be great?” she asked when I hadn’t responded.
“You said your parents were having a belated birthday for you.”
Her smile faded. “I know. I wanted to surprise you. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—I’ve never met your parents.”
“I’ve spared you, trust me. I want to do it in their bed.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“And we can do it in the Jacuzzi.”
I thought of what Mickie had said, and this time I didn’t talk myself out of asking the question. “How come I’ve never met your parents or your friends? How come we never go out?”
“What are you talking about? I see you more than my friends.”
“We’re always in my car.”
She stepped forward and played with the collar of my shirt. “Are you complaining? I thought you liked it.”
“I do like it, but . . .”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me from the kitchen into a living room with a vaulted ceiling, dark wood molding, bookshelves filled with the spines of old-looking books, and expensive-looking furniture. “And this is so much better, Sam. Trust me. We’ll have room to do all kinds of things, things I haven’t even showed you yet.”
“But why don’t we ever go to a movie or dinner—”
She wheeled around. “Fuck, Sam. I knew you’d fuck this up.”
“What? No, I’m not—”
“I told you at the very beginning; I told you that you can’t tell anyone. How would it look if we went out to a movie? Huh? How would it look?”
“I don’t know, like we were going to a movie?”