Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

DONNA HADN'T BEEN this nervous for a date since high school. (If it even counted as a date.) She went through a half-dozen outfits, now strewn across her floor, in her efforts to look her best without looking like she was trying to look her best. She finally video called Lavinia, who talked her into a pair of dark skinny jeans, a floral baby-doll top, a light sweater, and sisal wedge sandals—fitting for early spring. How other people got through life without having a fashion consultant on call at all times, she had no idea.

Determined not to arrive first, she circled the block until she saw his car safely in the parking lot. Then she took a few deep breaths, grabbed her Alaia handbag—featured on the blog last week—and headed inside, trying to calm the electric current that was was beginning to build in her veins.

Jack was standing just inside the door, hands in his pockets, when she walked in. He wore black, slim-fitting slacks and a light blue button-up that brought out the color of his eyes. And he seemed to understand that for men, shoes can make or break the look. His made it.

They silently appraised each other, both half-smiling. She noted the appreciative look in his eyes without him having to say a word.

"Hi, dimples," was the first thing he said, and she broke into a grin.

"Hi, Doc," she said.

"Been here before?"

"Nope."

She'd driven past it a million times, thinking it looked a little divey from the outside. But the dimly lit interior was cozy, clean, and inviting, with oversize light fixtures that looked like inverted umbrellas dangling from a red-painted ceiling.

"So I realized something," Donna said, once they were seated. "You've met my entire family—including three sets of grandparents—and I don't know anything about yours."

"Wait, I have?"

"You don't remember?" she asked, preparing to unleash a torrent of ridicule.

His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.

"Oh, your sister's wedding," he snapped his fingers. "What I remember is that there were a ton of you, and none of you looked anything alike, apart from matching pink dresses."

"Accurate," she said. "And oddly, out of all of us, the twins look the least alike."

"There are twins?"

So she went through the whole Gable family spiel: seven sisters, all named after classic actresses (middle names coming from a role that actress had played), in alphabetical order, from A to double G.

"And somehow you ended up being the only actress in the bunch?" Jack asked.

"So far," she laughed. "Okay, that's enough about me. I asked about your family first."

But they were interrupted by a waiter, followed by a twenty minute debate about what to order, before they finally returned to the original question.

She learned that Jack had been expected to go into medicine from a very young age, since his father was a hospital administrator and his mother was a third-generation nurse. He went through a brief rebellious phase where he wanted to be a lawyer, but he eventually realized medicine was indeed in his blood. And his older sister's, too, who had a successful orthodontic practice in San Diego. Then their black-sheep little brother came along, who was now playing baseball in the minor leagues.

"So you're a middle child, too," she said. "Is that why you're an over-achiever? To keep from being invisible?"

"Maybe," he laughed. "My parents did forget to pick me up from summer camp once. The counselors finally stuck me on a bus home, by myself, which took 8 hours. I was twelve."

"Brutal," Donna laughed. "I once got left in a gas station in Yellowstone on a family vacation. They were 30 minutes down the road before anyone noticed I wasn't in the van."

"I'm surprised that didn't happen more often, with all those kids to keep track of."

"Oh, it did," Donna said, recounting a few more infamous tales of Gable children who'd been left behind, as the waiter set a platter of sushi rolls before them that was almost too beautiful to eat.

Jack had an easy laugh, low and almost hoarse, and she couldn't get enough of it. Every time their eyes met, her lips curled into an involuntary grin, an affliction he seemed to share. The electricity coursing through Donna's limbs had only grown more potent. Soon there would be sparks shooting from her fingers. She hoped she didn't look as jittery and discombobulated as she felt, but at least he didn't seem entirely relaxed either.

"It's nice to have dinner with someone who actually eats," Jack said, just after Donna had placed a deceptively large bite of sushi in her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand as she self-consciously chewed the tempura shrimp and spicy tuna roll for what felt like an eternity. She finally swallowed and set down her chopsticks, hoping she didn't have asparagus or wasabi in her teeth.

"You realize I'll never be able to eat normally in front of you now," she said.

"I meant it as a compliment," he said. "It's refreshing."

"Chipmunk cheeks are refreshing?"

"Yeah, I could have timed that comment better," he laughed.

"By the time I knew what I was in for, I had no choice but to see it through, you know? Have you ever tried to bite a piece of sushi in half? It's not pretty."

"Never had the need. But I have a big mouth."

"I get accused of that too," Donna laughed. "But they don't mean size."

Their eyes darted to each others' mouths, while both trying to appear like they weren't. Donna cleared her throat.

"Sushi really is terrible first date food, if you think about it. I mean, not that this is a date."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly sure," Donna said more casually than she felt, popping a few edamame beans in her mouth. Ugh, why did she mention the D-word at all?

"What criteria have to be met for you to consider something a date?" he asked.

"Hmm, let's see," Donna said. "Well driving separately is a point in the Not a Date column. But the fact that you're paying is a point in the Date column…"

"Which we haven't determined yet…"

"Oh, I've got it in the bag," she said, patting the phone that lay on the white linen tablecloth next to her plate. "But regardless of who pays, it really comes down to intentions."

"Good point," Jack said, leaning forward, a glint of wickedness in his eyes. "And what, may I ask, are your intentions with me, Ms. Gable?"

Donna leaned forward as well.

"To beat you at your own game," she said.

"Is that all?"

"For now."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"I brought my proof," Donna said, scrolling through her phone. "Of the ‘alleged' kiss. Are you prepared to admit defeat?"

"It depends entirely on the quality of your evidence," he said.

"Then read it and weep," Donna handed over the phone, which she'd opened to a screen-captured photo from the theater's blog. It showed Jack looking sheepishly at the camera while Donna and Trynn each kissed him on one of his cheeks.

" This was you too?" he asked.

"See? You never recognize me."

"It's not that I don't recognize you, it's that…never mind," he stopped himself. "Do you save everything?"

"Well, I had to hunt it down just for this purpose. But now I can keep it for my resume. Plus, I look really cute in this picture."

"Can't disagree there," he said, staring at the photo. "I do remember this. You're right about it being…electric."

"I think those sequins can really hold a charge," she laughed.

"So I wasn't the only poor schmuck you electrocuted that night?"

"Oh, I never shock and tell. Swipe left, there's another one."

Jack took in the photo of his hapless self being pulled between Donna and Trynn.

"Interesting metaphor," he said. "Almost prophetic."

When he handed the phone back to her, she noticed for the first time that Jack was leaning decidedly in her direction. Was it prophetic? Or was she simply stronger than waif-like Trynn?

They finished their sushi, talking easily about everything and nothing. Given the differences in their ages and educational attainment, she felt remarkably at ease around him.

When the waiter brought the check, Donna pushed it toward Jack with a triumphant smile.

"Thank you for dinner," she said. "You were a worthy opponent."

"Thank you for not gloating too much."

"I'm gloating on the inside," she said. "But, thanks to my many years in the theater, you'd never know it."

His smile was followed by a serious and thoughtful look that flashed across his face. Had he always been this readable?

"How often do you use your, er, professional training in your everyday life?" he asked.

"Probably less than you do," she teased.

"I'm honestly curious," he said. "When you spend so much time pretending to be other people, do you ever...forget who you are?"

"Not really," she said. "But I get what you're saying. Some of my theater friends can't not be in character. Basically everything they say is a line from a movie or a play. You can never tell if they're being real or trying a line on you."

"It's exhausting," he said, clearly from experience.

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "Every play you're in affects you—opens you up in some new way. But you have to stay grounded too. Come back to the real world now and then."

"I could do with a little less of the real world myself," he said.

"Yeah, your job is all real, all the time, isn't it?" she said, thoughtfully. "I can't even imagine what that would be like."

"It can be overwhelming," he said.

"Maybe that explains your thing for actresses," she said. "It's like, vicarious escapism, or something."

He choked on his drink of water.

"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat.

"What?" she asked.

"You just surprised me."

"Oh wait, maybe not," she said thoughtfully. "Dr. Balding said something about you not ‘doing' actresses anymore, which—don't worry—I didn't take literally."

His laughter erupted from his chest.

"What?" she asked.

"You are refreshingly direct," he said, leaning back, placing his napkin on the table, and looking at her with unmistakable admiration.

She tried to deflect.

"This is the second time you've called me refreshing. What am I, a beverage?"

He laughed.

"If you are, I think you might be the intoxicating kind."

It was kind of a cheesy line. But it didn't feel cheesy. She felt her cheeks heat up.

"Wow, doctor, you're making me blush."

"Please, it's just Jack," he said, lifting one corner of his mouth in a half-smile as he signed the receipt the waiter had brought back.

"Okay. Just Jack, are you flirting with me?"

"If you can't tell, I must be doing it wrong."

"And you accuse me of being direct?" she laughed, reaching for the tea light in the center of the table and twisting it so the patterned glass cast intricate shadows on the tablecloth.

He watched her thoughtfully.

"You don't play games, do you?" he finally asked.

"I don't," she said with a shrug. "What you see is what you get."

He laughed at that, and she realized the irony of what she'd just said.

"I mean, when I'm not in character, of course," she clarified.

"I like that about you."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"But you barely know me."

"I feel like—" he stopped himself.

"You feel like—" she prompted.

Donna felt a hesitant anticipation rising in her chest, not sure where he was going with this.

"How do I put this?" he finally said. "So, I've met all these different versions of you: pink-haired showgirl, dancing bridesmaid, clumsy college student with glasses, waitress in a Daphne costume, mom of a toddler who turned out to be his aunt. Did I miss any?"

"I think that's all of us," she laughed, leaning back in her chair and tilting her head in the dim light. "Except there was that one time I stood in line behind you at the hospital cafeteria."

"Was I buying an egg-salad sandwich?"

"Yes!"

"I remember that day…" he said as her eyes widened. "Just kidding. That's what I always get. It's the only thing that's reliably edible in that place. Why didn't you say hello?"

"Like you would have recognized me."

"See, that's exactly what I'm trying to get at. Every time I met a new, er, iteration of you, I would get the same impression. I don't know how to describe it. Something familiar, something like deja vu…"

"Because you had literally met me before," she said, brushing it off.

"No, that's not it," he said earnestly. "I know I'm not explaining it right. But I kept having these unusual reactions—"

"Like a rash?" she joked.

"I'm being serious," he said, finally finding the words. "Okay, so I thought I was feeling an instant connection to all these different women, right? But all this time, they all turned out to be one person. You."

"Me," Donna repeated quietly.

He nodded.

She held his gaze. His eyes wouldn't let her go. The world was silent around them. Utterly still. Too still. She looked around with a start. They were the only ones left in the restaurant.

"We better go," she said, gathering her purse and quickly rising to her feet.

He walked with her across the parking lot to where Kermit waited.

"Thanks for dinner," she said, the weight of what he'd said hanging between them. She was still trying to absorb it.

"Me too," he said.

Not wanting to appear like she was expecting anything else from him, Donna fumbled the key in the lock. No luck.

"Okay, let's just turn around and pretend we don't care whether he lets me in or not," Donna said. "Works every time."

"Sally's still for sale."

"Shhh, Kermit can hear you."

She leaned back against the car, and he positioned himself next to her.

"Did I make you uncomfortable in there?"

"Oh no, not at all," she smiled sideways at him. "It's just, as a waitress, I always hate it when people linger forever after I've been on my feet all day and I just want to go home. I suddenly realized we were the only ones in there."

"I didn't notice either."

"Shoot! I should have left an extra tip to make up for it," she smacked her forehead.

"I got it covered. I come from a long line of over-tippers."

"Yes, I think I know this about you," she said, thinking back to the $50 he left her at the In Character Cafe. She didn't read anything into it back then, given her assumption that he was still married. But in hindsight, he was obviously trying to signal his interest, even back then. And if she were ready to be honest with herself, she'd admit that she'd also felt that instant connection he was describing, every single time. But it had never been a real possibility. Until now.

"You sure can tell a lot about someone by the way they treat service workers," she said, reaching for a safe topic.

"Absolutely," he said emphatically.

"Do you know from personal experience?"

"Oh yes," he said. "I've valeted cars. I worked at a bagel shop in high school. And I cleaned hospitals when I was an undergrad."

"And look at you now," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. "A full-fledged doctor."

"Half-fledged," he corrected.

"How old are you?" she blurted out.

Jack burst out laughing.

"I mean, I just realized. You don't seem old. But you've been in school forever, so you'd have to be…what? At least 30?" she said.

"Ouch!" he said. "I'm twenty-seven. And a half."

He angled toward her, still leaning against Kermit. Donna angled too.

"That's pretty young to be a resident, isn't it?"

"My birthday's in August, so I graduated from high school at 17. Then I finished my undergrad in 3 years."

"So you started med school when you were…"

"Just barely 21."

"And how old were you when you got married?"

"Twenty-four. The summer before my last year of med school."

"And divorced?"

He paused. Not a pleasant topic.

"Two years later. I was 26."

Donna wanted to ask what happened. But she didn't.

"That sucks," she said.

He shrugged.

"Since we're getting personal," he said. "How old are you?"

"Just turned 23," she said. "Three days ago."

"Happy birthday," he said slowly and seriously. He was looking at her intently, mesmerizing her with his tractor-beam eyes.

"Thank you."

She didn't break eye contact.

"Can I kiss you?"

Donna's eyes widened and she felt a melting sensation behind her ribs.

"Yes?"

"Is that a question?" he asked, leaning closer.

"No!" she shook her head and bit her lip as his face descended in excruciatingly slow motion. "I mean, no it's not a question. Yes, you can—"

His lips caught hers, and he slipped his left arm around her back and pulled her close.

Donna had never been kissed like this. So expertly. So thoroughly.

His right hand reached up to caress her neck, his thumb brushing along her jawline and coming to rest against her pulse.

Wait, was he measuring her heart rate?

She laughed against his mouth.

"What?" he asked with a grin.

"Am I having heart palpitations, doc?"

"Well, your heart is racing," he said. "Might need to get it checked out."

"I think I know the cause," she said.

She lifted two fingers to his neck, searching for his pulse, but not practiced enough to know exactly where to look.

"Here," he said, taking her hand and guiding it across his stubbly skin until she could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against her fingers. It was thrilling to feel the evidence of her effect on him.

"Uh-oh," she said. "I think it's contagious."

"I think so too," he said, a deeper timbre to his voice than she'd heard before.

She pressed her mouth against his again. But loud voices behind her startled her, and she broke away self-consciously.

It was the restaurant staff, emerging through the side door, speaking rapidly in Japanese and laughing. Hopefully not at what they had just witnessed.

She turned away from the interlopers and leaned back against the car again, shoulder to shoulder with Jack, catching his fingers in hers.

She glanced up sideways at him and they shared an amused glance at being caught kissing in a parking lot like teenagers.

"You are so. Damn. Cute."

He kissed one dimple. And then the other. Then he checked his watch and groaned.

"I'm on shift tonight," he said. "When can I see you again?"

"You have my number."

She turned to try her key in the lock again, her hands trembling. What was the big deal? It was just a kiss. She enthusiastically kissed Mychal on stage every night for weeks and experienced nary a tremor.

Despite her bumbling, Kermit let her right in, apparently satisfied that his matchmaking had yielded the desired result.

Jack shut her door for her and waited until she had started her engine and backed out of her space before climbing into his car. She waved one more time over her shoulder as she pulled out of the parking lot, certain she could still feel his eyes on her.

And Donna drove her cute self home.

Cute. That was the word he used. Not beautiful. Not sexy. Just cute.

The kind of thing you'd say about a little sister or a puppy.

But then again, if that's how he thought of her, he wouldn't have kissed her like that.

Donna woke up the next morning to a text from Jack. He'd sent it at 6 in the morning, right about when his shift ended. Just seeing his name pop up on her phone so soon sent her heart rate skyrocketing.

"That's the most fun I've ever had losing a bet," he'd sent.

"Happy to beat you anytime," she replied, not expecting an immediate response, since he was probably sleeping. But she was wrong.

"You can choose our next wager," he said.

"How are you still awake after working all night?"

"I dozed off for a minute, but the adrenaline is keeping me up."

"From your shift?"

"And the events immediately preceding."

"Nice vocabulary, Doc."

"You're one to talk, Ms. Vicarious Escapism."

"Hit the nail on the head, though, didn't I?"

"I'm still trying to decide."

"That means I did!"

"I think you're trying to change the subject."

"From?"

"From the events immediately preceding."

"You mean the kiss."

"Yes."

"Maybe I was."

"Why?"

"It feels safer, somehow."

"Safer than…?"

She wasn't sure how to answer. There was an intensity to Jack that she wasn't used to. Their interactions always felt supercharged. She'd assumed it was due to an age gap, but he wasn't as much older than her as she'd initially thought. Just four and a half years.

"Safer than what you're actually saying, I guess."

"How's your heart rate now?" he texted.

"Galloping," she admitted.

"Mine too."

In the cold light of day, no longer intoxicated by sushi and tea lights, she wanted to ask him why. What he saw in her. It made sense that he would affect her in this way. He was a gorgeous, capable, relatable, funny, mature, brilliant older man who saved lives for a living. But why would someone like that take Donna Gable seriously? She wasn't beautiful as his former wife, or as thin, or as successful. And he must have said something disparaging about actresses to Dr. Balding at some point. She was just a silly blonde cliche. He was…adult. Serious.

"But why?" she texted.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Lol, no it's not."

"I'm afraid if I tried to put it into words, I'd scare you off. Again."

"You didn't scare me last time," she lied.

"Okay then, here goes," he texted.

Then the three little dots appeared on her screen, undulating, intriguing, teasing.

Was he doing this on purpose?

He had to be.

She pictured him grinning mischievously on the other end of the phone.

She finally texted him a single question mark.

He responded with: "I'm drawn to you."

Whoa.

That sent her heart hammering.

"But I don't really think I'm your type," she replied.

"And what evidence are you using to come to that conclusion?"

Your ex-wife, she thought. Your profession. Your physical superiority.

When she didn't respond right away, he texted again: "You literally had your fingers on my pulse last night. What did that tell you?"

Double whoa.

Donna felt increasingly out of her depth. A little bit exposed, somehow, and a whole lot vulnerable.

She realized with a jolt that every boy she'd ever dated—and they all felt like boys—she had hand-picked precisely because they felt safe and non-threatening. This felt like something else entirely.

"I see what you mean," she finally responded.

"That's why I didn't believe you about the kiss. I would have remembered."

"And yet I was telling the truth."

"Sort of."

By the time Jack asked when he could see her again, Donna was riding high. Flirting had never been so thrilling, never felt so amped up. And she was definitely looking forward to a repeat of last night.

Unfortunately, between his 60-hours-per-week work schedule, her day job, and her evening rehearsals, they couldn't find more than an hour of overlap for at least 10 days.

"I could come opening night," he texted.

"Will you be able to stay awake?"

"That depends on how riveting your performance is."

"Well I won't make any guarantees. I don't usually like people I know coming opening night. I'd rather work out my jitters in front of strangers."

"As you said, we barely know each other."

"And you are pretty strange…"

"That settles it. I'm buying a ticket for opening night. And I'll take you out after. I could use a little more of that vicarious escapism."

"Okay, fine," she texted. "I'll be the one on the stage, down front. Floral dress and glasses at the beginning, pregnant by the end. Super convincing Southern accent. You'll know which one is me because I have the very first line."

"I think I'll recognize you."

"With your track record, I didn't want to take any chances."

"Can you give me a secret signal from the stage, just in case?"

"Okay, in the first scene, you'll hear me say ‘Excuse me. Should I call a doctor or something?' Consider that my secret message just for you."