Odd Mom Out

I want his skin against my skin.

I want.

And like that, I’m dizzy and breathless, and the desire I feel is a very grown-up desire, one that doesn’t need small talk or a timid, tentative touch. No, this desire says, I’m all woman and I need a grown-up man.

We head to Kirkland for dinner, but our reservation at 21 Central isn’t until seven-thirty, which gives us time to wander through the downtown art galleries.

It’s a perfect night for wandering around downtown Kirkland, a city that always reminds me of Laguna Beach dropped at Lake Tahoe. We stop in at all of the galleries but save my favorite, the Patricia Rovzar, for last because it’s just across from the restaurant.

Nothing grabs my eye tonight, but the gallery owner greets me warmly and offers us a glass of wine. “It’s a Willamette Valley red,” she says, referring to the Oregon wine region south.

Luke and I pass on the wine. I haven’t eaten anything since morning and don’t want to drink on an empty stomach, and Luke says he prefers a good amber beer over wine.

We stand in front of a huge murky canvas that neither of us pays attention to.

“I know nothing about you, other than the obvious,” I tell him, sliding one hand into my pocket.

His eyes have that flicker of heat again. “What’s the obvious?”

“You’re tall.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he answers, and when I say nothing more he adds, “That’s it?”

I smile crookedly, face flushing. “You want more?”

His upper lip barely lifts. “Sure.”

I stare at that upper lip that snakes ever so slightly. What a talented mouth to do things to me without even touching mine. I push my hand deeper into my pocket. “You’re . . . attractive.”

“Ah.”

Heat surges through me. “You’re confident.”

“Think so?”

“Yeah.” I grow hotter. “You said at Back-to-School Night that you’re not married, you have no kids, and you sponsor a Little Brother.”

“You remembered.”

“That wasn’t very much to remember.” I look at him sideways. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind, and I’m thirty-eight. I came close to marriage once, about four years ago, but in the end, it didn’t work.”

“Why?”

“She lived in Charleston, and I live here.”

“You wouldn’t move.”

“My work wouldn’t let me move.”

“What do you do?” I ask.

“Management,” he answers, “sales.”

“And she wouldn’t move here?” I ask, thinking of the huge move I made to Seattle to further my career.

He shrugs. “She grew up close to her family and didn’t want to raise children so far from them.”

I nod. It makes sense in a terribly realistic sort of way.

“And your husband?” Luke asks, neatly turning the focus on me, and his blue eyes hold mine. “Where is he?”

I steel myself inwardly. “There never was one.”

“You two—”

“There was no two,” I interrupt. “Eva’s never known a father. I had her, made her, on my own. I used an anonymous sperm donor.”

Luke’s surprised. I can see it in his expression. But even I’m surprised that I was so blunt with him. Usually I dance around the subject, but for some reason I don’t want to dance around it with him. I am who I am. I like who I am. I’m not going to apologize.

“That took guts,” he says after a moment.

My shoulders lift and fall. “I wanted to be a mom. I knew I’d be a good mother.”

“But you weren’t interested in being a wife?”

“I’m not planning on getting married, no.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t see it in the cards.”

He looks increasingly perplexed. “You don’t like men?”

I smile as heat surges to my cheeks, making my face too warm. He’s so rugged and so beautiful. Even women who like women would like this man. “I’m straight, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s more the whole marriage thing that I have a problem with.”

“Why?” he demands bluntly.

Again I shrug. “I just don’t think marriage works. Love doesn’t last—”

“Yet you love your daughter.”

“With all my heart.”

“But you don’t think you can love a man that way?”

My breath catches and my eyes sting, and I turn to face the huge dark murky canvas behind me. His question felt like a sucker punch. It caught me by surprise, and it hurt.

I don’t quite know how to answer him, as it’s not that I don’t think I can love a man that way.

It’s that I don’t think a man can love a woman that way.

And I don’t think a man can love me that way.

I believe women fall in love and begin relationships with great hope and expectations, but then we somehow go wrong. Women end up giving too much, yielding and bending and compromising until we’re worn out, worn down. My mother spent much of her life trying to please my father. As a child and teenager, I did everything I could to get my father’s approval. A decade ago, I wanted nothing more than to make Scott happy.

But for what purpose? And to what end?

Why did my father get to dictate the mood and tone of our home? Why was he the king? The ruler? The head of state?

Why was it so important to me to make sure Scott was always happy, and happy with me?

Truthfully, it was a relief when Scott went back to his wife and children. It freed me. It allowed me to bury my last lingering illusions of romantic love and move on to mature love. Maternal love.

“I think lots of people get married for the wrong reasons,” I say at last. “They get married because they hear a biological clock ticking or they want someone’s financial support or they need love, crave acceptance.”

Luke gazes down at me, his lips curving faintly, mockingly. “And you don’t?”

I think for a moment, then shake my head. “No.”

He studies me now. I can feel his gaze search my face, lingering on my eyes and lips. “So you believe in living with a man, just not marrying him?”

“I’m not against marriage, and I’m not about to tell someone to live, or not live, with their partner. I’m just not planning on having a . . . partner.” I stumble over the last few words even as an uncomfortable heat rushes through me. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this topic. I don’t talk about this with anyone, much less sexy single men.

A small muscle pulls between Luke’s brows. “And how do men you date handle this? They’re okay with it?”

My mouth opens, shuts. I struggle to think of an appropriate answer, one that won’t scare either of us. “I don’t date.”

“Don’t as in . . .?”

“Ever.” I shove my hands deeper into my jeans pockets, shoulders rising higher. “You’re the first date in . . . um . . .” I swallow. “Since Eva was born.”

He stares down at me, his expression part perplexed, part sardonic. “So why are you here with me tonight?”

I meet his gaze levelly, smile bravely back. “I honestly don’t know.” And dang it, it’s the blasted truth.

Leaving the art gallery, we cross Central and get seated in the dim restaurant with the dark wood-paneled walls with the faux leopard fabric on the booths. We both order beers, appetizers, and entrées.

When the appetizers arrive, I eagerly sample one of the crab-and-lobster wontons. “I love food,” I say half-apologetically when I realize Luke’s watching me, suddenly feeling defensive.

“So do I,” he counters.

“But you’re a man, and big. You’re expected to eat.”

“That sounds rather sexist.”

“I think men like women slim.”

“Men do, or women say men do?”

The corners of my mouth twitch. He’s smart, very smart, and he?

?s not who I thought he was. He’s more. “Where did you go to school?” I ask.

“Harvard.”

Harvard. Right. “And what did you study?”

“My area was primarily business, government, and international economy.”

I want to believe him, but it’s almost too good to be true. He’s built like a Turbo Power Ranger and has a Harvard brain?

He must be able to read my mind, because he lifts his beer in a mock salute. “Would you feel better if I told you that I earned a football and basketball scholarship and that’s how I got in?” The soft light from our little shaded wall sconce reflects off Luke’s beer and the hard glint in his eye.

“No. The first time I saw you, you were running and you looked like an athlete, and I liked that about you.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just sips his beer and looks at me.

I just look right back, too.

He’s so different from what I expected, so much more interesting, so much more complex.