Ian escorts my mother around the zoo for two hours, and I dawdle behind them in part because I don’t mind staring at Ian’s fine ass but mostly because I’m trying to gather my wits and figure out what his angle is.
Ian takes us to lunch at the Boathouse, a restaurant in the middle of the park. I don’t want to go because it’s far too expensive, but he insists and my mother looks elated. He begins flirting outrageously with my mother from the moment we are seated.
“Medical transcriptionist? You must have the best stories,” he declares.
My mother coos, “Hair-raising tales, but unfortunately none that I can share. Confidentiality, you know.”
“Your daughter must have all your best features. Bright, funny, gorgeous.” He leans toward her and spreads the napkin on her lap. “Did she go to school here in the city?”
“Mostly, although there were a few years we lived in Queens.” The Malcolm and Mitch Hedder years. “But Tiny is a born and bred Manhattanite. I don’t think you could get her over the river now, even for all the money in Jersey.”
“Tiny’s such an interesting name for Victoria.” He butters bread for her and then moves a water glass closer to her hand. Every action of his is focused on ensuring both she and I have everything we need even before we think of it.
“Didn’t Tiny tell you how she got her nickname?” Mom shakes her head as if I’ve engaged in some outrageous behavior. “She can be so closed mouth about herself.”
“Tell me about it,” groans Ian. “I feel like I’m always doing the talking. She’s more mysterious than the Sphinx.”
He’s so infuriating yet so smooth I can’t help but be impressed. Watching the volley of words back and forth would be extremely entertaining if the topic wasn’t me.
“Well, she was the tiniest baby. A thirty-three week preemie. So small that I started calling her Tiny from the very beginning. It’s almost more her name than Victoria.”
“Victoria is a lovely name.” Ian pats her hand, and she flushes with pleasure under his approving gaze. Incredible. I shake my head when he gives me a surreptitious wink.
The entire lunch continues in this vein, with Ian anticipating every want of my mother’s, sliding me mischievous grins whenever my mother reveals something about me that he finds particularly interesting, and charming the pants off my mom, the wait staff, and anyone within a ten foot radius of our table.
“How will you be getting home, ladies?” he asks as we finish our dessert.
“Bus,” I say.
“I suspected as much.” He stands and pulls out my mother’s chair. Holding out his elbow for her to take, he heads toward the door, stopping only to sign a slip of paper discreetly slid to him as he exits.
“Did you pay?”
“I did.” He holds open the door and motions for both of us to exit. “Dining and dashing isn’t considered good society anymore.”
My mother smothers a giggle at this. “What my daughter means to say is thank you very much.”
“Yes,” I agree, chastised a bit. “Lunch was very nice. It was good to see you again, Ian, but we should be going.”
My mother’s energy is waning. I can see it in the slowness of her walk and the way her brow is slightly furrowed. I consider splurging on a taxi given that I have a little extra money because I didn’t buy lunch.
“Please, allow me to see you home.” He tucks my mother’s hand in the crook of his right arm and then gathers my stiff, wooden frame with his left. “Perfect day. Two gorgeous women on my arms. Best Saturday ever.”
I want to say something bitingly clever, although I don’t know what it would be. My brain cells are shorting out because I can feel his warm hand gripping my waist through the thin T-shirt I’m wearing. Despite the cool temperatures under the canopy of leaves, I feel as if I’m in danger of overheating. Plus my right arm is awkwardly mashed against my side between his body and mine. It would be so much easier if I allowed myself to drop my arm behind his back and grip his shirt.
Never once in my twenty-five years do I remember walking in the park with my man and my mom. This is something I hadn’t even fantasized about before because I never imagined it would feel so good, but there’s a sense of rightness to this setup. A belonging that I've never felt before. Not only do I feel cared for, but the gentle concern Ian showed to my mother all morning and throughout lunch made me feel like she was cared for too.
By the time we reach 5th Avenue and East 72nd street, I notice my hand has crept behind Ian’s back. It’s resting on the top of the waistband of his jeans, the henley he is wearing providing the only real barrier between his naked flesh and my questing hand.