so how the HELL did you get it so exactly right?
The bit about the song, that one song? “Found Out About You,” Gin Blossoms. Lisa and I danced to it on our first date in a dive bar, and after that it was ubiquitous throughout our life together, playing on a Bluetooth speaker on the balcony rail that one hot night when the A/C went out and we had slow sticky sex on a blanket in the backyard, and in the car on the way to the O/B where we found she’d miscarried, and yes, on the radio in the bathroom of the restaurant literally moments before my phone rang with the news of her death.
So fuck that song.
Because it’s still a good song.
I close the book and check the time: 5:58.
Gerbera daisies and chicken parmesan and not Frank Sinatra. How much is actually her, though? Nadia. She loves red wine the way his book said. And, actually, every detail about Nadia in the book is true of Nadia.
I check my reflection one last time, as if it’s going to change. I’ve trimmed my beard so it’s not as bushy, combed my hair so it’s not as shaggy. My best jeans, cleanest Caterpillar boots, and the green-and-blue checked flannel with the pearl snap buttons, which Lisa always went nuts for.
It’s just a shirt. And I look good in it. It’s not a betrayal of Lisa to wear that shirt for a different woman.
It’s not.
Am I asking myself, or telling myself? I’m not sure.
Instead of cologne, I use the trick Lisa invented for me: I shave little curls off of a piece of fresh cedar, and tuck those shavings into the breast pockets of the shirt, which I then button closed. Boom—fresh cedar scent, without the oils.
Clean hands, clean fingernails. Fresh breath.
It’s been forever since I’ve done this, and my hands are a little trembly, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, if I’m missing something.
It’s 6:02, and I head outside.
I wish I had time to run into town and buy some daisies to give to her. And then I wonder if that would be too forward, too much too soon, giving her flowers.
I spin my truck keys around my middle finger, waiting for her.
She comes out a few minutes later. My breath catches. A deep blue shirt-dress down to her thighs, with a wide brown leather belt around her waist, her long tan legs bare between the hem and knee-high boots a similar shade of brown as her belt. The shirt-dress has several buttons plunging down her chest, and she’s left most of them unbuttoned. Is she wearing makeup? I can’t tell. Which means if she is, it’s skillfully enough applied that I’m not supposed to know. Her eyes look bright green, more emerald than jade today. Her lips are plump and red.
“You look…” I hunt for an appropriate but accurate word, and settle for lame but true. “Beautiful.”
She grins, teasing. “You had to think about that one, Nathan.”
“Only because there’s a lot of words I could use.” I smile at her. “Gorgeous. Breathtaking. Stunning.”
She blushes, ducks her head. “Thanks.” Her head lifts, and her eyes flick over my shoulders, my hair. “You look great, too. I really like that shirt.”
“Thanks.” I slap my hand awkwardly on my thigh. “Well, shall we?”
“Sure. I’ll follow you.”
I hesitate. “You sure you don’t want to change your mind about driving separate? I’m fine either way.”
She makes a face. “Yeah, I’d just be more comfortable this way.”
“Okay. Well, it’s not far, and not hard to find. We’re just heading out right on the highway at the end of the drive, and then left at the next intersection, maybe five miles south, and the restaurant is on the right another few miles from there.”
She frowns but laughs. “I’ll follow you. Just don’t lose me.”
I eye her sporty little red convertible. “I don’t think we need to worry about that, with you driving that.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m no speed demon. Adrian hated riding with me because I always drive obsessively at exactly the speed limit.”
“Lisa hated riding with me for the opposite reason—I’m a five over at minimum kind of guy.”
A moment of silence as we each realize we’ve just referenced our dead spouses moments before leaving on a date…
But it’s not a date, because we’re driving separately, and I anticipate her fighting me on the bill.
She sighs. “Okay well that was a conversation killer.”
“It’s fine. How about we have a rule that