Malena Lott - Dating da Vinci

Panchal was a small man, 5'5” in his black dress shoes, tiny frames around his large brown eyes, silvery black hair around his outturned ears. He sat in an oversized, elevated office chair with a wooden box on which to rest his feet. We made small talk about his daughter and how well his son-in-law fit into his family when Panchal cut to the chase. “We hab a bery big brobleb,” which, after ten years of working for him, I could clearly understand as, “We have a very big problem.”

I began sweating and removed my jacket. “I don't know what to say,” I said full of shame. Panchal had been a mentor to me, urging me to get my PhD and supporting me through my loss. Disappointing Panchal was worse than disappointing my parents.

Panchal shrugged. “Well, it's not your fault, is it?”

“I suppose not. Not exactly. Still.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You can't help that Leonardo is Leonardo any more than I can.”

“Right. And?”

“We must correct the bad behavior.” Panchal came around the front of the desk and sat on the corner.

I began to think of all the bad things I'd done with da Vinci in the last month. Panchal knowing about even one of them would be devastating. Correcting the bad behavior would mean giving up da Vinci, breaking things off with him.

Panchal waved his hands in the air. “Tardiness. Absenteeism. Total disrespect for the Panchal Way of Immersion.”

That bad behavior? Not the sleeping-with-the-teacher kind of bad behavior? The Way of Immersion was Panchal's method for smooth integration. While every immigrant is expected to struggle, Panchal's “way” should work if only they followed the rules. Panchal continued: “I expected him to be different. It is his birthright, see? I expected him to make his own path, but something has happened to him in the last month. Something big. Would you know what this is?”

I nearly blurted the first thing that came to mind: da Vinci was my lover. But that was the biggest thing that had happened to me in the last thirty days, not da Vinci. No, he likely had bigger worries, like making his grades and learning English and finding his way in a new country. But Panchal knew all of this. All immigrants dealt with these dilemmas. It was something else. “He joined a fraternity,” I said, wiping the sweat on my brow with the back of my hand.

Panchal crossed his arms. “American fraternities can be hard for Americans, let alone someone like da Vinci. Frat houses are not a part of Panchal immersion.”

“Yes, sir. But they offered him free tutoring and a nice gym.”

“And beer and girls,” he added in disgust. “I can see the lure, Ramona. But I thought da Vinci was smarter than that. Perhaps he is just big, dumb jock after all?”

I vacillated between wanting to defend da Vinci and agreeing with Panchal. Da Vinci had started spending more and more time at the frat house and on campus, partying four or five nights out of the week and crashing at the frat house half the time instead of our new bed. I missed him, but what choice did I have? I knew I would lose him if I pushed him too hard.

“You have a special relationship,” Panchal said. “You can talk some sense into him. He must be on time and finish every job he is assigned. He must not miss English class. Is this understood?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Panchal put his hand gently on my shoulder. “And Ramona? Be careful. Your heart is still tender.”

Long exhale. He knew. Of course he knew, and he cared too much about me to stand in the way of my happiness. I could see it there-the light at the end of the tunnel-when I would feel la vita allegra, but I had never expected I would stumble so much on my journey. Joel, da Vinci, Monica, Cortland.

Panchal was right. My heart was still bruised, and there was only one way to avoid further heartbreak: institute the arm's length policy. “Arm's length!” I would yell at the boys when they picked on each other. If I kept everyone at arm's length, not only would they not be able to reach my lips, but they'd be at a safe distance from my heart, too.

“What are you doing here?” I said as I entered the Starbucks Tuesday morning, my vocal cords tightening. I froze in place. Cortland sat in the corner booth where we had sat together two weeks prior. He was unshaven and wild eyed. He didn't look or act himself.

Cortland stood and grabbed my arms. “You haven't called me.”

I shook loose of him, remembering my arm's length policy. He was already breaking it, and his touch felt like lightning on my skin. “I said it would be a few days.”

Sadness and longing flickered in his eyes. “My God. You look beautiful.”

I hadn't dolled up for him, but her. I had gotten up early to look good for Monica, and fortunately, neither of my boys threw up that morning to foil our meeting, but instead I found something even worse. I had thought about calling Cortland a hundred times since Saturday night, but I had stopped short of it, because what good would it do? Avoiding the issue seemed a far smarter way to go. If only there weren't another human being on the other end of it.

“Please don't,” I said, looking behind him to see if Monica had arrived. I could see he was hurting, and it made pretending it didn't happen all the harder. “I'm meeting Monica here. I guess you remembered that.”

He shoved hands in his jacket pocket. “I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have come, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. I haven't felt this way in… in a long time. Maybe ever.”

I cocked my head, trying to brush off the weight of his words. Arm's length, Ramona! “ You're forgetting one key fact: you're with my sister. You were with her all weekend, were you not? Didn't you have a dinner date at Monica's last night?”

“I couldn't cancel. But things aren't serious with Rachel. We haven't even been together yet.”

I leaned in. “In case you've forgotten, you keyed her. What are you going to do, put a lock on your bedroom door to keep her out?”

Cortland stiffened. “So you're telling me things are that serious between you and da Vinci? Just say the word and I'll back off. But I have to know. It's driving me crazy.”

Through the window, I could see Monica emerge from her red Mercedes, wearing a crisp red suit, different than the first one I'd seen her in that day at school. A power suit. The color of love. A suit that said, Stop! Pay attention to me! I'm important. “ I'm sorry, Cortland. I can't do this.”

He bit his lip and nodded slowly. “Thanks for clearing that up.” He turned to leave, and I could feel my bruised heart beating within me, aching, yearning, begging me to go after him and plan a grown-up kind of talk in a private place. This was crazy. It was all crazy, the whole lot of it. I had to be careful, just as Panchal had said. I wasn't thinking rationally. My heart had made me do some stupid things in the last month. In my effort to find joy and adventure, I had inadvertently opened the dam. But I had Monica to deal with. I had to resolve my past before I could think about my future.

Monica shook hands with Cortland on her way in, and I surveyed my outfit, black dress pants and a fitted black sweater, wishing I had the confidence to wear a color- any color-other than black. I was still dressed in mourning gear.

“Your sister is amazing,” Monica said as we wrapped our hands around our steaming cups minutes later. I had figured Monica as the no-fat latte kind of girl, but she surprised me. Like me, her favorite was the café mocha.

“Chocolate fiend,” she said, flashing a white smile at me. Where were the coffee stains?

“Me, too,” I confessed.

“Joel used to say we were like a Reese's cup-him with the peanut butter and me with the chocolate.”