Malena Lott - Dating da Vinci

“HOW'S DA VINCI?” MY sister asked as she stroked green eye shadow on Zoe's little lids the following Saturday. A dozen little girls and their pageant moms filled the brightly lit room a half-hour before the pageant was to begin.

“Da Vinci is…” I rolled the thought around, but wasn't sure what to say. One minute, da Vinci was the best thing that ever happened to me After, and the next… well, I wondered what the hell I was doing with him. I worried he was getting too serious and that I was incapable of being serious with anyone. I worried that my quest for fun had resulted in more than I'd bargained for. I worried my boys liked him even more than I did. I worried most of all that after so many months of not having anyone else in my life, my world was complicated by Cortland, Monica, and da Vinci, and I'd brought it all on myself.

Rachel peered into my eyes. “Earth to Ramona. The boys told me he sleeps in the house now. So this means you're moving on, right?”

I hadn't wanted the boys to know, but keeping it a secret and keeping da Vinci in the backyard like some sort of sex slave-as he'd put it-wasn't what I wanted, either. I'd taken Joel's clothes down from the closet, lovingly folded them, and put them away in a box. I wasn't ready to donate them by any means, but it was a start. Seeing a bare spot in the closet where his clothes had been made me feel strangely calm. I wouldn't have to look at things that he would never wear again.

Next I had cleaned out Joel's bathroom drawer, full of all the products that had kept him so put together: his hair gel, whitening toothpaste, the aftershave that turned me on with one whiff. I placed the aftershave in my own drawer and threw the rest into the trash. I doubted even Judith would want his cleaning products, but I wasn't about to ask, for fear she would reprimand me for tossing them out.

The act was liberating. I wasn't sure if my cleaning binge was because I was truly progressing or if it was a by-product of my nerves.

“Da Vinci is wonderful. I think he's acclimating well to American life.”

“ So not what I meant,” Rachel said, shaking her pinpoint straight hair. “I just want to know how you're acclimating together. Is this love or what?”

Da Vinci had told me he loved me again, this time as we were falling asleep, my back against his bare chest. (So much for my arm's length policy.) He had kissed my shoulder and said it clearly. In English. I pretended not to hear, and though many days I had wondered if a man would ever tell me he loved me again, I felt no urge to say it back. As a linguist, I am careful with word choice-sometimes too careful. I tend to want to correct people when they've said one thing, but really mean another. I had no way of knowing if da Vinci meant what he said, but as a woman with a broken heart, I am even more careful that my words don't come back to haunt me. If pressed, I would feel comfortable with the following:

I really, really, really like you.

I love making love to you.

I am extremely fond of you.

I adore you.

I care for you.

The sum of all of the above could equal love, but something didn't add up. I was just shy of being in love, but had no idea why. I knew I needed to tell da Vinci we should slow down, that I wasn't ready for anything serious, but I was afraid he wouldn't understand or that it would hurt his feelings unnecessarily. Just days before, I was certain he would dump me for a sorority girl. He was making such progress, and so was I. Why cause drama? Besides, he made me feel good again. That's what I'd wanted, wasn't it? La vita allegra. Joyful living, not drama. Not heartache.

Rachel had opened the door, so I took it. “And you and Cortland? What's the latest there?”

She only shrugged her shoulders and continued to pin Zoe's hair, causing her to flinch. Zoe's face reminded me of the sad blank eyes of a puppy in a dog pound, caged and hopeless.

“Well, I really like him,” I told her.

“I guess,” Rachel said. “What's not to like, right?”

I wanted to tell her that I'd really meant I like liked him, but then, I had only just admitted this to myself. I had romantic feelings for my sister's boyfriend. The kiss had been real and made me feel something I hadn't felt with da Vinci. If da Vinci was the fantasy, then Cortland was the reality. Not that I wanted something real. Real was scary. Real was heartbreaking. Real would cause me to become a Normal again, only to get my heart broken again after Cortland moved on to his next socialite. I had to confess about the kiss. Sisters should be honest, and I wanted to beat Cortland to the confession.

“Something happened the other day with Cortland,” I said tentatively, but my sister was in pageant zone.

“Zoe, I swear to God,” Rachel said, as Zoe dipped her chin down instead of holding it up like a mannequin so her mom could finish sticking, poufing, and spraying her hair.

I was frustrated enough to not give a damn how my sister took it. My anger had been building like a roller coaster charging up a hill, and I'd finally reached the crest. “How come you never listen to me? And aren't you tired of torturing Zoe? Can't you see she hates it?”

Rachel batted her long lashes at me and stared at her daughter, whose hair was now teased eight inches from her tiny head. “What do you mean? Zoe doesn't hate pageants. She just hasn't reached her full potential in them yet.”

“Zoe?” I asked. “It's okay to tell the truth. She's your mother. She'll love you no matter what.”

Poor Zoe shook her sparkly shoes and took a deep breath. “I hate pageants, Mommy. I hate them more than cleaning my room or picking up Princess's dog poop in the backyard.”

“Oh, you don't mean that,” Rachel said, shaking a comb at her daughter before turning to address me. “She doesn't mean that. She's just nervous is all.”

Zoe stood on her chair so she was face-to-face with her mother. She raised her little arms and screamed so hard, her little face brightened like a stoplight. “ I hate pageants! ” The moms in the rooms stopped coiffing their daughters and stared at Zoe as if she had cursed, but the girls began to giggle.

“Stop that right now,” Rachel said, grabbing her daughter. “Don't embarrass Mommy. Do you see what you've done, Ramona?”

“In your motivational speeches, do you not promote girls and women not trying to fit into the mold of what society or others think of them?”

“Absolutely! The women eat it up.”

“Well, if you mean that, then you wouldn't make Zoe do pageants.”

Zoe jumped into my arms and rubbed her face in my neck, smearing makeup all over my white shirt. “Look, if Zoe can't stand up for herself, someone's got to do it for her.”

Rachel forced a smile at the other moms and began gathering up her things. “Well, if you meant to humiliate me, congratulations. Pulling Zoe out at this late stage will make me look bad. Is that what you want? Zoe, you don't want to make Mommy look bad, do you? Look at Mommy's sad face.”

“Don't manipulate her like that. You're going to give her a worse complex than Mom has given us.”

“She hasn't given me a complex.”

“Only because you do exactly what she wants you to do.”

“Church? Big deal.”

“Dating Cortland.”

“Completely my decision. He's a doctor. And handsome.”

“Remember when you were in third grade and you wanted to play soccer, and Mom said it was only for boys, even though there were two other girls on the team? She made you take baton lessons instead.”

Rachel stuffed the curling iron in the bag, burning herself in the process. “Shit. Fine. I remember. Mom wouldn't let me play soccer, I hated baton lessons, I was the fattest girl on the squad and she wouldn't let me eat cookies after practice like the other moms did.”