UnConventional Read online

  “You okay?” he asks with genuine concern.

  “What? Oh. I’m just used to more than one cup of coffee, and someone kept me too distracted during the brunch to fight the hordes for one.”

  He laughs, eyes sparkling. “Wow, sounds like a rude person to keep you from your caffeine. Let me make it up to you. I’ll be right back.” My eyebrows furrow. “I can get coffee,” he says, eyes wide, bemused, but keeping his smile.

  “What? Oh! No. It’s just…I’m usually the gofer.”

  He nods. His cheek tilts up a bit more on one side as he studies me. It’s almost uncomfortable, and it brings out my blush. “Wait.” He puts two fingers to his temple, closes his eyes. “Don’t tell me… Milk, two sugars.”

  “So you’re psychic too?”

  He laughs. “A regular Professor X. Even if my chair doesn’t hover.”

  I roll my eyes. “You are a dork.” That’s when I realize his name tag says Diego Durán. I’ll have to ask him about that. “How do you know I don’t like it black?”

  “It’s unlikely you’d like café au lait if you did.” He starts to pull away, then pauses, shifts, turns just enough to face me. “Save my seat,” he says with a wink.

  I watch the movement of his shoulders for a moment as he pushes toward the opposite side of the room until I hear someone else sink into the seat beside me.

  “Gone.”

  “What?” I spin around to see Melanie, seated next to me, leaning on the table, head resting on her hand, grinning.

  “You. You’re totally smitten. There’s a puddle of drool on the tabletop.”

  I look down reflexively before I can stop myself. I frown, shake my head, then find my gaze drifting back to Santiago, who’s busy filling two cups with coffee.

  Melanie snaps her fingers again. My heart leaps into my throat.

  “See, point proven. I can’t blame you.” She wraps her arm around my shoulders, bringing me close. “Latins are supposedly excellent lovers,” she whispers conspiratorially.

  “Mel!” I try to pull away, but she holds me fast. “I can’t have sex with him.”

  She frowns, pulls back, observes Santiago for a moment. “Oh. You don’t think…I mean…everything works…down there?”

  “Mel!” I say a little too loudly, drawing some odd looks from conventioneers filtering in around us.

  “What? It’s a legitimate question.” She sighs, releases me. “Oh, I hope so. That’d be such a shame.”

  I’m sure he’s fine. I mean, it’s just his muscles that are affected, right? Fuck. Ugh. Now I’m thinking of doing exactly that. Picturing him naked. Does he have that delicious dark hair everywhere? “No one’s having sex with him!” I say a little too loudly, flushing crimson and grateful no one seems to have heard me.

  Melanie laughs. “That’s not fair. The guy doesn’t have to be celibate just because you have a little hang-up.” She twists her engagement ring around her finger.

  “Being married is not a ‘little hang up’!” I whisper harshly, consciously lowering my voice after my outburst.

  “He does have a mouth and two hands,” she muses, grinning at me, half talking to herself now.

  “Mel!” I whack her with the back of my hand.

  “Ladies, it’s okay. I brought coffee for both of you.” Santiago pulls up, two cups of coffee wedged between his legs. “Di, you really are serious about your caffeine.” He hands me mine, then the second to Melanie. “I wasn’t sure how you took yours, so I went with cream. But I brought these.” He leans over, reaches into the pouch behind his legs, and offers Mel a fistful of sugar packets of various types.

  Melanie smiles, accepting them, then looks over at the screen, which the presenter has set up to display the seminar title. She nudges me subtly with her elbow, then leans forward, squinting. “Oh crap,” she says, dumping the packets in her purse as she rummages through it. “I forgot my glasses.” She turns to Santiago. “Thanks for the coffee. I’d better go sit up front. I’ll see you both later.” She winks at me and dashes off before I can protest.

  Melanie doesn’t wear glasses.

  Santiago pulls in. Sets his brake. I watch him, sipping my coffee, trying not to look like I’m staring.

  “Can I ask you something?” I think of Melanie’s wonderings, and my eyes dart to his crotch. It’s a fleeting, unconscious look, but my cheeks heat, giving me away.

  “You can ask me anything,” he says, eyebrows raised. Crap. He totally saw me. A small part of me wants to die. “Doesn’t mean I have to answer.” He winks, chuckles. “What do you want to know?”

  I take a deep breath, hoping I can save myself. I point to his name tag. “It says Diego.”

  He looks at me, confused for a moment, before spying the Nadine on mine.

  “Oh.” He chuckles softly. “Everyone calls me that,” he explains. “Well, except my mom, who calls me Santi sometimes.” His face scrunches up. “You could have put ‘Di’ on your registration form.”

  “I pretty much do it on autopilot. I never thought to put my nickname.” I shrug. “If you go by Diego, why did you tell me I could call you Santiago?”

  He thinks, his head tilted. “I like it when you call me that,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “You’re really the only one who does. So it’s kind of…special.”

  I flush, but a pleasant, fluttering-butterfly feeling takes over my stomach. I smile shyly.

  The squeal and puff of a microphone being adjusted draws our attention from each other to the front of the room, where the presenter proceeds to introduce herself. I place my fingers on my keyboard, ready to take notes.

  The presenter is a middle-aged, plump woman with a round, rosy-cheeked face that reminds me of the stereotype of a librarian or English teacher. I turn to Santiago, who, I can tell by his barely suppressed smile, is thinking the same thing. “I’m going to start off by listing a few key issues we run into when working with nonnative English speakers, and then I’ll go over each point individually.”

  Before she can click to the next slide, I begin typing. Preposition misuse, article misuse, tense issues, conjugation problems, word order…

  I’m still typing when Santiago leans in. I feel myself wanting to melt at his proximity, but I take a deep breath and focus. “You pretty much got it all before she did,” Santiago says, impressed.

  I look up, noticing her list, which is identical to my own, if worded differently and in another order. I shrug.

  “You could be up there. I’m sure you’d be a lot more exciting.”

  “Probably. I could rewrite one of my fave punk songs. ‘Editing 101.’” I lean in, feeling my body ignite, and whisper, singing just loud enough for him to hear me, “‘You cannot ignore us, our grammar chorus, so grab your thesaurus for Editing 101!’” I snort and cover my mouth.

  Santiago laughs so hard everyone stops and stares at us, but he doesn’t seem to care. He covers his face for a moment with both hands, taking a few steadying breaths, before peeling them away to look at me, eyes gleaming.

  My face is hot, even though the presenter’s resumed her drone and everyone seems to have returned their attention to her.

  I feel one of his hands cover mine, and my lungs seize up, as if they’ve forgotten their purpose. Breath held, I look down at his hand, his nails cut super short, a light dusting of hair on his fingers.

  He squeezes my hand gently. “That was hilarious. I bet your presentation would be much more fun than this.”

  My cheeks are still warm, but I find myself smiling. “Thanks.”

  He mirrors my grin, although his is playful. “That said, you probably shouldn’t take up songwriting.” He sticks his tongue out at me, and before I can realize what I’m doing, I’ve bumped shoulders against him. He thinks I’m fun. I can’t even remember the last time someone said that about me.

  He cracks a whispered joke about the use of Comic Sans in her slideshow—he really is a dork—and while I’m laughing, I glance up toward the front of the roo
m, where I make eye contact with Melanie. She gives me a thumbs-up, and for a moment, I’m pulled back to reality. Di, you’re a married woman, I remind myself, but somehow Santiago’s helped make this presentation fly by.

  “I have a couple things I have to go to this afternoon, but can I take you to dinner?”

  I stop, fingers poised above the keys. Breakfast was one thing. Even texting and flirting during the convention. But dinner?

  “There’s this bar Uptown I’ve been dying to go back to. Best fried oysters I’ve ever had. But it’s kind of a dive.”

  “Cooter Brown’s?”

  He shirks, surprised. “You know it?”

  “Know it? I used to go there all the time when I was younger.”

  He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “How is it I spend an entire morning with you and didn’t know you were from New Orleans? Or did you just go to college here?”

  “No, I’m from here,” I say, swallowing. “It’s just…been a while.”

  “Oh,” he says, his voice shifting, noticing the change in me. “Well, what do you say, then? Meet me in the front lobby at eight?”

  * * * *

  I feel an unexpected emptiness once Santiago’s left and I’m slipping my tablet and keyboard into my bag. The table shifts, and I look up. Melanie’s perched on it, swinging her legs. In sing-song, she croons, “Di and Diego sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes sex, then comes…” She covers her mouth in a fake cough, offering a nod and a smile as some other conventioneers filter past us.

  I’m hoping ignoring her, standing and slinging my bag on my shoulder, won’t encourage her further. No luck.

  “Seriously, Di. You’re glowing. I watched you two through the whole lecture. And earlier, at brunch. I’ve never seen you like this. So…alive.”

  “That’s funny,” I say, gripping the strap of my bag tightly, as if it’s somehow keeping me upright. “Do you know CPR?”

  Melanie stops swinging her feet, looking at me, perplexed.

  “Because I stop breathing and feel like my heart’s going to explode when I’m around him… Oh God. That makes me a terrible person, doesn’t it?”

  Melanie hops off the table and puts her hands on my shoulders. “No. It just means you’re in love.”

  I tilt my head, my neck going lax. “I’ve known him, what?” I check my watch. “Twenty-four hours? You can’t fall in love with someone in a day.”

  “Romeo and Juliet did,” Melanie says, tugging me toward the exit.

  “Yeah, and then they killed themselves a few hours later. Thanks for the pep talk, Mel.”

  She laughs. “That’s why they call it retail therapy. Come on. I’m thinking something red and sexy. He obviously likes red, and nothing’s sexier. Magazine Street is calling!”

  Chapter Six

  It’s pleasantly warm as we walk down Magazine Street toward Jefferson. We’ve already visited several stores, and Melanie clutches bags of clothing she’s purchased for herself, but so far I’m empty-handed. I look around, remarking how so little seems to have changed in the last ten years. The biggest changes are closer to Arabella, with new shops blooming around the Whole Foods, including what will soon be a Walgreens. But other than that, we stroll past the familiar antique stores, boutique clothing shops, and vintage resale shops that draw both locals and tourists alike.

  “Mel, it’s not like we’re going to Commander’s Palace. I know you don’t know New Orleans, but trust me, Cooter Brown’s is a T-shirt-and-jeans kind of place.”

  “So far, this guy likes you even in your drab work clothes. Imagine what he’ll think if you show up in something fabulous and sexy.”

  She rushes ahead, and I have to weave through the crowd to keep up with her. Traffic meanders by to my left along the narrow street.

  “Can’t I look fabulous and sexy in jeans?”

  Melanie gasps but otherwise is silent, pointing. I arrive at her side and follow her finger to the red sundress in the picture window of a shop that announces it sells both vintage and retro-inspired clothing. Very New Orleans. Very Magazine Street.

  “You’re buying that dress if I have to put it on my own credit card,” Melanie says, seizing my hand.

  The dress is gorgeous. Cherry red with delicate white polka dots, it has twin spaghetti straps linking to a sweetheart neckline, a banded waist, and a flowing A-line skirt. Slightly retro, yet easily something contemporary. It’s totally unlike anything I’d normally wear, and yet I find myself reaching out toward the glass as if to touch it.

  “It’ll never fit me,” I complain.

  “Let’s find out!” Melanie says, pulling me inside. “You’d think with everyone in New Orleans being so short, they’d have more petite sizes,” she remarks as we enter the store.

  Inside, the boutique is much larger than it seemed, rows of clothes stretching deep into the back, where shelves of shoes in various colors and styles are arranged. The new mingles with the old, and I occupy myself, flicking through some of the items toward the front while Melanie beelines toward the counter to inquire about the dress.

  A moment later, she comes back, charged up, like she’s about to explode into fireworks. “It’s the only one they have, but I have a really good feeling about this!” The last time Melanie had a “really good feeling” about something was two conventions ago, and we both ended up with food poisoning.

  Still, I follow the salesperson to one of their dressing rooms, begrudgingly accepting the dress and locking myself in, grateful Melanie didn’t insist on joining me. The fabric is so soft, almost like pima cotton, and I notice what I thought were polka dots are actually tiny little stars. I hold it up against me, feeling as if I’m looking at a stranger. This is silly. All of this.

  I strip down to my plain cotton underwear and bra, then pull the dress on. It fits perfectly, transforming me into a new woman. The cut accents my features—the neckline makes my breasts look plumper and sexier; the A-line emphasizes my narrow waist and full hips in a surprisingly flattering way. The skirt hits just below my knee, and when I turn, it flutters up. Even the color is perfect, highlighting the pink in my skin and bringing out natural red highlights in my hair I didn’t even know I have.

  “How long does it take a girl to try on a dress?” Melanie calls out, her voice muffled.

  I smooth down the sides, give myself one last look, and pull open the door.

  “Wow,” Melanie says. “Wow.” She yanks me out. Forces me to turn around. “Poor guy. He won’t be able to move much tonight.”

  I frown. “Huh?”

  “Because he needs his hands to move, and he won’t be able to keep them off you.”

  I blush, my cheeks matching the dress. “You think so?”

  “Honey, I guarantee if you wear this dress, you’ll have an orgasm tonight.”

  * * * *

  Melanie and I are tucked away in one of the windows of the CC’s on Jefferson and Magazine, shopping bags littering the floor around our feet. I’m exhausted and ready to head back to the hotel, grateful for the afternoon caffeine boost. Mel’s obviously a much more experienced shopper than I am. Maybe it’s ten years being married to Stephen, but I tend to view shopping as a chore, something that needs doing, so I go in, get what I need as quickly as possible, and leave. I sigh. That’s not the way I used to view it. My mom and I would head to Lakeside Mall all the time just to walk around, window-shop, people watch, and try on shoes we’d never actually buy.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Melanie says, sipping her iced coffee. “Having second thoughts?”

  “More like hundredth thoughts,” I grumble. “Maybe you should come with us tonight. I mean, it’s not like it’s a date,” I say, knowing I sound weak.

  “Of course it is.” She leans forward, her face serious. “Di: tell me, straight. When was the last time you orgasmed with Stephen?”

  Even though I’ve known Melanie for years, we don’t really keep in touch between conferences, so our relationship has alway
s stayed superficial, shallow. In just these last few hours, though—as she pushed me to buy lacy underwear and patent-leather flip-flops to go with my dress—I feel like we’ve gotten closer. Still, I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to discuss the intricacies of my sex life, even if Mel seems to have no issues bringing it up.

  Before I can stutter out any kind of answer, her phone rings. She fishes it out of her purse, glances at the number, and sighs. “I have to take this,” she says, putting the phone to her ear.

  I stir the ice around in my own coffee absently, mulling over her question. Lately, Stephen’s been really busy at work, and so if we just have a quickie and I don’t get off, I mean, that’s not so bad, right? God did give me two hands. My mind floats to Santiago, imagining what his rough palms will feel like against my skin, cupping my breasts…

  “Ugh. Sorry about that. Kids aren’t supposed to be this much trouble at eight.”

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Melanie grips my wrist. “You’re still young! Your time will come,” she says encouragingly.

  I shake my head. “I’ve been off birth control for years and haven’t gotten pregnant yet.”

  “Di…”

  I stare out the window. “Stephen doesn’t want to be tested; he says if it’s meant to happen, it will.”

  Melanie pushes her drink away. “He never struck me as a fatalist. Too much of a control freak.”

  I manage a sad laugh. I shrug, my eyes downcast. “Not everyone’s intended to be a parent.”

  “Now that sounds more like the Stephen I know,” Melanie says with conviction, as if she sat down regularly for coffee with Stephen like she and I are now, instead of only hearing about him secondhand from me.

  I grip my medal, pulling it out of my shirt so I can smooth my fingers over its surface. I’m just so tired of the look of pity and confusion that paints people’s faces, knowing I’ve been married ten years, wondering, what’s wrong with me? Melanie has four children, and she’s only a few years older. Everyone in my office has kids or is pregnant. I think I’ve gone to four baby showers this year, and it’s only June. And I’ve learned the hard way that staying friends with people who have kids when you don’t is almost impossible. It’s one reason I cherish my convention time with Mel but don’t push it to be anything more than it is. It’s hard to squeeze in childless Di between soccer practices and Brownies.