Free The Ground Rules by Roya Carmen Page A

black hair.
    “Well, your husband is gorgeous,” is all she says—very forward, in my opinion.
    “Uh…thank you,” I stammer a little.
    It isn’t long before Bridget ends up on Gabe’s arm, walking through the gallery, introducing him to people. He’s so friendly and charismatic—he’s enjoying every second of it. I notice how, occasionally, he puts a hand gently on the small of her back. It doesn’t bother me too much—he’s a very touchy-feely person. And I notice how he whispers things in her ear, and she laughs out loud.
    I’m standing next to Weston. We’ve been walking together, discussing the art—which pieces stand out and which pieces evoke emotion. He seems genuinely interested, and I discover he’s quite the art aficionado, unlike Gabe who seems more interested in the women and their sleek little black dresses than the art.
    I tell Weston all about the watercolor class Gwen and I take on Saturday mornings.
    “We’re the youngest there. We’re in a seniors’ class.”
    A grin stretches across his face. “How did you manage that?”
    I smirk at him. “Oh…I have my contacts. I like it, but it’s kind of strange.”
    “You don’t like seniors?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “You’ll age too one day,” he points out.
    I stare at him, mildly irked.
    “And those big, beautiful brown eyes of yours will get droopy.”
    My heart does a little skip. He thinks I’m “beautiful.”
    Well, not really.
    He likes my eyes. Too bad about the rest of my face—my teeth and my horrid freckles. “Oh…the horror.”
    “Don’t worry. I’m sure your husband will always love you.”
    The mention of Gabe brings me back to reality.
    I lighten the conversation and tell him all about Cecilia. Cecilia is an eighty-ish year old woman in our art class who’s completely deaf, or so the word goes.
    “But I swear, sometimes she is totally listening to our conversation. When Gwen and I start talking about anything juicy, like sex, her little wrinkled face seems to perk up.”
    Weston laughs. “Be a little considerate. Give the old lady something to live for.”
    We both laugh, and I instinctively turn away.
    “Why do you do that?”
    “Do what?” I ask, confused.
    “Cover your mouth every time you smile.”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” I shrug, not quite looking at him. “Nervous habit, I guess.”
    “You should really knock that off,” he says simply. And I’m amused by his choice of words. “Knock that off” doesn’t sound like something Mr. Prim and Proper would say.
    “How old were you when you and Gabe met?” he asks, a hint of a smile. “Eighteen years together…you don’t seem old enough.”
    He’s been doing the math.
    “Are you trying to determine my age, Mr. Hanson? You know it’s very rude to ask a woman her age.”
    He laughs. “I wasn’t asking.” I love his laugh. It’s soft, but still infectious.
    “We were seventeen. He was the popular basketball player, and I was the new girl…I was terrified.”
    “And he was your knight and shining armor, I gather.”
    I smile, remembering those days so long ago. “He sure was.”
    We stand silent for a while, looking at the pieces displayed on the wall…or maybe pretending to look.
    “Thirty-five,” he says with a coy smile. “You look younger.”
    God, I love this man.
    “And how old are you?” I ask, surprised I don’t know, despite all my cyber-stalking.
    “Isn’t it rude to ask?” he teases.
    “Oh…it’s fine for a woman to ask a man, just not the other way around.”
    “Seems like a double standard.”
    We move along the narrow hall, toward the back display.
    “You still haven’t answered my question,” I point out.
    “I was born in nineteen seventy-five.”
    Great, now he has me doing math in my head. Um…let’s see…it’s 2012… After a long, rather embarrassing moment, I venture a guess. “Thirty-seven?” I ask, not sure I’ve calculated right—I’ve never been great at math.
    He gives me one