Free Emily's Reasons Why Not by Carrie Gerlach Page B

ladies don’t pay,” in his best John Wayne.
    As Craig walks us out, Mom stops in the lobby. “I’ve got to meet some of the ladies for late-night bunko,” she lies. “Thank you for dinner, Craig. Take care of my girl.”
    “I will.” He kisses Mom on the cheek, and she gives me a good-night wink over his shoulder.
    The sand on my toes feels cool and soft. The waves are slushing up onto the beach. The sound of steel drums floats in the distance. We walk for a long time without saying anything, just watching the clear sea brush against the soft white sand under the moonlight. Craig carries my sandals. He stops and looks up at the moon, lays our shoes on the sand, and takes off his linen shirt, leaving his white T-shirt covering his shoulders and chest. He looks even tanner and hotter. “Wanna sit for a while?” he says in a soft whisper.
    Yeah! I almost scream. I wanna sit, roll, strip, kiss, and stroke that beautiful tan body.
    “Okay.” I ease onto the shirt and dig my toes into the sand.
    He sits next to me. “How come you haven’t asked me why I am here alone?”
    I lean back and look up at the stars.
    Because I don’t want the answer. Because you’re about to ruin a perfectly good evening. Because whatever you might say could infringe on my ability to put my lips on yours and my obsession with running my tongue over that jagged tooth.
    Reason #2: When you don’t want the answer, it’s probably bad .
    “I am just glad that you’re here.” I smile.
    He cocks his head at me.
    “I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to. And maybe I didn’t want to know the answer.”
    He leans back next to me and says flatly, “This is my honeymoon.”
    I roll onto my stomach and run my fingertip in the sand, drawing a “K.”
    “I met my fiancée at Stanford. She was from Boston. We dated for three years before I proposed. Two of which I lived in New York and she lived in California.”
    I draw an “I” in the sand.
    “Too much distance,” I murmur.
    “Too much everything,” he murmurs back.
    I draw an “S” in the sand. Silent and listening. Not sure what to say. Wondering where this is going and when exactly I am going to have to pry his foot out of his mouth. Just wishing he’d shut up and do what men are supposed to do. Where’s the pawing? Where’s the overt gesture? I am on vacation, for God’s sake. I make another “S” in the sand.
    “She moved to Montana and hated it … hated me,” he says reluctantly
    Huh? Wonder what he did to make her hate him?
    “I don’t know you very well, but ‘hate’ seems like a pretty strong word.” My finger traces an “M” in the sand.
    “I wanted her to be happy, not to worry about anything. I told her she didn’t have to work. She thought I was too old-fashioned.” He leans back.
    “Nobody really wants to work,” I sigh, “except movie stars and professional athletes.”
    “That’s what I thought. I figured that I would take care of her. And she’d love and take care of me, but she thought … hell, I don’t know what she thought. Then out of the blue she tells me she thinks my family is too involved in our lives. As if being close to your family is a bad thing.”
    “I can’t really say too much on the whole parent thing, being that I am on a romantic vacation with my mom.”
    “Yeah, but I like that. I think it’s great.”
    “And, she called me cheap. I watch my spending, but I am not cheap.”
    Cheap is unacceptable. There will be no cheap. There will be no penny-pinching while dating me. It ranks right up there with not opening the car door on the first date or making your wife take out the garbage. Men need to pay. Pay now, or pay later. But pay they must. It’s chivalry. It’s courting. It’s the fire hoops a man must jump through to prove that he thinks his date is worthwhile and valuable.
    “You did buy dinner tonight, so there again, I think the ex is wrong,” I dispute.
    “I don’t know, one minute she’s wearing my