Free Love, Suburban Style by Wendy Markham Page B

sharp-witted. He likes that in a…
    Married woman?
    Only one way to find out for sure.
    “When I said you guys,” he clarifies, “I actually meant you and your kids and your husband. Nothing against your cat.”
    “Other than that you don’t like her.”
    “Not just her.”
    “So you just hate all cats in general.” She sets Chita Rivera on her feet and watches her trot away.
    He opens his mouth—either to make a feeble protest about his newly acquired cat-hater reputation or to rephrase his inquiry about her family, he isn’t sure which.
    It doesn’t matter; she speaks first, looking down at the tall carton she’s sliding toward a pile by the stairs. “I guess it’s just me. For pizza, I mean.”
    “What about the rest of your family?”
    “My daughter went out to eat with my friend. He’s supposedly bringing me back a burger. But God knows when that will be, so I won’t wait for it.”
    So she didn’t mention a husband, but her friend is a he. What does that mean?
    Sick of dancing around the issue, Sam decides to come right out and ask. “Is your friend—you know…”
    Even in the rapidly dimming light, he can see her eyes flash indignantly as she looks up at him. “Yes, he is. Why? Is that a problem?”
    “That you have a boyfriend? No, not at all. I just wondered what you meant by
friend.
”
    “Oh!” She laughs. “I thought you were talking about something else. You know, that you might have been asking me whether he’s gay.”
    “No, why would I do that?”
    “I don’t know… Geoffrey’s convinced the suburbs are full of homophobes, so I guess he’s rubbing off on me.”
    “I’m not homophobic… and he’s not your boyfriend, then?”
    “No, he
wants
a boyfriend.”
    “Gotcha. So he’s—”
    “Right. How about you? You’re not…?”
    “
Me?
No!”
    “You look horrified. I thought you said you weren’t homophobic.”
    “I’m not. I’m just… not…”
    “Gay? No? That’s funny, I really thought I remembered that you were, back in high school.”
    “
Really?
”
    “Nope.” She laughs, watching his face. “Kidding again.”
    He breaks into a grin and hears himself say, “So… no boyfriend. No husband, either?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    “So do you want to…”
    What are you doing, Sam?
    “… eat some pizza?” he concludes the question abruptly.
    He could swear she looks a little disappointed. Almost as if she were hoping he was about to ask her something else entirely.
    I think I was.
    Maybe I should, before it’s—
    “Sure,” she says, “pizza would be good.”
    —too late.
    In the fading daylight with rain pinging against the porch gutter just beyond the screen door, Meg’s new foyer has taken on a cozy, old-fashioned charm. You can’t make out that the antique gold wallpaper is torn away in spots, or that the baseboards have been painted many times over, most recently in a brassy coral color more suited to a tropical beach house.
    The only place to sit, other than on the floor or wet cardboard boxes, is the stairway. It’s wide—but not wide enough for both Meg and Sam to share a step with each other and the pizza box.
    She sits near the banister on the third step up. He sits near the wall on the second step up. They balance the box between them, the cover folded back and propped below to almost make a little table.
    Sitting here, eating pizza with Sam Rooney in the old-fashioned room with rain falling outside…
    This would have been a dream date for Meg, a good twenty years ago. Now it’s just…
    Well, it could actually still be pretty dreamy if she were in that infatuated frame of mind, and if she were allowed to be infatuated.
    Yes, if she didn’t have this tremendous life-changing move to accomplish, and a daughter to worry about in the process, and a New Year’s resolution to keep.
    Things are complicated enough in her life without reigniting a long-extinguished flame. Speaking of which…
    “I might need to borrow some matches from you,” she