Love Me Like That

After my fifth first date, I found a predictable flow to the night. Chemistry. Check. Manners. Check. Eyes flirting. Hands flirting. Check and check. This dance was fun: careless laughing, random trivia, and anything else to impress the date. After a couple of hours of flirting, I always steered them toward a nightcap at their place. One lift of my left eyebrow and a slight curve of my tongue-slicked lips followed by an invitation to lean in. Lean in closer. My lips hover, an invitation for more. And they always went in for more.

This particular date had an All-American charm about him, all smile, all jaw. It wasn’t a planned date. We ran into each other, literally, ran into each other at the grocery store. My basket of toiletries flew everywhere. He blushed as he helped wrangle lip gloss and shampoo back into my basket, hanging onto the loofah that fell.

“Better grab a new one. This one’s all dirty.” He tossed it to a nearby display.

I feigned defeat. “That’s the last one.” I snapped my fingers and looked up at the hazel eyes staring back at me, and as he smiled, I decided I was going to let him take me out. I placed my left hand up to my right collarbone and rubbed lightly. “Better use my hands, I guess.” I was more forward than usual, and it worked. He asked me out for dinner the next night. “To make up for injuries,” he had said.

On the date, his flirting was minimal. He was a perfect gentleman. He held the door, pulled out the seat, and let me order first. All the actions a man might do to show interest beyond the night. Not that I didn’t make most men lust for me. My repertoire included my doe-eyed look, innocent and hopeless, and the she’s-got-it-all act, capable and smart. It was my surface armor, but this guy was reaching beyond the superficial. I could tell he was a boy-next-door type, so I amped up childhood stories. When I was five, I started a lemonade stand, or how at seven, I built a soapbox car and raced the neighborhood kids. I would close with how I camped in the tree house all summer until the one night I awoke with a raccoon snuggled nearby. My fifth date laughed and smiled through it all. I tried to listen to his stories, too. I was good at appearing to be listening. Not that I didn’t notice how he was modest about stories playing soccer or proud of his close relationship with his family. Even if I didn’t hear everything, I smiled throughout and laughed at the right places, even following up with generic questions. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in hearing about his life stories because I definitely wasn’t; it was more that I imagined what-ifs I knew would never happen. For short moments here and there, I allowed myself to imagine a future with him. I wondered how many times he’d tell this story of our first meeting, this date. Or how often he’d tell his adventures, forgetting he had told them once before. After so many dates like this, it became an easy mind exercise to flash through a life I might have had if I had done more than I intended to do. Then, the conversation volleyed back to me. The stories and anecdotes could only go too far before the memories got too real. That was my hard stop. I was ready to get to the inevitable and follow him to his place. No sense in getting to know each other anymore.

His apartment was neat but clearly a bachelor pad. It had mismatched living room furniture and missing little details that made it home, like a throw pillow, a set of coasters, or an oversized useless book on the coffee table. I slipped off my shoes, headed to the living room, and watched in the open kitchen as he grabbed a bottle of vodka at the top of his fridge. It made me cringe that he didn’t have a bar setup. I was sure he would offer me a screwdriver because he probably had orange juice and nothing else to mix it with.

“I’m fine with a beer if you have that,” I said from the couch.

He put the bottle back on top of the fridge, “I’ve got plenty of those.”

He settled on the couch, turning toward me and letting his knee touch mine. I gave him a sideways glance as I sipped my beer. He seemed nervous but determined. He really did have nice eyes.

“Tell me about yourself,” he prompted, gripping his beer tighter. His teeth were ridiculously straight; he clearly listened to his orthodontist. It complemented his square jaw and made him handsome when he smiled and even more so when he laughed.

“What more can I tell you?” I knocked my knee against his.

He tapped his chin playfully. “Hmm, I know all about the awesome kid, Reese. How about the woman? What are you into now that you aren’t cuddling with wildlife?”

I laughed at his attempt to maintain rapport. He really was trying. That was when I knew I couldn’t, especially when I thought about what it might be like to tell him more about myself to see if he could get more invested and if I even cared to know what it might be like to feel again.

“I’ve got a better idea.” I lifted my leg where our knees met and sat up. I leaned closer and looked into his eyes as my hand ran up his shoulder to the back of his neck. I lightly strummed my fingers on his neck once. I grabbed his beer and placed it on the table and with my other hand, took his hand, placed it on my hip, and swung myself onto his lap. I looked down at him, and I could see his lips had parted and his eyes closed halfway. He hesitated, but he didn’t stop me. I leaned down, stopped in front of his face, and looked at his closed eyes, ready to kiss him. It was interesting how quickly I could get a guy to close his eyes and trust me. I tried not to kiss too much. Some guys are bad at it, making it difficult to stay in the moment. I pushed harder against his mouth, guiding him toward the back of the couch. I opened my eyes to observe his face. Tightly shut eyes with focused eyebrows..

“Wait.” He whispered, “We don’t have to—”

I kissed him again. Nine times out of ten, a guy would never stop, but occasionally, there would be a guy who said they could slow down. I wouldn’t know whether they meant it because I never cared to slow down.

We did manage to get into the bedroom during our make-out session and our undressing session. The sex was good enough that I fell into a light slumber until I felt his arm fall on my stomach. I noticed how quickly and comfortably he fell into a deep slumber. I waited a few minutes longer, studying his rumpled hair and enviable long lashes. Over his shoulder, I saw the time, and it was nearing two in the morning. I shimmied out of his grip and climbed out of bed, ready to leave.

Where’s my purse? I thought as I pulled on my skirt. The sudden click and flicker of light caused my eyes to squint.

“Where are you going?” He smiled and meant it playfully. I could hear it in his voice and how he gestured his hand toward the spot I just left. His shirt was in the hallway, and I could see smudges of my lipstick shimmering on his body.

“Heading out. I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.”

He reached out to me and lightly pulled my hand to sit down, “You don’t have to go just yet. Or at all. I can make you breakfast in the morning.” He kissed my neck as I sat at the edge of the bed. “Or at least toast you a bagel. Orange juice, too.” I closed my eyes and let him kiss my neck a little longer. But when his hands fell onto my hips, I knew he was pulling me in again, and before he could, I grabbed his hands and gently lifted them off me. I got up and turned to see his eyebrows wrinkle at my abruptness. He pulled his blanket up and tighter to his body.

“This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime,” I said without the warmth I had earlier.

“But you don’t mean that, do you?”

I never did.

——

The hallway was barely lit in my apartment. On my way down the hall, I stepped around stacks of boxes I had yet to unpack. I made a mental note that tomorrow would be the day I would get to it. I had nowhere to be, but it didn’t mean I would do anything more than lay in bed with nowhere to go. A big yawn escaped me as I peeled the layers of my clothes just as I had hours earlier, but this time alone toward my own bed. It took effort for me to hop into the tall bed, but once I got in, I buried myself in soft blankets and pillows. My bed was too big for my room, but it was my favorite thing from home, and I had to have it for this apartment.

I waded in and out of slumber, but I knew what I would hear.

“Hey, hon, did you have a good time?”

I turned toward my husband’s voice and smiled in the dim light through the window. “Very much so,” I said, rolling over to his side of the bed, “The hallway is dark. I keep asking you to change the light bulb.”

My eyes fell shut, and I could hear his last words, “I will someday.”

But he didn’t mean that.