Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The Date
Chrissy is across from me, drinking her fourth glass of wine while a piece of steak fries up on the slab of volcanic rock between us.
I’d eventually texted her around lunch and apologized for being so late in reaching out.
Once she realized I was struggling, she took over the planning, alleviating my stress.
She researched and chose the restaurant, then told me what we were doing within ten minutes of our conversation.
I was grateful, if not a little envious, of her ability to power through the decision-making process.
She ultimately chose Black Rock in Utica for its unique setting and atmosphere.
Grilling your own food on a scorching stone in the middle of the table is not your average dining experience, and neither of us had been here before.
I didn’t know what to expect going into it, but we’ve had a lot of fun cooking and talking over drinks.
Chrissy is stunning in a little black dress that hugs her hips and perfectly accentuates her hourglass shape.
It’s tight in all the right places and dangerously short, even on her small frame.
I can’t help but notice that her chest looks fantastic, my eyes lingering more than once on her natural gifts.
I’m sure she knew exactly what she was doing, choosing a dress with a cut like that.
I doubt it was as much for me as it was for her, but I’m grateful nonetheless.
The golden cross adorning her neck flickers in the low lamplight every time she laughs, and I can’t help but find it ironic she chose it, despite dressing like she’s planning to commit some sins. I wonder if she’s truly devout or just wants to appear more virtuous.
Still, it’s clear she spent a lot of time getting ready, and I feel out of place sitting next to her. Now I really regret not taking the time to trim my beard. At least she didn’t run for the hills when she saw me, so that’s a good sign.
“Your favorite song?” Chrissy asks, continuing our game of questions. We’ve gone back and forth throughout the evening, pulling out bits of trivia about each other this way, making it feel more natural.
“Bohemian Rhapsody,” I reply instantly. “No contest.”
Chrissy nods. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
“What about yours?”
“You’re going to laugh at me.” She pouts, biting her bottom lip.
“I swear I won’t.”
“My Bloody Valentine,” she grumbles.
I recoil slightly, not at all expecting that. “Wait. You mean like Good Charlotte?”
“The one and only.”
“Oh, my god. Were you a scene kid?”
Chrissy scoffs. “Hey! You said you wouldn’t laugh!”
“I’m not laughing!” I’m totally laughing, but I can’t help it. I’m struggling to picture this beautiful girl wearing nothing but black and pink, all skinny jeans and puffed-up hair, taking ridiculous selfies with her tongue out while listening to overly dramatic emo music.
“I ate that shit up.” Chrissy smiles dreamily. “Good Charlotte, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance, Paramore, Bring Me the Horizon… They don’t make music like that anymore.”
“Do you have any pictures? I can’t go on living without seeing this.”
Chrissy smiles, pulling out her cell phone.
She spends a few minutes searching through her Facebook before finding a group of photos of the look in question, then passes the phone to me.
Sure enough, there’s a little Chrissy wearing, black pre-ripped skinny jeans and a Paramore T-shirt with a studded leather belt and Converse.
Her hair is black with strips of neon pink thrown in, styled in the typical scene fashion—swooped bangs with intense volume up top and pin-straight length.
Her eyes are covered with so much makeup that it’s hard to see what she looks like underneath.
And she’s making the same face I remember seeing every girl make back in the early 2000s.
“You really were a scene kid!” I say affectionately. “How cute.”
“It was the highlight of my youth.” Chrissy takes her phone back. “I miss it sometimes. Never grew out of the music, though. I still listen to it religiously. I’m guessing you were a jock?”
“Far from it.” I snort. “Band geek.”
“Seriously?” Now it’s Chrissy’s turn to laugh.
“Oh yeah. I played—”
“No, wait! Let me guess,” Chrissy jumps up excitedly. “Trombone. No, wait. Trumpet!”
“Flute.” I chuckle.
Chrissy’s jaw drops in awe. “Okay. I don’t think I could have guessed that in a million years. You don’t give off flute vibes.”
My lips twitch. “Why? Because I’m built more like a football player?”
“I mean, kinda?” She winces, biting her lower lip with a guilty smile.
“I was a twig in high school. Scrawny as shit.”
“Nuh-uh,” Chrissy protests. “Now I have to see.”
I grin, shaking my head as I pull out my phone.
Opening up my Facebook profile, I search through my oldest pictures.
I wasn’t into selfies and haven’t posted much content since I started my account in 2006, but I’ve been tagged in enough images on other people’s accounts that I can easily find an old one near the bottom of ‘Photos of You.’
It’s not exactly flattering, but I was seventeen, getting drunk at a party on Mike’s Hard Lemonade after the big homecoming game.
I’m smiling, but I look like a hot mess because I was already wasted when they took the picture.
It’s odd seeing that version of myself again after so long.
Clean-shaven with slightly too long hair, towering over everyone else, and thin as a rail with no muscles to speak of.
A total beanpole. I don’t remember what it was like back then.
It’s hard to recall much of my life before my dad passed, but at least I looked happy.
I pass the phone to Chrissy, and her jaw drops in awe.
“Oh, my god.”
Her eyes dart between me and the phone like she can’t believe she’s looking at the same person.
Honestly, I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of this kind of transformation when I was seventeen.
I may have fantasized about getting stronger back then, but the reality seemed too impossible to achieve.
Still, when it was a matter of finding structure and routine, or losing my life because of lethargy and crippling depression, it was surprising to see just what I could accomplish.
But that’s not a story for a first date.
“Honey, that is one hell of a glow-up.” Chrissy swoons as she hands my phone back, looking me up and down with a new eye, and she hums her approval. She’s giving me a clear sign of what she would like to do to me, sending a jolt through my heart, my stomach flipping.
But the action does worse to me than a little shot of nerves. I freeze as the feeling immediately reminds me of the last few times I’ve experienced the same gut reaction. All of them this week, whenever I was with Luke.
The thought startles me, and I recoil slightly.
All this time, I’ve been confused about what was happening to me whenever Luke and I were alone.
From the consistent heart palpitations to the weird feeling of queasiness in my stomach, I never guessed what my body was trying to tell me—or maybe I was suppressing it.
Now it suddenly seems so clear. Am I…attracted to Luke?
No, that’s not right. That’s not possible. I’m not gay. I’m not gay! Am I? No. No, I’m definitely attracted to women. My whole life, I have been very drawn to women. I would know if I made that up and was secretly attracted to men the entire time. I would know if I liked men. Wouldn’t I?
Thankfully, while I’m having a mild panic attack at the realization that something is happening to me, Chrissy is distracted when the waiter arrives as if summoned to the spot to hide my disquiet.
He sets the bill down in the middle of the table, equally spaced between us as if to say he doesn’t assume anything about who might be paying, then asks a bunch of questions about how we enjoyed our meals that I’m having a hard time processing. I think Chrissy answers him.
At some point, I notice that Chrissy is talking to me instead, and when I look up at her, I finally snap back to reality. She’s holding the bill in her hands and looks absolutely mortified.
“What?” I ask, still a little dazed. She mistakes my confusion for confirmation that I agree with whatever she just said.
“I’m so sorry, Ethan. I didn’t realize this place would be so expensive,” she hisses quietly, staring down at the check. “I’ll pay for half of it.”
“What?” I ask again, frowning.
She passes me the bill, and that’s when I see what she’s freaking out about. It’s over $300. She’s concerned about how much the dinner costs. Is that all? I’m having a full-on gay crisis over here. I think that takes precedence.
The look on Chrissy’s face is the only thing tethering me to reality.
There’s one brain cell left operating at the moment, and it’s working overtime to remember that typical meals do not cost this much money, and her concern that this will somehow break the bank is genuine.
Also, I’m supposed to be on a date with her.
Why am I spending so much time worrying about whether or not I’m attracted to the hottest man I’ve ever met? Jesus Christ.
In a feat of herculean strength, I shove every thought I do not have time to process right now into the back of my mind and turn my entire focus to Chrissy.
“Um,” I stammer, coming back to myself. “Please don’t even worry about that. I owe you for doing all the legwork for me anyway.”
“Ethan,” Chrissy chides, seriously upset. There are honest-to-God tears in her eyes. Was I too distracted to notice? “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s way too expensive. You have to let me pay for half of it at least.”
“No, honestly. It’s fine. I’ve got this.”
“It’s not fine! I shouldn’t have had so much to drink or ordered all that food. We should have gone somewhere cheaper.”
“Chrissy,” I say gently but firmly. She looks like she might start crying from guilt, but eventually nods and gives up the fight, going quiet.