Chapter 22
On their first date, Tom took Cherry to a tiny pizza place near his house called Abbie’s Road. “The pizza’s fine,” he said,
“but the theming’s extraordinary.”
The restaurant was crammed into an acute angle where two roads converged. There were only seven or eight tables inside, and
the whole place was Beatles-themed—and also, for some reason, ocean-themed?
“Because of ‘Octopus’s Garden,’ I think,” Tom said. He was sitting under a net filled with plastic fish.
Tom and Cherry shared one of the house combos—“Lucy in the Pie with Onions”—and also their life stories, greatly abridged.
Tom grew up on the north side of town. Cherry grew up on the south side. Neither of them grew up with much money.
Tom’s dad worked in building maintenance at the state medical center—it meant Tom got free tuition in college. Cherry’s dad
hardly worked. She went to school on scholarship—she was the only one in her family who’d gone to college so far.
Tom had one sibling, an older sister. Cherry told him about her own four sisters. He didn’t laugh at their names, but you
could tell that he wanted to—his forehead crumpled, and he shook his head like he couldn’t take it all in. “Who started calling
you Cherry?”
“I don’t know—it’s the only thing I’ve ever been called. Even my mom doesn’t call me Cherish.”
Tom’s mom died when he was eight. He told Cherry this incidentally: “We moved over here when I was eight, after my mom died.
I think this used to be a doughnut place.”
Cherry had to roll the conversation back. “Your mom died when you were eight?”
“Yeah. Breast cancer. Then lung cancer.”
“Oh my god.” Cherry sat back a little. “I’m so sorry.”
He smiled gently. “Thanks. It’s okay.”
“It couldn’t have been okay . . .”
Tom shrugged and raised his eyebrows like, Well, you know.
Cherry felt suddenly tearful. She shook her head and looked down at her pizza. Her chin was wobbling. Eight.
Tom reached out and covered her hand with his—was that the first time he’d touched her? “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
“It’s just . . .” A few tears spilled onto her cheeks. “. . . eight is really young.”
“I know,” he said.
Cherry wiped her eyes with her other hand and glanced up at him. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be . . . doing what I’m doing.”
Tom’s eyes were glossy. He squeezed her hand. “You’re okay.”
She laughed, embarrassed, and he pulled his hand away. He was still smiling.
Their second date was at the Western Alliance Railroad Museum. It was Cherry’s idea—neither of them had ever been. (It didn’t
seem like anyone had been to the museum since the early ’70s. Even the volunteer docent needed dusting.)
Afterwards they got coffee and talked about how they’d change the museum if they could. Tom would change everything. He sketched
out a new logo on the back of a napkin, and it was so brilliant, it made Cherry lightheaded. Tom acted like it was nothing—he
shoved the napkin into his coffee cup when they were done, and Cherry had to rescue it.
By their third date, Cherry wondered if they were actually dates at all.
Tom still hadn’t kissed her. If she thought about it, he hadn’t ever asked her out. He’d only called her when she’d told him
to call.
He was very polite to her and very attentive—his eyes followed Cherry everywhere—and he seemed gently amused by everything she said . . .
Tom laughed at Cherry’s jokes with his eyes and the very corners of his mouth. (Was that as good as a real laugh? Was it maybe
better?)
There was something cool about him—like he was watching Cherry from a distance. Observing her. But observing her carefully. There were moments when she felt like there must be something in her teeth or on her lips. (She’d turn away from him to
wipe her mouth.) And there were moments when she felt magnetic. Bewitching. It made her dizzy to be paid attention to like
that. It turned her on.
Hope said that Tom was keeping Cherry in the friend zone—that even a church boy would move faster than this. (Hope was Cherry’s
least judgmental sister and the only one she could talk to about boys.) (Hope was still very judgmental.) “You can’t make a relationship happen by force of will, Cherry.”
“Maybe I can,” Cherry countered. “I’m very willful.”
She invited Tom over for Christmas Eve. He didn’t have plans, and Cherry canceled hers. She made the only fancy thing she
knew how to make—lasagna—and they sat on her living room floor, on either side of her coffee table because Cherry didn’t have
any chairs.
She sat on her knees mostly, craning over the table toward him.
“Is this cottage cheese?” Tom asked, taking a bite of lasagna.
“Yeah,” she said. “My Italian grandmother made it like this. She probably couldn’t afford ricotta.”
He tipped his head and covered his mouth. “You’re Italian?”
She shrugged. “A little. I’m all of western Europe. I’m Ellis Island, incorporated.”
He smiled. “And you’re Catholic, right?”
“No, I just went to a Catholic school because I got a full ride. My church growing up was like, I don’t know—stand-alone Lutheran.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it was unaffiliated with the larger church, so it could be as conservative as it wanted. My sisters still go. And my mom.”
“But not you?”
Cherry shook her head. “I feel like I went to church enough as a kid to cover me for the rest of my life. What about you,
are you religious?”
“Not really,” Tom said. “I wasn’t raised anything. But there’s a Catholic cathedral near my house, and I go sometimes.”
“Are you trying it on for size?”
He smiled again. Gently. “Possibly. I just like the vibe—it’s tranquil. And I like all the stained glass.”
Cherry hummed. “Maybe I would have liked church better if there was something to look at. Our church looks like a hotel conference
center.”
She kept bouncing on her knees as she talked. Gesturing too much. She was too excited about Tom being here. Too excited about
him, generally speaking. She wished she’d engineered it so they could sit on the same side of the table.
The truth was, Cherry was ready to do whatever Tom wanted that night—he’d kept getting more attractive to her, every minute
she was with him. If you charted Tom’s attractiveness to Cherry over those first few weeks, it would have looked like runaway
inflation.
She liked the wide planes of his face. The way his cheeks propped up his eyes and pushed them closed. She liked how pink he was. Pink cheeks, pink lips. The way the back of his neck flushed red. Cherry liked all Tom’s colors—she liked his changeable
hair. In her brightly lit kitchen, Tom’s close-cropped hair was as blond as a toddler’s. In her dimly lit living room, it
was sandy brown.
She liked his clothes, even though he didn’t seem to care about them. Tom had worn almost the same thing on all their dates:
brown moc-toe boots with gold laces, cargo pants with holes worn along the pockets, and a T-shirt under a plaid shirt. She
wondered if he could tell any of his clothes apart.
Cherry had dressed carefully—sexily—every time she saw him. In low-cut sweaters and jeans that were three percent elastic.
“When am I going to see your Channel 42 Kids Club clothes?” Tom had asked her.
When I’m not trying to seduce you, she’d thought.
She’d bought a pint of ice cream for dessert, and they passed it back and forth between them. (Cherry had spoons but no bowls.)
Tom looked uncomfortable sitting on the floor, with his legs stiff and to the side. He reminded her of a Ken doll with limited
articulation.
“I wish I could offer you a chair,” Cherry said, for the sixth or seventh time. “Or even a box.”
“I’m fine,” Tom said, like he’d been saying all night. He glanced around the room, taking in the big windows and high ceilings.
“This is a nice apartment—you don’t have a roommate?”
“No. If I had a roommate, maybe I could afford a couch.”
“I could help you find a couch.” He seemed serious.
Cherry smiled. “Do you have a couch guy?”
He shook his head. “No. I . . .” He lowered an eyebrow. “I go to a lot of estate sales.” He said it like he knew it was weird.
“Your apartment must be very well appointed,” she said.
“Actually . . .” He looked down. “I still live at home.”
“Like, in your old room?”
Tom shrugged, glancing up at her. “It isn’t really my old room if I still live there.”
“I guess that’s true . . .” Cherry didn’t want to offend him—he already seemed embarrassed—but she couldn’t imagine having moved back home after college. She’d gotten her own place before she could even manage the rent. “You don’t want to
move out?”
“I don’t know . . .” He looked down again. “I think I’d still have to take care of my dad, even if I left. May as well stay
and save on rent.”
“Is your dad sick?”
Tom didn’t reply right away. He tapped his spoon against the table, then set it inside the empty ice cream carton. When he looked back up at Cherry, his lips were pursed like he was thinking. “He’s a heavy drinker.”
“Mine, too,” Cherry said quickly, without thinking at all.
Tom looked like she’d told him something much sadder than what he’d told her. “Your dad?”
She nodded.
“Is that why you don’t drink?”
She nodded again. “Why risk it?”
Tom’s mouth was so gentle . . . that almost-smile that hung on his lips. He looked down at the kitchen towel he was holding.
(Cherry didn’t have napkins.) “I brought you a present.”
She clicked her tongue in surprise. “You don’t have to give me a present. This is only—Well, we’ve barely met.”
Tom laughed for real. “It’s Christmas Eve. I wasn’t not going to bring a present.” He took something out of his pants pocket—a small package, wrapped in striped paper.
“I didn’t get you anything,” she murmured.
“You made lasagna.” He held out the package. “I’ve never had homemade lasagna.”
She smiled at him and took the present. She was still on her knees while she unwrapped it.
It was a very old ballpoint pen with an articulated, plastic cartoon bird on the end.
Cherry laughed. “This is adorable—where did you find it?”
“I’ve had it for a while.” Tom tapped the bird’s head, and it wobbled. “The beak moves when you use it, like it’s singing.”
She looked up at him. “Wait, are you giving me your own pen?”
“It’s your pen now. I wanted to give you something that I knew was good.”
They were both leaning over the table, both smiling. If she were to draw them now, she could do it with one line.
Tom was looking at Cherry like she had his full attention. No one had ever looked at her like that before—like their eyes couldn’t get enough of her.
Cherry tipped forward, making her chin available, if Tom wanted it . . .
Then making it unavoidable.
She pressed a kiss into his full, pink mouth.
Tom sat back, away from her, and let Cherry fall forward on the table.
A fat girl can’t wait for boys to pluck her like a flower or find her on the beach like a seashell.
Cherry had never been Cinderella. She’d always been the prince—chasing down what she wanted. (She’d been a witch, enchanting
apples.) She’d had to reach for things. For love. For attention.
She’d reached for Tom . . .
She’d reached too far.
She’d fallen into the Ben & Jerry’s container, and there was chocolate ice cream smeared on her chest.
Tom apologized.
And Cherry apologized.
And they got up and started walking toward the door—like it was clear to both of them that the situation had become unbearable.
Tom wouldn’t even look at Cherry. (Thank god.)
He left, holding his coat.
And Cherry stood by the door, crying.
She’d brought this on herself. Cherry brought everything on herself—she was a real go-getter. But she was usually a bit more
strategic than this. She could usually read the room.
She wondered if there had ever been a moment, since they met, when Tom would have kissed her back . . .
There was a knock at the door, and Cherry jumped.
She saw Tom through the peephole and considered ignoring him. She didn’t need to hear any more “I’m sorry”s.
When Cherry opened the door, Tom stepped in and immediately reached for her chin. He wrapped his hand around her jaw and kissed her so hard, she shifted back onto her heels.
She closed her eyes and let her neck go slack. Tom kissed her in one long press.
Cherry couldn’t make any sense of it. She couldn’t read him at all—she could usually read people.
She felt suspended from the kiss. From his hand on her jaw. If Tom let go of her, Cherry would fall boneless from a great
height.
Tom didn’t let go. But he pulled his mouth away an inch to take a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said urgently. “I just needed a
minute to get my head on straight.”
“You needed a minute,” Cherry parroted.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He lifted her chin, his eyes avid on her cheeks and mouth. “Can I kiss you again?”
“Do you want to?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Tom whispered back. “I really want to.”
Cherry nodded and let him kiss her. Over and over. In long presses and short bursts.
“I really want to,” Tom said between kisses. “I really want you, Cherry.”