Chapter 9
NINE
NORA
“Aww, is that your boyfriend Bruce you’re texting?” Lydia asks, a grin on her face.
We’ve finished playing pickleball for the night, and I’m over by the benches, checking my phone for the first time in hours. Lydia and I are the last two to leave.
“He’s just a friend,” I correct, realizing only now that Bruce and I have been texting on and off for two days—all two days that we’ve had each other’s numbers. I still don’t have his real name. Sneaky me thought I’d be able to reverse search his number online, and it would pop up with his real name. No luck. I tried a few times. Someone named Kristen always pops up—which I assume means someone named Kristen used to have his number.
The messages we’ve shared haven’t been lengthy or anything super beneath the surface, just periodic little notes, usually initiated by him, saying hello. Or good morning or good afternoon or good night or even a couple he sent along the lines of, “I’m bored. Talk to me.” To which I replied, “Doesn’t Batman have any friends?” And Bruce said, “Batman’s in a line of work that doesn’t allow him the luxury of friendship. You’re the only one.” And this then made me realize that, if this is Ryan Lane, or even if this guy isn’t Ryan, he must be pretty lonely.
Right now, I’m admiring a picture he sent me of his lunch—a grilled cheese sandwich he very proudly noted he made himself.
“I’ve never seen you smiling like that before,” Lydia adds, drawing my attention away from the phone. “Not even when you score a really good point.”
“Oh, he just said something funny.” I’m brushing her off, kind of lying a little, ignoring the giddy feelings inside of me—there’s nothing funny about a grilled cheese sandwich. Because, uh, I’m not the sort of girl who gets the guy, even a normal guy. On top of that, this might be Ryan Lane.
“Uh huh, I’m sure he did.” Lydia’s got a curious glint on her face as she’s starting to walk away, her Joola bag slung around her back. “I’ll see ya later, okay?”
“See you later!” I call after her, immediately returning to my device.
Me : You’re a regular gourmand. There’s cheese and bread on that sandwich.
Bruce : You tease, but I’ll have you know, I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. People rave about it on both coasts.
I’ve got one knee bent to my chest, the other leg extended and stretched across the bench seat, phone between my legs. Glad I’m alone and that Bruce isn’t here to check out these thunder thighs.
My fingers linger on the virtual keyboard, unsure of what to send next, but feeling like I want to say something—I’m not ready for the conversation to be over yet. But I see the dots in our messaging app, and Bruce beats me to the punch.
Bruce: What are you up to tomorrow night?
I quickly tap over and check my calendar.
Me : I’ve got nothing going on. Why?
Bruce : Meet me for dinner?
Me : You mean… in an actual restaurant? Does Batman do real dinner dates?
Bruce : At this restaurant he does.
Me : That sounds ominous.
Bruce : Just… trust me a little. It’ll be romantic. I think.
Me : You think? That’s confident.
And where is this confidence coming from on my part? Talking to a person like that. Then again, it’s always been easier for me to find my courage behind a phone or a computer. It’s no surprise that most of my relationships either started online or, even if we met in person, we spent a lot of time talking digitally in the beginning.
Bruce : 7 pm tomorrow? I was thinking Alexander’s, unless you’re opposed to it. I called them a few minutes ago and placed a reservation for two for tomorrow. So, please say yes.
Me : Alexander’s? Isn’t that the blind tasting place? Like where you eat in the dark?
Bruce : That’s the one.
Me : Everyone wants to eat there. It’s booked months out in advance.
Me : …how did you get reservations so last minute?
Unless, of course, this is Ryan Lane. But then why would he take me of all people?
No, no, no. Can’t be Ryan.
I’m not good enough for a guy like that.
There it is again. My voice, my mom’s voice, society’s voice. All singing the same sad song, again and again, on repeat.
I’m not good enough.
I’ll never be good enough.
And no one worthy could ever possibly care about me.
The narrative’s part of my every fiber, and I can’t erase it.
Bruce : I’m Batman. Haven’t we already established this? I have my ways.
Me : Mmhmm. Okay, Batman.
Bruce : See you tomorrow night at 7, beautiful.
Me : You keep saying that, and I keep wondering who you’re talking to. Or if you’re saying it as a joke.
Bruce : We really need to work on your self-confidence.
Me : See you tomorrow at 7 pm.
As I put the phone down in my lap, my heart pounds, and everything inside of me heats to the extreme.
I’m a mix of anxiety and excitement. Every cell in my body tenses. My mind’s racing. When I swallow, my throat constricts, and for a second, I wonder if I’m going to stop breathing.
If this is how I’m feeling now, before the date, then how in the actual fuck am I going to get through the date itself?