12. Easton
12
EASTON
A Sunday night isn’t the ideal time for a date, but I didn’t want to wait until Monday, and I’m not sure that would really be any better anyway. When the girl you like works nights, you take what you can get.
It took me a while to figure out what to do on our date.
First dates are a lot of pressure when you like the girl—it’s a little like picking appetizers and entrees for someone that you want them to like. But I’m virtually certain I’ll win her over with my plan. I have very little to work with that’s in any way adjacent to the musical realm. I wasn’t kidding when I said I sound like the seagull from The Little Mermaid . Honestly, that might be a little generous. He, at least, had moxie.
I do have one single card to play.
I’m thinking the element of surprise will help me, so my text is a little vague. I’LL PICK YOU UP AT 6. WEAR COWBOY BOOTS IF YOU HAVE ANY.
That precipitates a volley of clarification texts from her, all of which I ignore. Where’s the mystery if I tell her via text what we’re doing and why I chose it? No, it’s better if she stews a little. I’ve given her the relevant information. It’ll either go over really well, or it’ll be like the time I tried to rent out her entire area at work.
I’m really hoping for the ‘well’ option. I must be due, right?
I check my clothing at least six times in the mirror before I decide I should text someone. I have no idea what my stylist would say, so I don’t ask her. I text Ace a photo.
OH MY—WHAT ARE YOU WEARING, TEX?
REMEMBER THAT CLASS I TOOK IN UNDERGRAD? I’m hanging all my hopes on the fact that my professor gave me an A, and now that I’m almost out of time to even change clothes, I’m starting to panic.
Ace calls me. “What are you doing right now?”
“She agreed to let me take her out,” I say.
As my best friend, Ace was the first person I told when I met Bea. “Took her long enough.”
“Things that are worth it take effort.”
“So you keep telling me,” Ace says. “But I prefer easy conquests.” Some girl’s laughing next to him.
“You don’t say.” I snort. “But listen, do I look okay? Ask your date.”
“She wants to know how rich you are,” Ace says.
I hang up. Clearly any advice he gives me won’t be any good. “Okay,” I say to myself in the mirror. “It’s going to be fine. She agreed to go out with you, and if nothing else, she’ll see that you put effort into this.”
Right? Probably.
I give a lot of thought to which car to pick her up in. I could use the 4Runner again. She seemed surprised, but she knows about it. She probably drives something a waitress can afford, but I’m absolutely positive her brother Jake drives something expensive. I know Emerson doesn’t care much about cars, so I’m wondering whether she’ll like a more expensive car or be repulsed by it.
At the end of the day, what woman hates money?
I almost take the 911, but in the end, I pick the XC90. It’s not flashy, but it’s roomy and nondescript. It’s the safe call, and I feel like I should play some part of tonight safe. When I pull into a spot in her apartment complex beside a truck, I’m glad I picked the car I did. Jake’s outside with Bea, and he’s kicking her tire. Neither of them sees me, which allows me a moment to spy on them.
“This thing’s a hunk of junk, Bea. I swear, why won’t you just let me buy you something that runs?”
“Because you’d get me something horrible.”
“You could just take one of my two cars,” he says. “I don’t need both.”
“Like I said. Horrible.” But she’s smiling.
“Pick what you want, then,” he says.
She sighs. “I can afford the car I have, as you well know.”
“I have more money than I need, as you well know, so—” He cuts off when he sees me.
Bea follows his face to mine. “Oh.” She glances at her watch. “Shoot.”
She’s wearing a very cute sundress, but she’s definitely not wearing boots. At least she’s wearing cute flats that are close-toed.
“I don’t have cowboy boots,” she says, “and I was going to try and find a pair at Goodwill, but then my car wouldn’t start and?—”
“Who gives a girl shoe requirements for a date?” Jake scowls. “Starting off on the wrong foot, man. ”
Bea kicks him. “Stop being rude.”
“Ow.” He’s limping as he hobbles toward the apartment. Maybe that’s why he keeps glaring at me, but I doubt it. I have a growing suspicion that Jake’s feelings for Bea aren’t entirely brotherly.
“Are these shoes alright?” Bea looks nervous.
“They’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m sorry I stressed you out.”
She shakes her head. “No, you didn’t. But then you didn’t respond about why I needed them, and I was worried.” She takes in my outfit—Lucchese boots, dark jeans, a belt, and a grey western shirt with snaps in place of buttons. “Are we going to some kind of costume party?”
I can’t help laughing. “Something like that.”
“Huh?”
“Are you ready to go, or do you need to go back inside?”
Bea snatches her purse off the top of her car and walks toward me. “No, let’s steer clear of Jake. He’s always in a bad mood when I ask for a ride.”
“Seems like he’d be happy to fix your transportation problems.”
Bea sighs, following me to my Volvo. “Jake’s always extra. You just have to learn to say no around him a lot.”
“At least he means well.”
“He still thinks his whole career took off because of one stupid song I wrote.” She snorts. “It was his face, his talent, all of what makes Jake Priest that won. It had very little to do with my song.”
I remember that single, I think. “Was it the one about lemons?”
She pauses. “You remember it?”
“They played it like twenty times a day for a while,” I say. “Everyone remembers it. ”
“Well, anyway, movies are a way better fit for him, I think.”
“Because he didn’t really write the song?”
“He’s just a better actor than a pop star.” She shrugs. “He really likes acting, and he’s great at it. I suppose you could say his life prepared him to be good at it.”
I’ll have to ask more about that one later. What kind of life prepares someone to be an actor? Was he a circus performer or something? “Are you curious where we’re going?”
“I assume that was your goal.” She hops in the car before I can decide whether to be cheesy and open her door.
I rush around and climb in my side to start the car. “It was, I guess, but only because I wanted you to spend today looking forward to our date.”
She’s staring out the window, so I have no idea what she’s thinking or whether she’s annoyed.
“Maybe that was the wrong plan. I could have simply started early and tried to monopolize your time all day.”
Her head whips toward me. “Oh, no, that would’ve been bad. I had to do all my laundry this morning.”
“Oh, darn. That was a missed chance,” I say. “I wonder what you look like when all your good clothes are dirty.” I eye her outfit. “You could have been wearing American flag pants and a kitten shirt.”
“Or an old Pink Floyd shirt and Sponge Bob boxers. You never know.”
At least we’re chatting just fine. In fact, the thirty-minute drive to City Slickers flies by, and as we pull up, Bea peers at the street signs. “Where are we?”
“I haven’t been here for a while,” I say. “I’m a little worried I’ll make a fool of myself. But. . .” I cut the engine and climb out .
She looks at me over the hood of the car. “City Slickers?”
I point to the line below it. “Dance hall.”
“Dance?” Her eyebrows rise and her lip twists. “As in. . .we’re dancing?”
“Not a fan?”
She shrugs. “I mean, I’m not not a fan, but I’ve never been before.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Most of the heavy lifting falls on me, I swear.”
“And you know how to dance?” She lifts both eyebrows. “Because that surprises me, to be honest.”
I laugh. “It was my favorite class one semester.”
She stares.
“Okay, fine. Two.” I start for the door, and she catches up. I think about going for her hand, but it’s too early. She’s too skittish.
And I’ll be holding it a lot in a few minutes if things go as planned.
“They also have amazing tacos,” I say. “The proprietor started this as a Tex Mex place, but they decided to add some things to bring more people in, and. . .” I gesture for her to go ahead of me.
It’s usually hard to get a table, especially on Sunday nights. They don’t do country dancing every night, but they do Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I called ahead, however, and with a little persuasion , they agreed to hold us a spot.
“Mr. Moorland,” the host says, waving us through.
As we eat our tacos, Bea watches the dancers. Her tapping foot is a dead giveaway that she’s musical. She may not know how to dance, but she knows rhythm. Unfortunately, she also appears to be getting more and more nervous about the dancing part .
“I’ve already had a lot of fun,” she says when I finish my second taco. “I’m not sure?—”
I stand up and hold out my hand.
“But my purse.”
“It’ll be fine, I promise.”
She frowns, but she does stand, and then she places her tiny hand in mine. That same zing I felt before runs from the place where her hand touches mine, all the way through my entire body.
Until this moment, I wasn’t sure it was real.
I’ve seen enough movies where you feel that little zap, but in thirty years, I’ve never once felt it myself. I thought maybe that’s what happened before, but it was so quick that I didn’t trust it.
But tonight?
Touching her makes me want to dance, so we’re in the right place. And just then, a song ends. I have to drag her, practically, but we slide out onto the dance floor. When the next song starts, it’s This Kiss by Faith Hill, and it’s a good one to start with.
Watching her face as my hand slides around her waist and my other hand wraps tightly around her hand, moving her around the dance floor in time with the music. . .it’s everything I hoped it would be. She’s easy to move—not fumbly or resistant—and once we start moving, it’s like she and I are the only ones out here.
That’s always been my favorite part. The world disappears.
Her cheeks are rosy, and by the end of the song, she’s smiling.
“Not too bad?”
“You’re a wonderful dancer,” she says. “I’m very impressed.”
But the next song’s starting. “Shall we keep going? ”
She doesn’t pause. She just nods.
I whirl her away. The faster songs, the slower ones, she never asks to sit down. Hours pass, and my feet start to complain, and still, we keep dancing. Finally, I get a small stitch in my side, and I drag her back to our table.
“Were you really not tired?” I ask as we’re both chugging our waters.
She shrugs. “I’m on my feet for more than eight hours a day for work.”
I smack my forehead. “Duh. I should’ve known.”
“What?” she asks. “Sitting at a desk and ordering people around all day didn’t prepare you for this?”
I laugh. “I may not be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you stop sooner?” She looks genuinely worried.
“It felt like I’d drifted into Faerie,” I say. “I would have danced all night.”
“I’m sorry you felt chained to it.”
“Nothing like that,” I say. “I just didn’t want to let you go.” I can still feel her in my arms—the most perfect thing I’ve ever felt.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, it feels like she thinks the same thing. All around us music blares, people bustle, and glasses clink. But here, at our table, it’s like the tiny sphere of isolation that exists on that dance floor has extended to wrap us up again. It’s just Beatrice Cipriani and me, our perfect moment. Her eyes are wide, her lips just slightly parted, and the only way this could be better is if there wasn’t a table in between us and I could kiss her.
I’m trying to figure out how I can make that happen when my phone rings, the stupidly loud jangle breaking through our bubble like a hammer to glass. I ball up my hand, my jaw tightening. Why didn’t I turn the ringer off?
“Do you need to answer that?” Bea glances down at it.
I hit the volume down button to silence it, but it starts ringing again almost immediately. It’s Ace. He’s going to keep calling until I pick up. I groan and swipe to answer the call. “What?”
“Where are you?”
“I told you,” I hiss. “I’m out.”
“Oh, right. With Cinderella.”
Sometimes he’s really obnoxious.
“Look, I just found out that Waterman’s having a party, and the rumor is, he has some cash to invest. I really want to convince him to invest with me.”
“Why do you need money?”
“I want to hire some new developers,” he says. “Only?—”
“I don’t care,” I say. “Good luck.”
“Wait,” Ace cries. “Don’t hang up. I heard you got invited to the party.”
“So?”
“You’re not going?”
I snort.
“Okay, but you could go, and you could take me with you.”
“This is a you problem,” I say. Only Ace would be so self-centered that he’d call me on the first real date I’ve had in a decade to ask for a favor.
“Easton, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”
Sounds like Ace needs more than just a few developers. I exhale. The night’s been great, so maybe I should end on a high note. Leave her wanting more. “Fine.”
“Thank you. Should I come get you? ”
“No.” I can drop Bea off and swing around the loop faster than heading home. “I’ll go straight there myself. Give me a little bit.”
“Need to go?” Bea doesn’t look upset, but she does look curious.
“A large part of my job, unfortunately, is knowing the right people, and it’s taken me years to meet some of these people, and even more to convince them to take me seriously.” My parents didn’t do me any favors, there. “My buddy Ace?—”
“I heard,” she says. “He wants you to introduce him to some people at a party?”
“A party he can’t get into without me,” I say. “So if you don’t mind if I?—”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll go with you. Unless you think I’m underdressed?”
I blink. She’ll go with me? I thought she hated stuff like that—I was sure this would be the end of tonight. But if we keep hanging out after the party. . .I could take her to get dessert or something. And if I’m not in a big rush, I might be able to kiss her.
No.
I will kiss her. Screw Ace and his demands. I’ll get him into the party, and then I’m bailing. This is still my night. I smile. “Sure. Great. We don’t need to be there more than a few minutes.”
“Okay.” Her smile’s shy, and I love it. More than I should, probably.
It feels like she’s smiling just for me. I think that’s the thing that I like the most about her. I’ve never in my life felt as special as I do when I’m with her. When she smiles, when she glances my way, when she turns and her eyes meet mine. . .it feels like the world is ours.