CHAPTER 2 – ANTONIO
I nearly mistook my date for furniture.
It’s my mother’s fault. She thinks she’s an Italian-American Cupid. Obviously she’s delusional, but once she decides something is “good for me,” she’s like a dog with a bone.
Tonight, that bone is called Kevin.
My date is wearing a sensible sweater and an eager, expectant look on his face. I haven’t seen any signs of a personality yet, but the night is still young. Unfortunately.
Stop it.
I’m no Willy Wonka golden ticket myself—I know that.
I’m a bottle of snark under pressure, perpetually ready to pop. I try so hard
not to pop.
“Do you like movies?” Kevin asks, sipping his medium-sized soda.
“Sometimes.”
“Me too! Depends on the movie, though.”
“Yep.”
His smile falters.
“Have you seen Average Moe 2: Average Moe Returns?” he asks.
In a heroic attempt at social competence, I make a joke. “I haven’t even seen the first one where he leaves.”
The joke folds into itself and disappears with a cringe.
Kevin chuckles weakly.
“He doesn’t literally leave,” he explains.
Then he perks up. “Maybe we could go see it together? It has car chases, explosions, a couple of borderline inappropriate jokes—and of course a love story that evaporates as soon as the credits roll.”
“Wow,” I say. “That sounds… delightfully mediocre.”
“Exactly!”
He goes quiet and studies me with an intensity that makes my skin itch.
I half expect him to tell me he sees dead people, but no, he has another question for me.
“Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Same!”
I don’t give him the reply he’d deserve. I’m noble like that.
My thoughts wander to the treat waiting on my nightstand. It’s a textbook about the Industrial Revolution. I study history at the University of Bay Carolina. I might be their most enthusiastic student. History is far more interesting than anything that happens in the present. Much safer, too.
“Your turn to ask a question,” Kevin says.
“Cats or dogs?”
“Good one.” He rests his fingers under his chin. “Let me think.”
He thinks. He thinks some more. A bead of sweat forms on his temple.
Then another. A few Italian profanities creep closer and closer to the tip of my tongue, and I try my hardest to keep them inside.
“It wasn’t a trick question,” I finally say.
Kevin draws a breath.
“I’m going to go with dogs. Nope, can’t do that. Cats it is. Oh God, no.” He dabs his forehead with a napkin. “Can I say neither?”
“I don’t care,” I snap .
Okay, yes, I forgot to be polite, but I don’t think any jury would find me guilty of anything but exhaustion.
“Can you guess why I said neither?”
“No, but I can guess you’re going to tell me.”
Kevin leans closer. Now he looks like someone who’s about to confess a sin.
“I have a tarantula,” he whispers.
My spine locks. Are those spider legs tap-dancing on my neck? Did he bring the hideous creature with him?
I didn’t have a deadly bite in my bingo card for today.
“Her name’s Charlotte,” he adds proudly.
“From the book?”
“What book?”
I stare at him.
He has a spider called Charlotte and it’s not from Charlotte’s Web?
“I hate spiders with every fiber of my being,” I admit.
“I find beauty in their eight legs,” Kevin muses.
He fixes me with an unblinking stare. “Their eyes are so intense. Kind of sultry, if you think about it.”
Why is his voice so husky? Madonna—is he about to suggest some sort of spiderly sex?
I want to go home. I want to go home right now.
“I think we should call it a night.”
Kevin’s shoulders slump. Give me a break. Surely he didn’t enjoy this?
Well, he has the eight-legged Charlotte with her multiple eyes waiting for him.
*****
At home, Mom offers me a sliced banana, her face full of hope.
“Did you have a nice time? Kevin’s mother promised me he’s a delight.”
I pop a few slices in my mouth and chew.
“He was weird.”
“Did you kiss?” my sister, Maria, asks.
“No,” I reply, shuddering at the thought. “Anyway, he had a tarantula.”
Dad holds up his latest romance novel. The cover features a half-naked man with impressive pecs.
“Did he at least have a masculine chest?” he asks. “Like my dashing duke here?”
“It was a perfectly average chest.”
Maybe it wasn’t a chest. Maybe it was a battery slot. Or a spider cage.
Whatever it was, I had no interest in touching it.
It’s nothing new. I’ve never had sex. I’ve never even made out with anyone.
A boy kissed me once when I was fifteen. The next day he moved to Ireland with his family. I haven’t kissed anyone since. Not properly. I haven’t wanted to. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will.
It’s like my brain never got the assignment to want someone.
At least not anyone suitable.
Dad pats my shoulder, probably interpreting my silence as disappointment.
“No pressure, son. Date when you want. Don’t date when you don’t. You’re on no one’s timeline but your own.”
“And Mom’s,” Maria adds, snatching my last banana slice.
I laugh because Maria’s got a point.
Besides, laughing is easier than wondering whether something inside me is missing, broken, or simply waiting.