Chapter 3High schoolers have gone further than I have.
three
. . .
high schoolers have gone further than i have.
“No, Salsa, no, no!”
Out of bed in a split second, I’m reaching for him as I stumble around in my still-dark bedroom. But it’s too late. I can’t get to him, and he barfs all over my rug. One foot away from the hardwood floor.
“Salsa, do you not see that right here,” I motion with both hands down to the cherry-grain wood. “This is where you puke. Here. Where I can wipe it up.”
He brings a marmalade-colored paw to his mouth and licks it without a single care in the world. I blink at him, and after he’s tired himself from his minimal grooming, he jumps back onto my bed, curls into a ball, and closes his eyes.
“I got it, buddy, don’t worry,” I say to him because even though he’s a cat and I’m fully aware that he can’t clean up his vomit, I still need to guilt him a little. Why? Why does a grown man need to talk to a cat at two in the morning? Because I am alone.
It’s almost the only thing I can think about now. My loneliness. I know there’s a difference between being alone and lonely, but I’m both.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling dark, I wonder if I’d feel this way if Beau and Atticus hadn’t found themselves the real thing. If they were still single, would I care that I’m eight years into being a grown adult, living on my own with a career and everything, and still all alone?
Probably not. But man, what an ugly thought. What a devilish way to think– if they weren’t happy, I would be . No, I wouldn’t trade theirs for mine. But that’s just my point.
I’m at a place where I’m thinking that way. And that tells me what I need to know–time to get serious about meeting someone.
After visiting my barf clean-up supplies under my kitchen sink, I clean up Salsa’s mess, dispose of it, wash my hands and come back to my room. He’s migrated toward the center of my king size bed, and the part of me annoyed that he just puked wants to move him so I can stretch out in my own bed.
But the part of me that worries he has a tummy ache is much bigger, so I slide into bed around him and punch my pillow until it's comfortable beneath my head.
The woman with the dog said no, but it’s okay. There will be more no’s, but eventually, there will be a yes.
And then there will be a date. Many dates, hopefully. And lots of firsts with the one I’m meant to be with.
I twist in the sheets until my back is flush with the mattress, and I’m wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling.
Firsts.
What do I do with my hands when I lean in for the first kiss?
I’ve kissed before–I’m not that big of a loser–but I’ve never taken the lead.
Ever. Okay, maybe I am that big of a loser.
But how do I even initiate holding hands?
Do I rub her back when I hug her at the end of the date?
Do I pat her shoulder? Is it offensive to women if I want to open their car door?
Sweat forms in thick, urgent beads on my forehead, sliding down my temples. My back grows clammy, too, as the cotton of my shirt sticks to my spine. My pulse hammers in the hollow of my throat, and I drop my palm to my chest, trying to knead the discomfort away with knuckles to my sternum.
That’s it.
That’s what I’m most nervous about. Or, what did Delane say? Insecure? That’s what I’m most insecure about. I’m not one of those men who can’t admit they have inadequacies.
I have plenty of them.
And she’s right about me knowing what it is and needing to conquer it.
The physical side of the relationship is what makes me so insecure–the idea of having to do…
anything . Make a move and know that it’s the right move at the right time.
What if I move too slowly? What if I do something too aggressive and don’t even know it?
What if I suck at everything I do? I know nothing about how to touch a woman.
I know nothing about what a real kiss should be like, how you should take her hand and where.
I’m a twenty-six-year-old virgin with the dating experience of a fourteen-year-old boy. I’ve had two girlfriends wherein the relationship consisted of talking on the phone and going to the movies. That’s it.
High schoolers have gone further than I have.
Going back to sleep with that fact bouncing around my brain is challenging. But I force myself because if I don’t get a solid six, I’ll feel grouchy all day, and there’s nothing I hate more than feeling snippy.
I’m groggy and yawny as I make my way inside Wrench Kings this morning. Having an epiphany at nearly three in the morning will keep you from sleeping well, I’ll tell you that much.
I’m ready for a coffee the size of my head and a slow morning when I push inside to a breathtaking sight.
Delane, curls wild around her face and down her shoulders, face free of makeup and cherry ball stain, a wide smile on her lips.
But it’s not any of that. Sure, she looks absolutely stunning—which I’d never say because she’d hate it and get uncomfortable—but I’m used to walking into her gorgeous self daily.
It’s that her wide smile and general jubilance is… directed at me .
Me.
I swallow thickly and raise my travel mug to my lips, pretending to take a sip despite the fact that it’s been empty since one minute out of my driveway. I have to hide the tiny smile that curls my mouth. She’s happy to see me.
I mean, she’s not mean to me. She’s just… a little mean in general sometimes. But don’t get me wrong, I like it. I like it more than I should, more than I have the right to, that’s for sure.
But this morning, she’s beaming at me.
“Morning, Miller,” she says, giving me that amorous smile of hers.
Her fingers tangle in her chocolatey caramel curls as she brushes, then tucks them off her face, behind her ear.
My lips tingle at the fantasy of being pressed to the gentle slope of the neck she’s just exposed.
What noises would she make if I let my tongue discover all that warm, soft skin?
“Morning,” I greet with a nod and a smile I piece together after lowering my mug. Some guy is gonna be really lucky one day; her morning smile has my heart pounding against my ribs–imagine what it would be like waking up to that daily. He–whoever he may be–is already a very lucky guy.
“Hey,” she presses her palm to my chest, between my pecs, and I’m glad I’ve got my Wrench Kings hoodie on because my nipples get plucky.
Yeah, getting hard nipples from a hand to the chest? I need a girlfriend, like, eight years ago.
“Have lunch with me today,” she commands. Maybe that’s because we both know that when it comes to her, she doesn’t have to ask. She can tell me anything.
“Okay,” I say easily with a nod of my head. Her dark eyes shimmer as she stares up at me, rocking on her feet, rising onto her toes. I pinch my gaze on her. “Why?”
I don’t miss the little predatory smile she makes. “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Little does she know; there’s very little I’d refuse her. Murder, that’s probably the only thing. And even then, her reasoning would have to be very far off for me to say no. I guess it’s a good thing for me that Delane has no mortal enemies.
“Alright, Godfather,” I tease, winking. “I’ve got a fuel pump replacement at 11, but I should be good a little past noon. Where do you want to go?”
She raises her chin with pride as she reaches across the desk, lifting the blue cooler bag she brings every day. “I brought lunch. Enough for both of us. Leftovers from dinner last night. ”
I’m not a picky eater, but I know for a fact that Delane and her mom are good cooks.
For every single holiday, Patty comes in with Delane, pinching cheeks and delivering plates and casserole dishes full of warm, home-cooked meals and baked goods that stick to your ribs.
Leftovers from Delane’s have to be better than anything I could buy around Oakcreek.
I shrug easily. “Alright. I’ll be out here later.”
Her smile returns, this time a bit unsteady, as her dark eyes continue to hold my gaze. “Okay, sounds good.”
I smile back at her, and I swear a little spark pops off in my chest, and right when I feel my ears heat and my cheeks go tingly, I excuse myself to the garage to get to work.
Atticus is out back, laughing about something with Beau, but honestly, I’m a bit shell-shocked from Delane, and I can’t hold it in.
I’m also not the kind of guy afraid of asking for advice.
I grew up in a home where questions weren’t asked; minds weren’t allowed to discover, explore and wonder.
You believed what you were told and existed happily without any answers.
I’ve been figuring the world out since I left home at eighteen, and I promised myself that I’d never be afraid to ask. To share. To wonder aloud.
I interrupt them, Beau holding a paper cup of coffee almost to his mouth, Atticus mid-bite on a donut. “Delane just asked me to lunch and told me she has an offer for me that I can’t refuse.”
Atticus finishes his cruller, a piece of glazed dough stuck in the corner of his mouth. Beau motions to it, and Atticus licks the piece away. “Okay,” he drags out, confusion cinching his brows.
“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Beau asks, taking another sip. Steam escapes through the oval on his lid, casting white fog between us .
“That’s why I’m asking you guys. I thought you’d know why.” My eyes go between them, but they look more clueless than me. I shrug. “Well… don’t tell her I told you then, I guess.”
Atti snorts. “We aren’t fourteen, Miller.”
Beau claps a hand on my shoulder. “We won’t say anything, alright? Now, where are you taking her?”
“She brought leftovers; she wants to eat here. I’d take her out, but I don’t want her to be offended, and anyway, what if she wants to talk about something completely harmless, and it’s not a date at all?
I wouldn’t take one of you out to a nice lunch.
I can’t assume it’s more just because it’s her. ”
“Because you got it bad,” Atti deadpans with a wink.