Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I didn’t say it was nice. I said it was bearable,” I correct Em, who’s been teasing me since I got home from the impromptu date with Xander.
“Bearable,” Em says, from her basically horizontal position on my couch. Then she smiles as she continues, “Allowable. Acceptable. Sustainable.”
“You and your thesaurus need to relax. This is not voluntary. It’s contractual,” I say in between scenes of Cocktail. The movie just happened to be on, and neither of us have bothered to make the effort to find something else.
“The biggest injustice of this film isn’t that Tom Cruise can’t pour a cocktail to save his life, or the misogynist speech he gives at the end. It’s the fact that ‘Kokomo’ plays for only three seconds in the entire movie,” I say, waving my hand at the TV. Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take ya …
“No,” Em says, shaking her head.
“What?”
“You’re not changing the topic, even if your commentary is warranted. You just went on the first date you’ve ever been on in your entire life. You are giving me details,” Em says, while Tom gives Elisabeth (with an s—yes, I had to IMDB her) a tropical contact high.
I peel my eyes off the screen and steal a glance at Em. She’s trying to keep a casual face, but there’s a hint of a smile. Em—the ever romantic—is happy I went on a date. I guess that tracks after I promised her all the juicy details if she stopped texting me.
“Xander drinks lattes,” I say, starting with something easy, but Em cuts in.
“Boring.”
She’s right. “You can tell a lot by a person’s coffee order,” I say, grasping at straws.
“Is that what Buzzfeed told you?” she says, smartass coming through thick. “Give me something real.”
“He was in a relationship for five years,” I say, offering the piece of information that’s been stuck in my head since he dropped me off. Xander doesn’t just date. He settles down. For the long haul.
“Xander’s a relationship guy,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “How long ago was this?”
“Ages,” I say, keeping it vague. I’ve already done the math. His rebound to five-year relationship has nothing to do with me. And I don’t need Em trying to manipulate information for shits and giggles. But this vague answer doesn’t stop her from asking more questions. If anything, it spurs her on.
“Why’d they break up?”
“Dunno.”
“Did she break up with him?”
“Dunno.”
“Did he break up with her?”
“Dunno.”
“What do you know?”
“He was in a five-year relationship with someone. He is not anymore.” I shrug.
“Sounds like a fun date.”
“It was bearable.” I realize I have not fulfilled my promise of juicy gossip. And so I decide to offer her the one morsel of gossip I know she’ll have no problem dining out on for a week.
“There is one other thing,” I say, slyly keeping my eyes forward.
“What?” she says, interest piqued.
“We kissed,” I say, sliding my eyes over to her. I decide to go for the PG-13 version. She doesn’t need to know Xander had me thisclose to fondling myself last night. And I would have, if it wasn’t for being interrupted by Ben.
“What?” Em says, whipping her head to me. “When?”
“The other night. In bed …”
“I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care,” she says, cutting me off after realizing she’s asking the wrong question. Here it comes.
“How was it?” she says, almost singing out the words in excitement. I don’t respond immediately. Last night’s indiscretion is all consuming in my memory.
The flicker in his eyes the moment he made the decision to kiss me. The way he cupped my face. How it started off slow. My inability to restrain myself as I pressed my entire body into his. How he pressed back. The electrical current that ran along every single nerve in my body.
“You’re rendered speechless,” she says, mouth open.
“I have speech,” I say, a little too shrill to come across like I wasn’t just daydreaming about said kiss. Em laughs at this. “This is me talking.”
“Always in denial,” Em says, pushing my buttons.
“I mean, of course it was fucking great. We know this,” I say, coming at it from a practical standpoint. “The reason I decided to spend the night with him eleven years ago was not because he’s terrible with his mouth, is it?”
This shuts Em up for all of a second. “We also know he’s helpful, open, and generous,” Em says, like she’s piecing together a profile of Xander. Not to hunt him down for heinous crimes like they would a serial killer. Something much more serious. A dating profile.
“How do we know this?”
“He drinks lattes,” she says, and this sends me over the edge.
“Buzzfeed.” We both shout at the same time, collapsing in laughter.
When the laughter subsides, Em gets up and heads to the kitchen.
She returns a moment later with a bottle of beer and more slightly salted potato chips.
This woman can drink beer like it’s freaking water.
Me? The yeast factor makes it like eating a loaf of alcoholic bread, which would be a great afternoon snack if I wasn’t heading to a sleep study later this evening.
“I can’t,” I say, exercising restraint. I can’t be inebriated around Xander anymore. I don’t need less inhibitions around him. If anything, I need more. Way more.
“Coughlin’s Law: Drink or be gone,” she says, quoting Cocktail while producing a bottle of water.
“That is very kind of you,” I say, taking the bottle gratefully and drowning myself in the cool H20. How does water taste so good when it has no taste?
Seconds later, the bottle is officially empty and I already feel better.
Em settles on the couch next to me.
“So, what’d you get up to last night?” I ask.
“I went drunk shopping online and found you the perfect dress for the wedding,” she replies. “Want to see?”
She whips out her phone and shows me a photo of a blood-orange, puffed-sleeve, deep V neck, exposed back, cut above the knees wedding dress.
“It’s perfect.” I’ve been feeling guilty about ditching Em as my wedding date but apparently she doesn’t care to take my feelings into consideration because she says, “Xander is going to lose his mind when he sees you wearing this.”
“Do I really have to bring Xander as my date?” I raise my eyebrows, but it’s no use. Me dating is like crack to her. I can see the unhinged written all over her face. She’s on a mission now.
“Emphatically yes.”
“Pfftt. Is there a rulebook on dating?” I say, almost sarcastic.
“Many. Why?” she replies, serious. Because of course there’s a self-help section at Barnes & Noble filled with dating advice, with my mom’s book smack bang in the middle. See what I mean by incompetent?
“You have so much to learn,” she says, patting my arm. “Since this is what you do now. You date.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t you?”
I study her. No, I don’t date. I have one-night stands. And then I sneak out before the morning. Although I notice my heart beats a little quicker as I picture Xander all dressed up, hair styled, opening car doors, kissing on sidewalks.
And then I think about the reason why I’m even thinking about dating Xander to begin with. For the sake of the sleep study.
“I am dating Xander Miller.” Officially. On the record.
“Holy shit,” Em says at the confession. That’s all she says. It appears that dating Xander Miller has rendered us both speechless.
We turn back to the movie as Tom Cruise cheats on Elisabeth with the older rich woman. And this is exactly why I don’t date.
I reach over and swipe Em’s bottle of beer. I take a sip.
Coughlin’s Law: Drink or be gone.
Xander and I stand at the entrance to a rando carnival I’ve never seen before in my life. It’s complete with a circus tent, grown-ass men wearing clown costumes, and a Ferris wheel. Here I am. Wednesday afternoon. On a second date.
We have been the height of respectability during the last few nights of the sleep study. I would like to publicly thank me. I want to thank me for keeping my hands to myself. I want to thank me for keeping my hands out of my own pants. And I want to thank me for keeping Xander out of my dreams.
“When you said ‘carnival,’ you really meant carnival,” I say, turning to Xander, who looks like he’s a celebrity in disguise trying to do “normal people things” with a red plaid shirt and dark blue baseball cap. Turns out, the man with the capsule wardrobe has range.
“What does ‘carnival’ mean to you?” Xander says, raising his eyebrows.
“A murder scene waiting to happen,” I say. “There isn’t a single crime procedural show that doesn’t have a circus serial killer episode.”
“You’re dark,” he says, laughing. “And have questionable taste in television.”
“Fine, if you get murdered in the haunted house, I will not go out of my way to find the killer to avenge your death. I will wait for the F.B.I.,” I say.
He’s laughing even more now. Until he stops.
“Wait. Why am I getting murdered in the haunted house and not you? You’re the pretty one. And the type to get seduced by Ted Bundy.”
“Not a brunette. Not his type,” I say, correcting him. He reaches over and holds a piece of my blonde hair, studying it. There’s a faint smile on his face and I don’t know what exactly he’s thinking—or remembering—but just as quickly as he picked up the strand, he lets it go.
“Can we go have fun now and debate who gets killed later?” he says and hands over our tickets to the operator who clicks them, old-school style. I follow him through the gates.
There’s a spring in Xander’s step. I’d say the guy’s a morning person, but I don’t think that applies when you don’t sleep—ever.
Maybe he’s a carnival person. There’s an adorable lighthearted wonder to him as his eyes scan from left to right.
Between Xander calling me pretty and me even thinking Xander is adorable, the evidence is undeniable. Dating is the death of love and lust.
I follow Xander’s line of sight and spot a clown. Gross.