Chapter 13 Just the Two of Us #2
"Because you needed time. And I didn't want to be the guy who showed up two weeks after your breakup asking for a date. That would have been wrong. You deserved space to figure out what you wanted without someone else's agenda in the way."
I look at him in the dim light of the truck cab.
The streetlights on Birch Street cast enough light through the windshield that I can see his face clearly.
He's not performing sincerity. He's not trying to say the right thing.
He's stating facts the way he states all facts. Clearly. Without embellishment.
"Walk me to the door?" I say.
He walks me up the porch steps. Dorothy's lights are off downstairs. The porch light is on because I left it on before I went out. We stand facing each other and the space between us is about a foot and it feels like the most important foot of distance I've ever navigated.
"Goodnight, Lara," he says.
"Goodnight."
Neither of us moves. We stand there for about three seconds that feel much longer and then I step forward and I put my hand on his chest and I go up on my toes and I kiss him.
His mouth is warm. He doesn't grab me or pull me closer or turn it into something it's not ready to be.
He kisses me back gently, carefully, with one hand coming up to rest on my waist. The kiss lasts about five seconds and when I pull back he's looking at me with an expression I haven't seen on him before. Open. Unguarded. Happy.
"That was a really good first date," he says.
"It was."
He waits until I'm inside and then I hear his truck start and pull away and I stand in my apartment with my back against the closed door and I press my fingers to my mouth and I smile in the dark.
We go on four more dates over the next three weeks.
A movie at a theater in the next town, where Nathan shares his popcorn and I learn that he doesn't like previews and considers them an invasion of the moviegoing experience.
A hike at a state park forty minutes away where the trail follows a creek bed through a canopy of trees and Nathan identifies three types of birds by their calls and I pretend to be less impressed than I am.
Dinner again at Clarkson's, which is becoming our restaurant, where the waiter recognizes us and smiles.
And an afternoon at a bookstore in the next town where we spend two hours browsing separate sections and reconvening every twenty minutes to show each other what we've found.
We leave with six books between us and Nathan carries all of them to the truck.
Each date is better than the last. Each conversation goes deeper. Each goodbye gets harder.
On the fifth date Nathan cooks dinner at his apartment. Ronnie is conveniently absent for the evening, which means Nathan told him and Ronnie made himself scarce because Ronnie is a good roommate and an even better friend.
Nathan makes pasta with a sauce that involves fresh tomatoes and garlic and herbs and he cooks the way he does everything: carefully and competently and without wasted motion.
I sit at the kitchen counter and I drink wine and I watch him and I feel a warmth inside me that has been growing for weeks.
We eat. We talk. We clean up together, which involves Nathan washing dishes and me drying them and our arms brushing against each other at the sink. After the dishes are done we move to the couch. Nathan puts on music. Something quiet and low.
We sit close together. Not three inches apart.
Close. His arm is behind me on the couch and my head is near his shoulder and we're talking about something that I later won't remember because what I remember is the moment when I stop talking and turn and look at him and he looks at me and we stop pretending that the evening is about pasta.
I kiss him. He kisses me back. This kiss is different from the first one on the porch.
It's longer and deeper and his hand comes up to my face and he holds me there gently and I put my hand on his arm and I can feel the muscle underneath his shirt and my brain goes quiet for the first time in months.
We kiss for a long time on the couch. Then Nathan pulls back slightly.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks. His voice is low and serious.
"Yes."
"Because we can take this as slow as you need."
"Nathan."
"Yeah?"
"I'm sure."
He stands up. He takes my hand. He leads me down the hallway to his bedroom and closes the door behind us.
His bedroom is clean and simple. A made bed. A nightstand with a lamp and a book. A dresser with nothing on top of it. The room smells like clean sheets and his deodorant and nothing else.
He kisses me again standing next to the bed.
His hands are on my waist and then my hips and then the hem of my shirt.
He asks again, without words this time, just a pause with his fingers on the fabric, and I answer by lifting my arms so he can pull it over my head.
He drops it on the floor and his eyes move down my body and then back up to my face and his expression changes.
The composure softens. Something hungrier replaces it.