Practically Undeclared: From The World of Theoretically Straight

Flashback

“I swear to God, I have never felt so betrayed by Rotten Tomatoes before.”

“Those bastards!”

My date snorts and shakes his head before tossing our mostly consumed popcorn in the trash. “God, that editing was horrible. What were they thinking?”

“I couldn’t get past the weird dialogue,” I add. “Who talks like that?”

“Right? It took me right out of it!” He expertly steps ahead of me to hold the door—always such a gentleman. “Damn, I had such high hopes for this, too. I feel like more people need a warning before going into this.”

I laugh. “I mean, did you actually read the reviews or anything?”

“Of course not! I didn’t want to get spoiled!”

“Dude, not all reviews are spoilers.”

“Some of them are! Spoilers are an epidemic, babe. I’m honestly shocked that I was able to avoid spoilers this long. This movie has been out for almost a week.”

I have to resist rolling my eyes. It’s annoying when guys get weird about movies. But I knew this about him going in, so I don’t really feel it’s fair to complain.

Besides, there are far worse things than cinephiles. Men can be terrible.

“Well, maybe you should write a spoiler-free review that warns people not to trust Rotten Tomatoes’ rating,” I suggest. “How hard could that be?”

My date considers it. “Hmm. Maybe I should.”

“How does one become a Rotten Tomatoes critic, anyway?” I continue. “What credentials are required to influence that final score?”

As we step out through the theater’s double doors, we’re immediately swamped by the oppressive late-July heat.

Even though the sun has set, the humidity hangs heavy in the air, and the abrupt shift from the theater’s frigid air nearly knocks the breath out of me.

I quickly unzip my purple hoodie and yank it off, freeing my skin from suffocation.

Unsurprisingly, my date does the same, removing the beige button-down cardigan that matches his posh leather shoes.

Okay, yeah, I’m underdressed for this date. I had assumed our fourth date to grab ice cream and see a late movie had moved us into a more casual zone, but yet again, I was wrong. What else is new?

The walk to his car is fairly short—our local theater’s parking lot is never full—as is the drive back to my house.

We chit-chat a bit more about the movie we just watched, as well as other films we love and hate.

Predictably, very few of our favorites overlap.

It’s disappointing, but definitely not shocking.

My date pulls into my driveway, parks the car, and angles his body toward me. “So, despite how shitty that movie was, I had another great time with you today.”

“Me, too.”

He smiles and licks his lips. “I’m just sad the night is over.”

I swallow nervously. I know he wants me to invite him in.

I glance at the dashboard clock: 10:16 PM.

My family isn’t home yet—they’re supposed to be back around 11.

They don’t know I’m on a date. They think I’m out with my friends from school.

So, in theory, I could ask him to come in for a few minutes.

Isn’t that how a fourth date is supposed to end?

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize he’s leaned in closer, and before I know it, we’re kissing.

His lips are soft and warm, and he tastes faintly of mint.

Did he have gum or something? Did he offer me some?

Why didn’t I take it? I’m sure my breath is horrible.

Does he think I’m gross now? Shit, am I messing this whole thing up?

“Sorry,” I whisper, pulling back. “Do you—do you have a mint or something?”

His eyes go wide. “Oh, um, sure. Yeah, I can—I’m sorry, is my breath bad?”

“Oh, God, no,” I say quickly. “Yours is great. I was just worried about mine.”

He shakes his head ardently. “No, no, you’re fine. More than fine, really. You always smell amazing.”

My stomach flips a bit at that. “Oh, okay, cool. Then, um, I guess we can—”

His lips are back on mine in an instant, and I try to suppress the anxiety.

Kissing is nice. It’s always nice. I’ve always been into physical affection, and I’ve found that kissing is a fun and interesting way to feel close to another person.

Dating seems to be the only way to access that level of intimacy, though, which is fine.

I mean, I’d much rather kiss someone I already know and like, but apparently, kissing isn’t something platonic friends do.

So, I guess that’s what dating is for, right?

That’s fine. As long as I don’t think too hard about it, it’s great.

“You taste so good, baby,” he breathes against my mouth, his lips trailing kisses to my chin, then dipping down to my neck. My skin breaks out in goosebumps, and there’s definitely something going on in my pants.

“Is this okay?” he asks, tentatively pressing a palm against my thigh.

I nod breathlessly. Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be? Should it not be okay?

He grips my thigh with one hand and cups my face with the other, and my insides flutter again.

Shit, I’m not sure what to do with my hands.

Does he want me to touch him back? If so, where?

I try to picture a romantic scene from a movie, but my flustered brain comes up empty.

Plus, we’re in a car, so nothing feels quite right.

It’s all so awkward. Is it always this awkward?

The hand on my inner thigh creeps toward my crotch, and my heart thuds hard against my ribs, and it’s—

It’s suddenly not okay.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I rip myself free from his grip and shove his hand away.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and I stare blankly at the floorboard.

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt.

“No, I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. “Did I cross a line? I thought you said it was—”

“It was okay, and then it… wasn’t,” I say with a shrug, still avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”

I chew on my lip for several moments, considering his words. Am I not ready? I really thought I’d be ready by now. Am I ever going to be ready? What does that even mean?

“Are you okay?”

“I’m going to go,” I declare, feeling my way to the door handle and reaching for my hoodie.

As I open the car door, the interior floods with light, and I can’t help but squint. I climb out of the car, only to crane awkwardly down to peer back inside before leaving.

My date’s face crumples with defeat. “Oliver, wait, hold—”

“Thank you for the date,” I continue. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I swear. This is a ‘me’ problem.”

“Still, I think we should—”

“Goodnight, Jake.”

And with that, I shut the door and quickly make my way up the driveway, digging the keys out of my pocket.

I should have known I wasn’t ready.