Chapter Four First Date #2
Gordon opens the door for me, and I’m surprised it doesn’t just yank off the hinges. He strolls in, ushering me ahead of him as though he has to protect me from the world, his head swiveling. He’s probably looking for an open lane, but it looks like he’s checking for threats.
It’s kind of sweet.
“We’re not besties. They don’t stress me out. We’re just... Apart.”
“That must be lonely.”
A hesitation. “It is.”
“I get that,” I say softly.
He leads me to the shoe rental section, and it occurs to me that there’s no way they’ll have something his size.
“Nineteen, please. Wide.”
Fuck nuggets, I didn’t know shoes went up that high in sizes.
“Here you go,” the girl in a striped shirt behind the counter beams at us and passes the shoes over without comment. “For you?” she asks me.
“Size six. Regular?” Do I have to say regular? He said wide. How come a tiny town has so many shoes and so many sizes? I find my eyes glazing over at the aisle of shoes that stretches back until I’m worried about the horizon line effect.
“Sure thing. How many games?”
Gordon looks at me. “You pick,” he grunts.
“Two,” I say quickly. One seems like I’m rushing. Three might drag. Two is perfect.
I hope.
“All right. Lane eleven. Have fun! Don’t forget that if you bowl above 220, you get a free dessert at the snack bar.”
“Ooh, snack bar,” I say with the total lack of thought that seems to occur whenever Gordon is around.
“Come on.” Gordon carries his shoes in one hand and the receipt for the games in the other. I didn’t even offer to pay.
“I’ll pay for my own shoes and one of the games,” I say quickly, reaching for the cute mini purse that’s slung over my shoulder.
“No. It’s a date. I pay.”
“That’s old-fashioned.”
“I’m older than you.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-two.”
“That’s not old enough to be in the ‘man pays for everything’ generation,” I argue, even though my parents have raised me to one-hundred percent expect that the man does pay for everything, that he should open your doors, and walk on the outside of the sidewalk so they can shield me from runaway cars and splashing puddles.
Then you get married, and everyone works their collective butts off to make sure the kids can go to Harvard if they want.
“What do you want?” Gordon asks.
I bounce into his arm, which is like granite, and look up, surprised. I somehow missed that we’re in front of the snack bar now. “Um. Just a soda is fine,” I say.
Another grunt. “Two sodas, two soft pretzels, two cheese fries, and one milkshake. What flavor?”
“Chocolate,” I gasp, which again, not what I meant to say. “I can’t eat all that!” I hiss.
“Yes, you can. You were going on a cruise. They have all-day, all-night buffets. This is a tiny drop compared to that.” Gordon pays in cash before I can even protest again.
Maybe stop protesting? What kind of a date are you being right now? Difficult, that’s what. You said you would be amazing company.
You should be, especially because now you know he’s lonely. You’re lonely, too.
But this... This feels awkward, but it's the least lonely I’ve been in months.
“Thank you. You’re spoiling me.” I smile up at him.
Another slow, hard-earned half-smile that threatens to dissolve me into a puddle. “Good.”
Something is wildly wrong with this entire situation.
I blame Sunderland. I shouldn’t be here, with her. She’s... Cute. And sweet. She talks too much, trips over her words, and it’s all with such an air of sincerity and sweetness that it makes me hurt inside.
I’ve never spent time with someone like her.
Don’t get me wrong, the guys at the firehouse are great people, but we usually don’t talk much.
Well. I don’t. I listen. And when they talk, it’s about sports, their kids, their cars, their non-volunteer jobs, and their wives—sometimes.
A lot of the time, we’re studying new safety information, too, plus we’re working.
They might all be sweet, goofy, lovable people—but it’s not aimed at me. I don’t get to see it.
I sure as hell never saw it growing up, and I don’t know what to make of it now.
Except to know I like it.
And I don’t feel lonely. I don’t feel at ease, either, but it’s a new kind of adrenaline. I have to keep reminding myself that no one will die if I mess up.
Unless I sit on her or something. That might kill her.
Oh, God. Don’t let me stumble, fall, and crush her.
I’d have to take in her cat. Because then the cat would be orphaned.
Why am I thinking about cat orphans during my date?
Because if I trip over these ridiculous clown shoes and land on Andrea, she’ll be a grease stain on the bowling alley floor.
“Darn.” I squeezed the bowling ball too hard in my sudden bout of anxiety, and the three finger holes are now just one big crater. “I gotta get a new one. The one’s broken,” I mumble, and escape to get a new ball.
When Andrea isn’t looking, I hurry back to the shoe rental area, mutely point to the hole in the ball, and drop a wad of money next to the startled-looking cashier. “You break it, you buy it, right?”
I leave before she can answer.
Andrea is looking at me, open-mouthed, when I return. “Did you just break a bowling ball?”
Lying isn’t good. So... I hedge. “A little. It was probably an old one. Weakened.”
“That’s impressive.”
Impressive, she says. Not freakish. Not frightening. I shrug, but inside, I enjoy the feeling of her compliment. It soothes some of the worry that keeps paddling around my chest. “We train hard. Firefighting is a physically demanding job. Did you go to Applefest last year?”
“Uh, no. Well, I got some apple tarts, but I didn’t go to the big celebrations. I’d only been in town a month or so, and I remember being chained to my computer every weekend with lesson plans.”
That’s that overachiever streak in her, that goodness, that dedication to her work.
To the children who need her. Who deserve her.
“You should go this fall. In the last couple of years, we started doing something called the Firefighter Obstacle Course as part of the festival. There’s a teammate carry, a ladder scale, a bucket brigade, a hydrant opening, and then, of course, the extinguisher target shoot. All of us are pretty impressive.”
“You’re being modest, which is cool with me. I don’t need a guy who brags,” Andrea says, getting up to take her turn.
She doesn’t need a guy who brags.
And she just said I’m impressive. But modest. Does that mean I’m... Could I be the kind of guy she thinks she needs?
I quickly put down my new bowling ball on the ball return as another spasm of nerves zaps me. I could be needed. Not just in an emergency, but in someone’s life. Like a friend.
Or lover.
Not that I’ll ever get to that third date, but it’s a new, exciting, dangerous thought.
Especially when I watch Andrea bowl. The way she bends. Then runs. And her arm extends, and she’s small, but powerful and graceful at the same time.
She’s very unlike any troll women I have ever seen, who have a heft and brutish strength that’s exciting and intimidating in its own way. Andrea’s beauty, smoothness, and strength are like a delicate violin compared to the fury of a timpani.
I tell myself that I’m just being silly, thinking like that. Andrea is the first human I’ve ever studied with any sort of romantic eye (even just romantic theory, of course). We’re just bowling. Keeping each other company. Sharing some salty junk food.
She gets a strike, and she suddenly squeals, jumps up and down, and turns to me with a beam that is pure sunlight.
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
I’m very much afraid that I like dating—at least, I like dating her.
This date was so odd. But it was so... Nice.
Odd and awkward, yet insanely comfortable.
I realized after the first game of bowling that Gordon is one of those people who just accept you as long as you’re decent.
I babbled, I made comments that didn’t make sense, I acted like a klutz, and I threw three consecutive gutter balls.
Gordon was chill. Smiled a little sometimes.
Talked when I made conversation. Bought me a second milkshake when I spilled the first one.
Then, we went to the Night Market. Everyone knows him. He introduced me to everyone, and suddenly, it was like everyone knew me, too. Little noises of “ohhh” with eager head nods and exclamations of “You’re the music teacher!”
I’m the music teacher.
I have to swallow a lump in my throat along with the delicious fudge.
All of my adult life (like, fifteen and up), I dreamed of being a music teacher, of making money doing what I loved, without the stress of performances and auditions.
I dreamed of having the same impact on a community that my music teacher had on me when she first gave me an outlet, first told me I could take this big black-and-white instrument and not just bang on the keys, but make music that reflected every mood.
“You okay?” Gordon asks, suddenly squinting at me.
“In the school, it’s nice, being part of the community. The kids know me. The parents who volunteer know me. The rest of the town, not so much, and why should they? But tonight, whenever you introduce me, people suddenly know me. ‘I’m the music teacher.’” I let out a happy, wet-sounding laugh.
Gordon looks confused. “But you are the music teacher.”
“It’s something I wanted for a long time, but it’s also... It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”