7. Kendall
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kendall
THEN
“What kind of underwear are you wearing?”
My tongue tsks against the roof of my mouth. “What?”
“I just want to make sure you’re prepared.
” Sylvia is perched at the foot of my bed, her red toenails swinging back and forth while she aimlessly picks at her cuticles.
I watch her through the reflection in my full-length mirror, her unsolicited inquiry interrupting my once-over.
I opted for a dress, spaghetti strap with a sweetheart neckline.
And not that it’s any of Sylvia’s business, I’m wearing lace underwear, labeled “cheeky” and “seamless” on the display fixture at the lingerie store.
It makes my ass look amazing. Just in case.
“That’s a personal question.”
“Please,” she scoffs, her tone flat and dismissive. “I’ve seen you piss in the bushes at an IHOP parking lot.” After a pregnant pause, she adds, “So where is James taking you?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her with a shrug. “He just said dinner, so I’m wearing…something nice.”
“And like, really slutty underwear too, right?” She’s really not letting this go.
“Why are you here?” I ask in lieu of an answer, accusation heavy in my annoyed voice.
“I need to witness firsthand my handiwork. You know, triangulation or whatnot.”
“So, if this goes south, I have you to blame?”
“This isn’t going to go south,” she argues. “Not with those heart-eyes you gave me when you were talking about kissing him.”
The kiss. I still feel it on my lips, like a yellowing bruise. Something settled into my muscles, seeping into my bones with want. The squealy yelps of children cleaved us apart, along with the reminder that a hot make-out session in the sand would lead to chafing. A lot of chafing.
After our kiss, we continued to stroll through the wet sand, our fingers linked together with the day fading away into dusk.
His eyes kept roaming over my face as I told him about my life back home, my mom and her husband of almost a year who enjoy antique shopping on weekends and recently built a chicken coop in their backyard.
I watched his smile grow softer, less entertained and more absorbed, like he was hanging onto my every word.
He told me about his family. All of whom are within a twenty-minute drive from each other.
We compared our respective lived experiences.
His, a home filled with noise and numerous siblings.
Mine, quiet with just myself and my mom, sans chickens.
Against my better judgment, we kept our flirty banter going and extended the “getting to know each other” stage into chapter two.
And all the subsequent chapters leading up to tonight.
A request for something more formal, more sacramental than a cup of coffee and a walk on a beach like a check mark on a personal ad.
I don’t tell Sylvia I got a wax too. Again, against my better judgment. Just in case.
I’m about to tell her there’s nothing to see, even remind her I’m not looking for something serious at the moment, when a knock interrupts us.
Sylvia hops to her feet and starts fawning over me, flicking away a few wayward strands of my hair.
She’s about to cup the underside of my boobs and give them a supportive lift when I slap her hands away.
“Hey,” I warn.
“Now remember,” she says, ignoring my objection, “just because he’s charming doesn’t mean you have to put out.”
Her change in attitude is giving me whiplash. “I thought that’s what you wanted?” Not that I planned on it, regardless of my bald pussy.
She shakes her head.
“Then what’s with the underwear investigation?”
“Tease,” she emphasizes, baring her teeth. “Doesn’t mean you have to give away the whole farm.”
I shift my focus. She’s right. This is so silly.
I shouldn’t get so worked up over a date anyway.
It’ll probably amount to nothing, just an excuse to get dolled up and enjoy some dinner company.
But then I start to think about wet sand and late afternoon sunsets.
And tectonic, life-altering kisses. How I was already planning our future, weekend soccer practice and white picket fences.
This is why I need to pump the brakes. Leave sex completely off the table.
Place it in a cupboard with a stack of canned foods and expired salad dressing, forgotten and unused.
I nod, game face on. “Yeah, you’re right. I need to fucking chill.”
All the flippant remarks that this wasn’t serious turn sour, reminding me of my intent to ward off any future prospects for a relationship. This is just dinner. Dinner with someone I’d really like to sleep with.
Another knock echoes through my apartment, and Sylvia rushes to answer it.
“Well, hello there, friend.” Her voice sounds accusatory, admonishing. Even from my room.
I round the corner blocking my view just as James’s eyes catch mine. Whatever confusion lining his forehead vanishes. And it’s like Sylvia no longer exists.
“Hi,” I call, my greeting floated into the air like a sigh.
“Hi.”
Sylvia steps aside, taking the moment to slip away into my kitchen. I look down at his hand to see a small, dainty bouquet of flowers.
“I will see you two later,” Sylvia announces, hooking her purse over her shoulder. She turns to James with a stern glare. “Treat her like a lady.” She turns to leave before adding over her shoulder, “And make sure to have her home by ten.”
I giggle, and James answers, “Yes, Mom.”
The door shuts behind him, and it’s just us two. With walls and a barrier and a bed.
“Are those for me?” I eye the flowers, my smile modest and timid.
He nods. He offers them, letting me bury my nose in the soft petals.
“They’re beautiful.” He watches me, his gaze near reverence. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I walk to my kitchen, the distance closable with a long step.
For James, it’ll probably take a mere shuffle.
I open a cabinet and crane my neck in search of a vase.
It’s there, on the top shelf. As if it was done with intention.
So I can ask him to reach it for me. Which he does without me even asking, shuffle and all.
“Thank you,” I say as he sets it down.
“Was there a reason Sylvia was here?” he asks, creating some much-needed distance between us. I fill the vase and answer over my shoulder.
“Just playing…hall monitor.”
He nods. He’s on the opposite side of my small galley-style kitchen, and he’s leaning back, one ankle crossed over the other and his arms crossed. “She really cares about you.”
“We’ve known each other for a while,” I explain, “almost nine years, so…”
“That long?”
“College,” I explain. “And we were both in the same cohort for our credential program.” I pause. My posture mirrors his, and I ask with a head tilt, “She didn’t tell you this?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Finally, something she managed to keep her mouth shut about.” He smiles, ducking his head with an air of modesty.
Like I could continue and talk about my entire friendship with Sylvia and he’d listen.
Just like how he’s apparently done with Sylvia when she talks about me.
Because the subject matter is me. My life.
My past and my future, whatever goals or delusions come out of my mouth.
He’ll stand there, hanging onto every word. “Are you ready to go?”
He cups the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
I grab my purse and sweater and walk to the door. James stays a close step behind, ready to press a hand to my lower back at the first opportunity.
We’re walking to his car, parked in the lot just outside my building. An empty spot that isn’t marked as visitor or guest, a risk he took. He rounds the hood, following me to the passenger side, and opens the door. I wonder after how many dates that’ll go away, and I’ll have to open my own doors.
“I hope you’re in the mood for something sweet.” He says it like a warning or bait, I’m not too sure which one.
“I like sweet.” He hooks his hand to the back of my seat as he backs his car out, and I get a glimpse of his profile.
All chiseled jaw and focus. I almost poke my finger at the freckles lining his nose, wanting to confirm my previous assumption they’re from long summers spent in the Southern California sun or ask him if it’s just genetic.
Maybe his siblings have the same constellation of spots on their sun-kissed faces.
“Are you taking me to a candy buffet or something? Making sure I see that dentist?”
He chuckles. “Nothing like that.”
“Is that…” I take a studious whiff. “Tropical Blast?”
“How did you know?” He taps his middle finger at the air freshener attachment clipped to his air vents.
“I might have the same one.” His loose fist nudges my thigh, and it sort of lingers there. Resting on the leather seat while bumping against my knee with every twist and turn.
“Pulling out the big guns, I see,” I tease. “What do you reserve for the third date? New car smell?”
My hand lands on his, and he turns his palm, letting our fingers brush.
The first thing I noticed when I got into his car, aside from the coconut-beachy scent, was that it’s a manual transmission.
It requires an ounce more focus and heed to drive safely.
Also, two hands. Yet he somehow manages to continue driving with one.
He keeps his right nestled up to mine, and his left moving from the steering wheel and the gearshift. And I pretend not to notice.
“Waffles for dinner,” I comment. “I’ve never done that before.”
“You’ve never had breakfast for dinner?” One of James’s brows draws up to his hairline.
I shake my head, a fork and a knife held in each respective hand. He scoots the plate closer to me.
“Have at it.”
I do as he instructs, and by the time the food is melting in my mouth, I can’t help the low bawdy moan that slips through my lips.
“Holy shit,” I manage through a full mouth.
“Jesus, it’s like watching a baby hippo discover solid food for the first time.”