7. Kendall #2
“Baby hippos are fucking adorable,” I inform him. A small chunk pops off my lip and embarrassingly lands on my arm. James laughs at me, and I follow, but when I shovel another heaping forkful into my mouth, those near-indecent moans return.
James coughs into his fist, followed by a quenching sip of water. “That good?”
I nod eagerly. “And these Coke floats?” My eyes roll to the back of my head, and he does this thing with his tongue where he makes it roll over his bottom lip, leaving it wet and glistening. Breakfast food and carbonated drinks shouldn’t be this unchaste, but here I am being proven wrong.
“You really did pull out the big guns,” I comment. “Hazelnut waffles, Coke and ice cream, and Tropical Blast? I can’t imagine what you’d do for a date with someone you actually like.”
He looks offended. “Who says I don’t like you?”
I shrug, attempting to come off as impassive and blasé as possible. I can’t even begin to entertain the idea of him liking me. “You don’t know me well enough to like me.”
He doesn’t respond with annoyance or irritation, proving my theory isn’t something he wants to rebut or argue. Instead, his eyes narrow, reproving and hard, and he calmly says, “That doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”
“Doesn’t mean you do.”
He leans forward, his elbows on the hard wood. He links his fingers together, his chin perched on his knuckles, all without taking his eyes off me. His lips quiver with what can easily be mistaken as a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I like you.”
It feels too easy. To get sucked into this. This floaty feeling like I could drift off into dreamland. Where I don’t have to worry about the possibility of broken hearts or sleazy men with ulterior motives. Because I barely know him. But it doesn’t quite feel like I barely know him.
“Anyone can say that.” It’s meant to come off as a joke, something to tease him with, but it sounds more like a dare. I avoid his eyes, trying so hard to play my poker face. Tuck those emotions back under my sleeve where they can stay hidden.
“Anyone can,” he agrees. “But I’m not anyone.”
“You—”
“Are you guys doing okay?” The interruption reminds us we’re in a packed diner, not a place to be talking about whether or not our raging hormones are masquerading around as actual feelings.
“We are. Thank you.” James flashes a smile that’s all charm and sincerity to our server.
I take another bite of my waffle. He takes a long sip of his Coke float. Whatever quarrel-like banter tossed back and forth between us is drowned in sugar, and I almost want to go back to it. To dissect it to see if there’s more to his words, something backing it with substance and candor.
Our meal continues with quiet glances while the conversation holds a vagrant quality.
The best parts of San Diego, the best parts of Washington.
The possibility of moving anywhere outside of the West Coast, like New York or Florida.
Or even something as daring as a foreign country.
What high school was like in our respective hometowns, if college was any better.
I ask him if it’s a San Diego thing that my neighbor keeps knocking at my door asking for sugar, and he asks if this specific neighbor is a man.
I tell him he is. That earns me a tight-lipped smile.
“What’s Tacoma like?” he asks after he stopped our server to order another plate of waffles.
“It’s cold and really green,” I answer. “Gets a little gloomy.”
“So stuff I can look up on the internet, great.”
I slap a hand in his direction. “You asked what Tacoma’s like.”
“Not the weather forecast,” he argues. “What was it like growing up there?”
I sigh. “It was my mom and me a lot of the time. I’d occasionally have friends over, or I’d go to their houses, but it was mainly just me and her.
We had a lot of little traditions. Like movie nights on Fridays.
Or shopping at antique stores every other weekend.
My favorite was when it was warm enough, which wasn’t too often, she’d pour Coke into these tall glass cups and plop five maraschino cherries in each of them and add a bendy straw.
We’d sit out on the porch and drink them while we both read a book. ”
“You miss her?”
I nod. “A lot.” I don’t go into detail about how much I miss her.
How this time apart from her makes me realize how short she kept that umbilical cord.
Not in an attempt to control my life, but because it was always just us two.
She and I both knew some time apart would be good now that she’s remarried.
She’s back home, establishing her new life, while I’m doing some variation of the same thing here.
“What about San Diego? What’s that like?”
“The weather’s great,” he answers, flashing a cheeky grin.
I roll my eyes. “Fine then. What’s your mom like?”
“She’s…my mom,” he answers. There’s a nostalgic quality to his voice when he talks about his mom, and it makes me want to know more.
If she read bedtime stories before he fell asleep or if she cut up the fruit for him and his siblings into little squares like my mom used to do when I was a lot smaller.
“She kind of glues us all together. She’s strict but not judgmental. She’s compassionate but formidable.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah. She’s always somehow there for us without being too overbearing. I grew up never feeling overwhelmed or like the world was ending because I fucked up. Her and my dad have always just…been there for us.”
“They sound amazing,” I croak, thinking about my own mom. My chest swells to the point that it brings me to the brink of tears. I blink them away, smiling at this side of him I never realize existed.
By the time we’ve finished our second plate of waffles and a Coke refill, we notice the restaurant is empty. The only other occupant is our server who’s sitting at the bar-top counter folding silverware in paper napkins. It’s a stark contrast to the bustling energy when we walked in.
“It’s getting late.” His hand has somehow made it around mine, and he’s lazily running soft circles over my knuckles.
Like he’s done it on a daily basis for years, learning every line and crease mapped over the back of my hand.
It must’ve happened at some point during our meal.
When I reached for my water and he set down his fork.
But the whys and hows seem irrelevant at this point in time, and I do my best to stay as still as possible so he doesn’t pull away.
I look at James, unsure if I’m ready for the night to be over. “It is.”
He’s already paid the check. The plastic tray holding the receipt and the diner’s pen is sitting off to the side. Our food is wiped clean from the plates, nothing to tuck away into to-go boxes. There’s nothing else left but for us to leave.
So, I take the cue, reaching for my purse and sweater.
I slip out of the booth, and James follows.
We throw a quiet thank you to the staff and head out, his hand hovering close to my lower back.
He does the gentlemanly thing of opening the door for me, doing the same when we get to his car. He hasn’t dropped the custom yet.
It’s a quiet drive back to my apartment, low music filtering through the speakers with the hum of traffic outside the confines of the car.
I notice his hand isn’t anywhere near mine this time, but I see his hand flex on the gearshift.
I catch small glimpses from him, the looks pointed at me so often I almost awkwardly laugh and nervously say, ‘what?’ But he’d probably just shake his head and say ‘nothing,’ so I sit still, pretending not to notice.
He pokes his index finger at the center console, pressing the lit-up buttons in a way I can tell it’s something he normally does when driving alone, and the music changes.
“You listen to Eminem?”
I see the apple of his cheek round with a smile. “You listen to Eminem?”
“Are you kidding me? Mockingbird was a revelation. I thought I’d be listening to Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys my whole life, but Eminem came along and changed my life.”
He chuckles. And his hand lands on my thigh, this time with purpose.
A soft squeeze that’s gentle and careful, but possessive.
By the time we pull into a lone visitor parking spot at my complex—a near miracle at this hour—we’ve listened to Stan twice, dissecting the lyrics and comparing them to Ass Like That.
And now, with the ignition off, it’s quiet.
“I had a lot of fun tonight.”
He has his wrist resting on this steering wheel, his body angled to face me. In the darkness, I can’t tell if the smile on his face is polite or dangerous. I almost want it to be the latter. “I did too.”
“Do you like…tea?” I ask him the offhand question against my better judgment. Sylvia’s voice rings in my head. Make him work for it.
I can still feel the heat from his palm on my thigh, all the way through the fabric of my dress. And with the way his forearm flexes and his grip creaks against the leather lining the steering wheel, he’d have to do very little fucking work.
“I like…tea.”
“Would you like to come up for some?” Don’t put out. Don’t put out.
A smirk, one that’s definitely dangerous, peeks through the shadows. “Sure.”
It’s late, nearing eleven at night, and it’s quiet in my apartment complex. The pads of our footsteps sound louder than they actually are. I lead the way, James close behind with his hand on my back. Again. I feel his fingers curl around my waist, and it feels steadfast. Firm.
We get to the second floor leading down a narrow hallway, stopping at 225. I’m reaching into my purse for my keys when the door facing mine opens.
“Well, hello, Miss Moreale.”
“Hi, Kyle,” I say to my neighbor, responding to his singsong voice. “Hot date?” I see James check his watch from my periphery, and I hold back a knowing smile.