Hope and Other Punch Lines(43)

Is this a date? It feels kind of like a date—we’re sharing one dish, it’s just Noah and me here, and there seems to be a thick wall of flirtiness between us—but then again, I’ve never been on an actual date, so I’m no expert. All my boy experience has been vicarious. Stories told by Cat, occasionally Ramona and Kylie too.

I win our chocolate battle. Only because he lets me.

“Three things?” I ask.

“I read about it in a book. Seems like a good way to get to know someone. Having to choose three things. You start, Abbi.”

“Okay. One, sometimes when I can’t sleep, I get up, make my bed, change my pajamas, and start all over again. I like to give myself the illusion of a do-over.”

“Does it work?”

“Not really, but it burns up some time.”

“That’s not nothing,” Noah says.

“Two, despite my whole sweet-tooth-and-red-food fetish, for me, it’s all about the french fries. Three, I have this weird obsession with Mary Oliver. She’s this poet, and she can spin words into magic. She has this great line that asks what you’re going to do with ‘your one wild and precious life.’ How cool would it be to know how to use words to make the world—life—feel, I don’t know, more manageable, I guess?” I ask.

“That’s exactly why I’m obsessed with comedy. That’s what it does for me,” he says, and I feel my heart beat a little faster. I like that he has a nerd-boy hobby. I like that it means something real to him.

“Okay, your turn,” I say. “Three things.”

He shrugs.

“No fair! I told you stuff,” I say.

“Nah, it’s not that. We don’t need a gimmick, that’s all. You’re really easy to talk to,” Noah says.

“Thanks.” My cheeks warm, and the back of my neck tickles from the compliment.

“Okay, here’s something you might not know: I almost died when I was a baby too. I mean, all of our near-death experiences can’t be as dramatic as a terrorist attack.” He stops, smiles at me. “But I was born with a heart defect. My parents didn’t think I was going to make it.”

Noah rattles this off like it’s no big deal.

“Are you okay now?”

“I have a checkup at the cardiologist once a year, and if I get a pat-down at airport security I have to tell them about my pacemaker, but that’s about it. I got lucky. Just like you.” He clicks the metal of his spoon against mine again, a version of cheers.

I study his face for a moment, the parts I haven’t spent much time exploring. I wonder what he would say if he knew about my lungs. Am I still lucky? I’ve always thought so. Even now.

Would telling him give me the courage to tell my parents? He could be my practice run. Because that’s one of the things I like most about Noah, how I feel stronger around him.

“I look at it that way too. That we got lucky. Instead of the other way around—that we were unlucky in the first place,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says, and looks me right in the eye. I force myself to look back, fearless. Okay, not fearless, but I refuse to let the fear win. It feels like a moment, this eye contact, with these goofy smiles on our faces, because I’m pretty sure when we’re talking about luck, we’re talking about being here with each other.

This is the sort of bravery I need more of in my life. This courage to look right back at him.

Under the table, I feel our shoes line up. His, mine, his, mine. Our ankles touch, spring apart, touch again. Then he holds his feet against mine, so I force myself to stay still, to keep the contact going.

My lungs tickle in the best way possible. Tiny zings of excitement shoot through my body.

I think this might actually be a date.





I should have taken her to that cool new sushi place on Main. It has candles on the table, even in the afternoon. No crayons and paper placemats. Made it straight-up obvious that we aren’t just hanging out. I place my shoe next to hers and hold it there, but I can’t tell if she notices.

When Abbi excuses herself to go to the bathroom, my ankle feels lonely.



* * *



— I text Jack because I don’t know how to sit here and wait for her to come back.


Me: She’s in the bathroom Jack: How’s it going?

Me: Legit good Jack: So what’s the problem?

Me: Should I say something? About you know, my feelings or whatever Jack: That’s adorable Me: You’re not helping Jack: I’ve told you all along to tell her how you feel Me: No. You said I shouldn’t have befriended her in the first place Jack: I’ve evolved. She’s cool Me: How do I say it?

Jack: Speak from the heart Me: My heart doesn’t talk. It beats rhythmically because of an implanted electronic device Jack: That is so literal Me: Should I tell her she looks pretty today?

Jack: Use beautiful. No one likes pretty Me: Okay. She’s coming back. Anything else?

Jack: You got this, dude Me: Was that sarcastic?

Jack: Honestly? Still deciding





* * *



— Here’s the thing. I do not got this. When Abbi walks back to the table, she looks even better than before. Her lips are shiny, her hair is spilling over her shoulders, and she’s smiling, like this one-on-one thing across a table is no big deal. I try to mirror her casualness by looking at my phone’s screen, as if I’m not creepily tracking her with eyes. As if my stomach isn’t sitting on the floor.