Hope and Other Punch Lines(44)

In the bathroom, I gave myself a pep talk: You are awesome. You do not need tangerine hair or to know about random bands like Oville to be interesting. You are enough. Also, you are amazing at pep talks!

I reapplied my tinted lip balm, which is as close to lipstick as I get without feeling self-conscious. I once tried on Cat’s signature red and lasted only three minutes before wiping it off. I know because she timed me.

When I return to the table, I try to saunter over—move with a confidence I do not feel. Noah’s forehead is crinkled and he’s leaning over his phone and I realize it doesn’t matter how I walk because he’s not paying attention.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“It’s just Jack.”

“You look deeply concerned,” I say, smiling. Do I sound flirty? I want to sound flirty.

“Nah. It’s nothing,” Noah says, and puts away his phone. “Hey, you look prett—nice—I mean…beautiful.” He looks down at his hands. My heart folds in on itself, and my body warms in a slow wave from my toes to my face. He called me beautiful. Beautiful. Which is so much better than pretty. I’d be embarrassed that I’m blushing, except so is he. We are so bad at this. I prefer it that way. I can’t imagine sitting here with someone who knows exactly what to say and how to say it and doesn’t freak out even a little bit. Because, like me, Noah is totally freaking out. I can tell.

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Then I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say other than Thanks again, which is totally not the right thing. Normally I’d jump to fill the silence, but my mind has gone strangely blank.

“I made things weird, didn’t I?” Noah asks as he points at me with his spoon. A drop of strawberry ice cream slides onto the table.

“I wouldn’t say weird, necessarily.”

“Then what would you say?” Noah has morphed into Noah again. Flushed, yes, but his reliable smile is back, playing at the corner of his lips. We are totally flirting. I can’t be reading this wrong.

“You might have made things different.”

“Different bad? Different good?”

“Different good, I think?” I take a bite of ice cream, and suddenly hear Cat in my head: Lick the spoon suggestively. Guys love that. I decide to ignore her. To be me instead. “But definitely different.”

“They say change is good.”

“Change is good. Well, except climate change.”

“Right. Climate change is bad. Very bad. And apparently so is menopause, which my mom calls ‘the change’ too,” he says.

I burst out laughing.

“Shall we talk more about my mother’s menopause? I figure I already made things awkward, why not keep going?” Noah asks. “She gets hot flashes. Mood swings.”

“Please stop.”

“Stopping.”

“You’re weirder than I thought.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“It’s a good line,” I say. I’m not so bad at this, I tell myself. Cat used to argue that the reason I never had anyone to hook up with was that I didn’t know how to flirt. That I’d get nervous and tongue-tied, that I needed to learn how to at least appear confident. I used to insist that the problem was the stupid photo—no one wants to kiss someone they could picture as a baby. Still, deep down I believed Cat. Baby Hope was just a good excuse.

Right now, though, my reflexive self-consciousness has seeped away. I might be nervous, and a tiny bit tongue-tied, and still miles away from confident, but that doesn’t seem to matter. It’s me here, flirting with Noah and cracking up.

“Okay, subject change. How about a lightning round?” he asks.

“Okay. Go for it.”

“Coke or Pepsi?” he asks.

“Dr Pepper.”

“World Series or Super Bowl?”

“Not into sports.”

“Right? Boring. Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs. A hundred percent. Cats are creepy.” He leans across the table and high-fives me.

“Words or emojis?”

“Words. I find emojis too vague. I need an emoji dictionary.”

“I know what to get you for your birthday.” My heart squeezes a little, thinking about my birthday, how loaded that day is, how if Noah were to remember the connection, he’d realize it was the same day his dad died. That’s the fastest way I can think of to kill whatever might be going on between us. Noah doesn’t seem to notice, so I do something I’m not used to. I let it go.

“Harold and Kumar or Van Wilder: The Rise of Taj?”

“I don’t know what that question even means.”

“We have some serious work to do on your comedy education,” he says.

“We do,” I admit.

“Well, then.” He stands up and holds out his hand. “Shall we get started on that?” A dash of shyness creeps into his voice. That’s when I realize he’s asking me to watch a movie at his house. Today. As in right now. For a moment, my precious words fail me. I want to say something clever: That depends. Will there be coffee? Do you have a cat?