The Dating Proposal(16)
Steven walks toward me. He is as ridiculously handsome as he was the other day. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley, and I must tell him he dressed well.
His body isn’t the only thing chiseled. As he nears me, I admire his well-designed face again, with carved cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and a subtle wave in his brown hair. I take out my earbuds and gently lay my phone on the bench. I smile, a little nervously, and stand. I am not sure what the proper protocol is. I wrack my brain, trying to remember how a first date usually starts, since it’s been eons. Entire evolutionary stages, it seems. I could say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, mess up the secret handshake that experienced daters know.
I err on the side of friendliness, reaching out for a quick, short hug.
“Hey there,” Steven says.
“Hi. Good to see you again.”
I sit on the bench. He follows suit. I reach for my phone, tucking it safely away in my favorite light-blue Kate Spade. It matches my Gucci-esque shirt and has a playful air. Perfect first-date accessory.
“What were you listening to? Wait. Don’t tell.” He pretends to be a swami, reading the cards. “An audiobook. I bet you like Kristin Hannah.”
“Everyone likes Kristen Hannah,” I say with a smile.
“A podcast, then? Something political?”
I cringe.
“Completely agree on that. How about one of those cold-case podcasts? I love those.”
I shake my head. “Just music.”
He moves next to me. “There’s no such thing as just music. Music is everything. My ex and I used to love going to concerts.”
Hold on.
Did he just mention his ex? In the first minute of a date? I might be rusty, but I feel like that’s not how dating works.
“Is that so?”
He nods, a sad smile crossing his face. “Panic! at the Disco. Ed Sheeran. KT Tunstall. You name it.”
“How about Adele?” I toss out, a little sarcastically.
He shakes his head, forlorn. “I tried to get her tickets for her birthday. Sold out.”
“Wow. She must have been bummed.” This is so not how dating works. I am so turned off. I don’t think I’ve ever been less turned on in my life.
“Jenny loved Adele.” He shakes his head, seeming to snap out of it. “Crap. Sorry. My shrink says I need to stop focusing on my ex. I have to move forward.”
Great, I’m his therapy homework. Go find a nice girl, ask her out, and take her on a date. Prove to yourself that you’re starting to get over Jenny.
He gestures to my phone. “Let me try again. What were you listening to?”
I vow to try again too, to wipe the slate clean. “Billie Holiday. I love her. ‘A Sailboat in the Moonlight’ is my jam.”
“Yes! She’s great. ‘You Go To My Head,’ ‘Embraceable You,’ ‘These Foolish Things’ . . .”
Holy smokes. He knows Billie Holiday. I’m so glad I gave him another shot. “Those are my favorites, especially ‘These Foolish Things.’ That’s the best.”
He sings a line from the bluesy number, and I croon the next one, and soon we’re doing a duet.
This is fun. This is what I missed. This is dating.
When the song is over, I smile. “Look at us. We can totally form a duo.”
He smiles, but his lips quiver. His eyes are wet, and he drops his head in his hands. “Jenny loved Billie Holiday so much.”
I sigh, pat his back, and tell him it’s all going to be okay and that someday he’ll stop missing her so much.
Date number one is officially a bust.
11
McKenna
My timing is impeccable.
I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris walk across the sand, so there’s no reason for me to be on time when I can be early.
Besides, considering how the therapy session—I mean, date—went, I see nothing wrong with enjoying a little eye candy. After all, I couldn’t enjoy the eye candy of Steven. He was unappetizingly soggy with tears.
I park along Ocean Beach, get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling with my phone and checking compartments in my purse, but when Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked under his arm, I freeze.
I should pretend I’m not watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during that scene in Casino Royale either, when Daniel Craig emerged from the water. Chris wears board shorts, low on his hips. I watch as he walks through the sand, closer, closer, and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt I would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the feel of that firm kind of outline.
He’s lickable. He’s kissable. He’s chat-up-able.
He catches my gaze, and I should be embarrassed. I should act as if I’m not staring, but there’s this fluttery feeling inside me, and I want to hold on to it, especially because he’s looking at me and not letting go either. Those green eyes of his are the definition of dreamy.
Soon, he’s mere feet from me, in all his glistening, ocean-soaked glory, a scratched-up surfboard by his side. Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and it’s the kind of silence that’s filled with unsaid things.