Date Me, Bryson Keller(40)

“We don’t have to—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“Why not?” he asks. “We’re boyfriends. Going on dates is what we should be doing.”





17


If anyone had told me last Thursday that this time next week I’d be on a date with Bryson Keller, I would’ve smacked them in the face and called them stupid. And yet, here I am.

Here we are.

In recent years this boardwalk has become a hot spot in Fairvale, but given the time of week, it’s emptier than usual. I scan the people around us and find no one I know. Bryson was right: no one really goes on a date on a Thursday afternoon.

The Duckworths bought the pier from the previous owners and revamped it to be what it is today. It’s almost the perfect replica of the Santa Monica Pier. Being best friends with Donny meant visiting this place so much when we were younger that I now know it as well as the back of my hand.

The beachfront has a variety of stores that cater to almost every need. For those craving something sweet, there’s Candyland. There’s also a variety of smaller stalls that sell cotton candy, popcorn, and even candy apples. The latter is a family favorite of the Sheridans’. Sometimes Dad buys them and brings them home—we don’t even need to visit the boardwalk.

    Whenever I come here to eat, Angelo’s Pizza Emporium is at the top of my list. Angelo’s serves the best thin-crust pizza in Fairvale. It also doesn’t hurt that last summer Isaac started working there part-time. It felt like fate then, but looking at Bryson next to me, I now think it was just a stop on the journey.

I try to hide my smile, but Bryson’s words from before replay in my mind. It feels like I’m dreaming. Maybe I need someone to pinch me, but I’m too scared. I don’t want to leave this place just yet, to leave this feeling behind.

“We should ride the Ferris wheel before we go,” Bryson says. He points at the ride in the distance. It looks empty.

I shake my head. “Hard pass.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not a fan of heights,” I tell him. “I’m told the view is amazing from up there, and I choose to believe those people.”

“Noted.” Bryson smiles. “Well, there’s plenty of other stuff to do.” We head toward the crowd. We’re walking next to one another, close enough to touch, but not. Everything feels different between us now, like everything we do or say matters more than it did a day ago.

Whatever this is, it’s something.

It’s real.

Tangible.

    Unexplainable.

But it’s all happening to me—and it’s all happening with him.

We join the surge of people, and almost instantly I’m assaulted by laughter and joy and the smell of freshly popped popcorn. Bryson and I line up at the ticket booth and purchase a strip of tickets that will allow us to play some of the games.

“What should we do first?”

“Let’s try that,” Bryson says. He points at a game stand to our right. It’s big and green and in the shape of a dinosaur, but the dinosaur has different-sized holes cut into its body. The thrower needs to put the balls through those cutouts.

We push our way there and Bryson hands the attendant a ticket for his chance to take aim. Bryson throws, and he misses.

“That was just for practice,” he says.

He throws again, and it’s another miss.

Another one follows soon after.

“Still practicing?” I ask.

Around us the crowd snickers. Even when we’re not at school, eyes seem to follow Bryson wherever he goes. It’s the burden of looking like Bryson Keller does. But it’s more than just his good looks—Bryson exudes a charisma that draws you to him, so attention sticks to him like clothing on a hot summer day.

As I watch Bryson throw his final ball and miss, I know that whatever happens in the future, I don’t regret spending this time with Bryson. Come what may, I’m all in.

    “How are you so bad at this?” I ask as we walk away from the crime scene of Bryson’s epic failure.

Bryson laughs. It’s a sound so deep and pure that I want to bottle it up and keep it with me forever.

“There’s a reason I play soccer and not baseball,” he says.

“So you’re saying that if you could use your feet you’d win?”

“Yes.” Bryson pumps up his chest. “I have the highest goal count in California, three years in a row.”

“Really?” I smile. I lean closer to him. “My boyfriend’s pretty cool,” I whisper.

Bryson smiles, too. “Smooth, Sheridan. Real smooth.”

“I told you I give as good as I get.”

“I’m glad,” Bryson says. “Come on, let’s go find something I can actually win at. I need to redeem myself.”

It takes us three tries and three more failed attempts until we find something that Bryson is good at. My cheeks hurt from all the laughing, and my heart is so full that it feels like it’s going to burst at the seams. We’re standing in front of the hammer to test how strong you are. Bryson makes a show of preparing. He rubs his hands together and fake spits on them before he picks up the hammer.

Bryson brings it down with as much force as he can muster. We both watch as the points shoot up. When it sets a new record, Bryson drops the hammer and starts jumping in place.