Date Me, Bryson Keller(60)

“You’re insufferable,” Bryson says to her. He looks at me. “If you’re done, I’d like to take my boyfriend and leave.”

Warmth spreads up my neck toward my face.

“Where are we going?”

“No meal is complete without dessert,” Bryson says.

“Bring me back something nice,” Crystal calls out as we leave the kitchen.

“No, buy your own.”

“Rude!” Crystal shouts back. “You better sleep with one eye open tonight.”

I laugh. The relationship between Bryson and Crystal is surprising. I don’t know why, but it is. Maybe I just never thought of Bryson Keller as someone who would be close to his sister. He just didn’t seem the type. I don’t know what made me judge him in that way, but I’m glad that I got to witness this. I’m glad that I got this window into Bryson’s life.

    “What are you smiling about?” Bryson asks as we head to the Jeep.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You.”

Bryson stops walking, and I do, too.

“What’s wrong?”

“You can’t just say things like that,” Bryson says. Dread starts to grow as I think I’ve done something bad. “You’ll make me fall for you harder than I already have.” I exhale a sigh of relief, then smile.

We climb into the Jeep, and after a stop for gas, Bryson drives us toward a famous ice cream parlor in town. Because it’s a Sunday afternoon, Swirl It Up is filled with families. A pang shoots across my chest at the sight of all the happy little families. In the past, my family often stopped here for a Sunday treat after church.

“What are you having?” Bryson’s question pulls me from the past and grounds me in the present. The girl behind the counter looks up from what she’s doing and her eyes snag on Bryson. She doesn’t look away from him. I can relate, because sometimes I, too, find myself staring at Bryson Keller.

    “I’ll have the three-scoop Berry-Berry Delicious,” I say.

“And I’ll have the Mega-Choc,” Bryson says. His dimple is showing. He’s clearly very pleased at the idea of three large scoops of chocolate.

We wait for our orders and then head back to the Jeep. Bryson drives us toward Melody Beach.

“I hate that Dustin’s ruined this spot,” Bryson says.

“The good outweighs the bad,” I say, and open the door. “Let’s go.”

We walk down to the beach and sit side by side. We eat our ice cream in silence, both perfectly content with just being next to one another.

“You know, I don’t have any photos of my boyfriend,” Bryson says after a while.

“You keep saying that,” I say. “?‘Boyfriend.’?”

“Why?” Bryson asks. “You don’t like it?”

“No,” I say. “I really, really, really like it.”

“Good.” Bryson smiles and leans toward me. “Boyfriend…boyfriend…boyfriend.” He punctuates each word with a kiss to my cheek. On the last one, though, I turn so that our lips meet.

“I also really, really, really like my boyfriend,” I say.

“He really, really, really likes you, too.”

We kiss.

When we pull back, we’re both breathless.

Bryson reaches for his phone. “I was being serious earlier. I really want photos of you.”

    Bryson opens his camera and leans in to pose next to me. We take a few selfies of us just smiling or making funny faces. Then he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. He takes a picture of us in that position. It is almost an exact mirror of the one we took before, in the photo booth. The one that my mom destroyed.

“This one can’t be ruined,” Bryson says as he studies it. It’s like he’s read my mind. As I stare at him I wonder how I got so lucky. How the stars aligned so perfectly to lead me to this moment. I don’t wonder too hard, though. I simply accept it.

“Send them to me.”

“Will do.”

Bryson swipes through the pictures that he’s taken for a while. Then he opens the camera again. He takes my hand in his and interlocks our fingers. He holds them up toward the sky so that they are framed by the sunset. He takes a picture. I watch as he goes about setting it as his wallpaper.

“You’re so extra,” I say.

Bryson smiles. “I’m romantic. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh.”

We sit like that, watching the sun go down in our own little piece of the world. Both Bryson and I know what has to happen next. This has only been a short reprieve. It’s been perfect, sure, but perfection has a nasty habit of not lasting very long. Most times it’s simply an illusion and not reality.

“I think we should go now,” Bryson says. His voice is soft and soothing.

    “I know.” I sigh, dreading what waits for me when I go home.

Bryson stands and dusts the sand from his shorts. He offers me his hand and pulls me up. But he doesn’t let it go. Instead, he leans down so our foreheads are touching.

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asks. “I can.”

“I think I have to do it alone,” I say.