Funny Feelings (22)
He sighs a little and looks over at me. “Humor me, Jones, and try not to start every sentence with some variation of ‘if this were real’. Because, fake girlfriend or not, I know you want something from each of them, and I’m all for sampling anything that sounds good right alongside you tonight.”
“Oh—okay,” I don’t know what to make of him this way. So relaxed and… almost wistful. But it’s that wistfulness that compels me to grab his hand, to want to be reassuring. Of what, I don’t know, but that little eclipse of sadness I’m seeing makes me want to squeeze it away. I maul his hand a little in my abrupt efforts, until he wraps his big palm around mine and then slides it to link our fingers.
We get up to the window too soon, but when he has to let go of my hand he nudges me in front of him and wraps his arm around my chest, across my collar bone. “This ok?” He asks the top of my head. I nod, my chin bumping into his forearm. We get truffle fries and chocolate sesame shakes to dip them in. Then, when we turn to head over to the next truck, his arm slides to rest over my shoulder as we walk.
“You’re surprisingly smooth with this,” I say, pointing at the hand.
“It feels surprisingly good,” he says.
I realize that I keep expecting sarcasm or a joke, but he’s disarming me with his simple and honest replies.
“Have I said thank you, yet?” I ask.
“For?”
God, so much. The thought wants to make me choke up. For helping me achieve my dreams, for believing in me, for having the coolest kid on the planet. For grounding me, for being a friend. “For agreeing to this.”
“It’s not like it’s some hardship, Fee,” he smiles a crooked smile down at me and lifts a brow. “I will say that I’m going to be more comfortable if you keep making the first moves as far as this goes.” He nods to his hand on my shoulder.
I wince a little when looks away at the chalkboard menu. Me being in the driver’s seat means being the one who might take it too far…
Stop it, Farley. He’s an adult. You’re also an adult, contrary to popular belief. You’re both a part of this agreement. Have faith that the man will let you know if you’re making him uncomfortable. He’s already had this conversation with you.
My inner voice sounds an awful lot like my therapist when she’s rationalizing with me.
We each order a couple of tacos and all the offered sides, pickled red onions, and a green spicy slaw. I decide that there’s something deeply sexy about a man that can manipulate his hands in order to carry five cardboard food containers along with a shake. I still end up carrying two, then stand guard over our smorgasbord of goods when we find a spot, when Meyer goes to retrieve our chairs.
I see a few people point and talk to him at a distance, obviously recognizing him. He smiles politely but continues walking on. While it’s normal for him to be recognized, it’s not so much that it’s bothersome, and anyone who seems to know him is a fan, so they’re always respectful.
When he comes back he gets us set up on a blanket, but I quickly realize that this short dress won’t allow me to settle in the low beach chair without some part of my ass being exposed. Meyer picks up on it right away and takes off his henley, revealing a simple white tee.
“Aren’t you going to be cold?”
“This is L.A., Jones. I won’t be cold until December.”
“True,” I laugh, and drape the thing across my lap, immediately digging in.
A preview comes on advertising the next season of my favorite show, Dollar Mountain, and I clap gleefully. “Oooohhh God, I can’t wait,” I declare.
Meyer scoffs and shakes his head ruefully. “It’s surprising to me that that’s what you’re into.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve heard you and Marissa drooling over the men in that show and they all look like they require subtitles to understand despite speaking English.”
I bark out a laugh. “Have you even seen it? They don’t have accents at all. It’s set in Idaho.”
“I don’t need to see it to know that when those guys say ‘boy’ it sounds like it ends in a W A.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Meyer?”
“BOWAH!” He bellows out the side of his mouth with a deep twang and I toss my head back and dissolve into a fit of laughter. That sight and sound will live in my head for ages. I wish I could set it for his ringtone, as my alarm for every morning. The first feeling, first laugh of every day could belong to him.
“You’re watching it with me soon,” I tell him.
He chuckles back. “Fine.”
He seems to be watching the previews a little more intensely than normal, staring up at the screen in between impressively large bites.
I’m stealing another glance at him dipping three fries into his shake when I recognize my own voice, in an impression that closely resembles the lead singer of Korn, scream-yelling, “YOU THINK THAT’S SEXY BIG MAN?! I’LL SHOW YOU SEXY!!”
I drop a fry of my own when I turn back to the screen and see myself, blown up to ungodly proportions, crouched and giving aggressive chimpanzee energy. The video quickly pans to Shauna doing a bit, then Kara with her sound bite, with a voiceover giving ticket sales information, dates, and then a shot with a list of locations.