Push(32)

On Friday, I leave work a few minutes early because, once I get home, I won’t have much time to get ready before David picks me up. I have no idea what I am supposed to wear to the club, and I hope to hell that he was kidding about me wearing a catsuit. When I walk into my apartment, it’s already six-twenty so I grab a quick shower and dress in a pair of black jeans and a dark purple shirt. I finish getting ready and am done by the time he knocks on my door at precisely seven.
We head into the city, and this time David is actually driving like a normal person. When we get downtown, he pulls into a metered space and gets out. He wraps his hand around mine, and we walk together down the sidewalk for four or five blocks. He tugs me into a side alley and up to a door. When he pulls the door open, my nose is saturated with amazing smells. As soon as I look inside, I understand. He has brought me to the Thai restaurant he told me about a few days ago. It’s a tiny space crammed full of chattering people. I am very, very excited. I have never eaten in a place like this.
“I love this place already,” I say shyly to David. He looks over at me and softly grins and squeezes my hand. When the hostess comes over to seat us, she greets David by name and takes us to a small table. It is the only open table in the place. The other people standing near the door, presumably waiting for a table of their own, look at us with envy or spite or whatever. I really don’t give a damn. I am hungry as shit and loving David for bringing me here.
“Just wait till we eat,” he says, “then you’ll really be in love.”
While we wait for our food, we talk about his friends in the band and how he met them. They were practicing for a gig at a bar he was working in, and they have been friends ever since. He assures me again that the kind of music they make is not going to win any hearts, and then he tells me that I might hate the club, and I might hate the music. And if I do, I should let him know and we can leave. As the waitress is putting our food down on the table, I tell him that, no matter what kind of music or club it is, I won’t be asking him to leave.
“I have never in my life asked a date to leave somewhere,” I say. “I’m game for whatever.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Wait,” he says dramatically, “did you just imply that this a date? Do f*ck buddies even go on dates?”
“Sure, they do. Especially when one of them wants to be shown a good time before they get to the f*cking.” I can tell from his facial expression that David has never, ever had a woman say such a thing to him before. My insides are jumping with amusement, and I am trying to keep from smiling.
“But I thought the f*cking was the good time?” he says. Damn him. I can’t think of a single thing to say in response, so I just sit there smiling like a total crackpot. “Emma, wherever you come from, it must be one hell of a place,” he adds while shaking his head and looking down at his plate.
“You have no idea where I come from. Well, actually, yes, you do. You already met Michael, so that should give you a pretty good idea.”
“Yeah, well, we all got strange shit in our past.” He trails off as if he is thinking hard. A few seconds later he adds, “That picture in your room, is that your mom and you?” Oh. He noticed the picture.
“Yep. That’s my mom. Before Michael was in our life. We didn’t have a lot, but we were happy. My brothers were decent kids back then. But once Michael got a hold of them, everything changed.”
“Michael really f*cked things up for you, didn’t he?”
“Between him and my brothers, I was royally f*cked up by the time I was eleven. And literally f*cked at thirteen.” I am telling him too much.
“Thirteen, huh?” He looks more concerned than surprised.
“Yep. Thirteen. And not by my choice either.”
“Jesus, Emma.” Now he looks downright distressed, and I am feeling an overwhelming need to sink my face into my hands. But not because I’m embarrassed. Because I don’t like the way he is looking at me. I need to steer the conversation.
“How about you?” I ask. And his face instantly changes. He looks humored now. Thank f*cking goodness.
“Let’s just say I was way older than that,” he says, “and it was totally by my choice.”
“Who was it with?”
“My dad’s secretary.”
“No way. Seriously? Did she go all cougar on you when you were in high school or something?” Oh, sweet mother of God, why did I say that?
He chuckles. “Kind of, I guess. She was a little older than me, but I was twenty, so I don’t know if the whole cougar thing applies.” He was twenty-f*cking-years-old? I don’t believe it. By the time I was twenty, I had already screwed more boys than I care to remember. I suddenly feel really, really weird. And self-conscious. Which, of course, is total bullshit.
“Twenty? You’re full of crap,” I say, in hopes of calling his bluff.
“Dead serious. I was twenty.”
“And how old are you now?” I ask.
“I’m twenty-six.”
“So you’ve got four years up on me in age, but I’m three up on you in experience.”
“I guess so,” he says with a shrug. “But there’s really no need to point out all my inadequacies.”
I lift my eyes up from my plate and look him straight in the eye. “David, there is not a single thing inadequate about you.” I know he is flattered by my comment because he looks a bit sheepish and he doesn’t offer a smart-ass kickback. “Not so far, anyway,” I add with a smile.