Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(23)

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Got my ass whupped a lot. Lovingly. But a loving ass whupping is still an ass whupping.”

“Couldn’t find a less painful thing to be passionate about than mixed martial arts?”

“Lots of less painful things. But nothing worthwhile.”

“What’s so magical about it? Why do it?”

He starts to speak and stops. He blushes. Then he looks me in the eyes and says, “I want to be a champion.” I’m taken aback by the quiet, unarmored confidence with which he expresses an otherwise pretty cheesy sentiment. So much so that I don’t even have anything clever to say in response.

He senses this and continues. “I want to be the best.”

“As opposed to a champion who gets his ass beat constantly and is the worst?” I knew it wouldn’t take me long to recover my game. “They give you this big trophy with a boot kicking an ass and on the ass it says ‘You.’?”

“You’re funny,” he says.

He’s clearly sincere. I can already tell he’s not the ironic or sarcastic type. I’ve had boyfriends who were nothing but irony and sarcasm, and it grated after a while. Especially how they always thought they were funnier than me (they weren’t) and wouldn’t laugh at my jokes (which were funny).

So he gets a sincere smile from me. “You think?”

“I think.”

“You have better taste in comedy than in music.”

“Hey, now.”

“Here’s what you love.” I pump my fist. “Don’t you dare say that my hat ain’t fancy,” I sing in my best bro country singer voice. I was in show choir and I’ve been in some of the school musicals, so I’m not a terrible singer.

Lawson starts grooving along with my singing. “I’m into it.”

“And you better not say that my boots ain’t prancey and my buckle ain’t sassy and my Skoal can ain’t classy.”

Lawson grins. “This is my jam right here.”

“And you best not say that my jeans ain’t too tight and my truck ain’t too high,” I finish with a slow flourish and jazz hands.

Lawson claps and whistles. “Encore!”

I shake my head. “This is my life. Freestyling country music.”

“I’ll be your bodyguard when you get famous.”

“If I were famous for making country music, I’d want someone to kill me as soon as possible.”

“I bet we could make a country fan out of you.”

“I bet nope, never.”

“You like cheesy movies. I bet you could start loving cheesy music.”

“You even admit it’s cheesy!”

“I only admit you think it is.”

“Dude, you would legit have your work cut out for you. Trust me on that.”

We chat about nothing in particular and laugh for a little while. Lawson has an endearing mix of quiet confidence—maybe from his fighter side—and sweet nervousness, like a kid who’s excited to ride a roller coaster that scares him—maybe from being around me. It’s fun. More than I thought it would be, for sure. I do thoroughly enjoy the way he looks at me.

If we had more in common, I’d maybe want to do it again sometime. Maybe.

We pull up to my house. “Okay, dude, I had a good time. Thanks.” I put up my hand for a high five, which he dutifully gives.

“I like being around you.” (Sweet nervousness.) “Cool,” I say with considered nonchalance.

“I’d like to do this again sometime.” (Quiet confidence.) Oh joy. He’s not going to take the hint. I imagine what would happen if I suddenly pretended to die. Just slumped in my seat, tongue lolling out, my head flopping at an improbable angle, my eyes open and glassed over. Until he laid my body on the front lawn and drove off (although he’s definitely more the carry me to my door and ring the doorbell and deliver my corpse to my parents with an apology type).

He’s still looking at me expectantly, awaiting a response. Great. I know I’m about to cut hard and deep, but he wasted so little time trying to get me to go out with him, I feel like it’s in order. “I—Okay. I’ll be totally straight with you.”

“Please.”

“We don’t have a lot in common, true?”

“Maybe, maybe not. That’s what I wanted to find out.”

“I can tell we don’t have much in common.”

“After only an hour or two?”

“It’s obvious.”

“All right.”

“You don’t think it’s obvious?”

“No. Not to me.”

“Well, it is to me. So we can be friends, cool, no big deal. But I’m not looking for anything more than that.”

“Is it because I’m—”

I hold up a hand to halt him. “I don’t care that you love punching people.”

“I was gonna say ‘a country music fan.’?” He gives me a slight, sad smile. It’s a nice smile. This is not as easy as I hoped.

“Oh.”

“Shoulda let you pick the music.”

I blush. “It really is because I’m not feeling a relationship with anyone right now.”