Page 8 of Summer Romance
“Then that’s definitely not how I’m looking at you.” His eyes are smiling. I want this to be the part where he asks if I’m free for dinner. And then I say yes, my dinner plans were just canceled. And then I race home to call Frannie to babysit and help me find something to wear. I smile back at him, embarrassed for myself for a hundred reasons.
“Do you want to do something with me later?” he asks.
I am so surprised by these words coming out of his mouth that, for a second, I wonder if I said the thing about Frannie babysitting out loud. “Tonight?” I ask.
“Yes. Tonight.” His eyes scan mine like he’ll see my answer there.
He’s asking me out. This attractive man who has beautiful hands and a brief history of flirting with me. This is a miracle, but it also feels like if someone told me I was going on safari in twenty minutes—I’ve always dreamed of going, but I’m not quite prepared.
“What would we do?” I ask.
“Something fun. Are you okay with surprises?”
I almost tell him that the last surprise I had was finding the carcass of a hermit crab in my bathtub. The surprise before that was Pete leaving. This feels different from those.
“Sure,” I say.
“Sure? Sure’s not yes.”
“Yes,” I say. And we’re just looking at each other, like we both can’t believe this just happened.
He smiles. “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“No,” I say, too quickly. “I mean yes to seven, but no to picking me up.” He doesn’t say anything. “It’s just that I have kids. I mean I’m not married. I’m separated, but I haven’t really been on a date, and I’m not sure my kids are ready for that. If this is a date. I mean, not to assume, it just sort of feels like one?” Where are all these words coming from? I can tell he thinks this is funny. “Say something.”
He’s smiling. “It’s definitely a date.”
“Okay.”
“Meet me here at seven,” he says. “Wear something casual. And you might want a hat.”
7
Frannie’s not answering her phone. Marco answers the landline at the diner, and I tell him to tell her to check her texts. Me: CODE RED. I met a man and I have a date!! Can you guys please come hang out with my kids tonight? I will pay you back in unlimited babysitting hours for eternity. A DATE!
Frannie, finally: OMG, yes!
When I’m home and I’m outside grilling burgers for my kids’ dinner, I am completely overwhelmed by what’s ahead of me. On the one hand, this is a lucky break—me, taking off my ring and getting to practice dating on a guy who’s only in town for a visit. By the end of the night, I’ll be able to check “first date after separation” off the list of things I am dreading. Also, it could be fun. The last real conversation I had with a man was about shin guards.
I am sweaty and need to reshower by the time I figure out what to wear. I would like to be in a dress for this date. I’d like to be able to cross my legs without feeling the rub ofdenim against itself. But a dress feels like too much, like I’m expecting a corsage or something. Plus, he said casual. As a compromise, I settle on a white sundress with a denim jacket over it, along with a pair of sandals that I have specifically chosen because they are not flip-flops. Sandals with a strap around the back will surely send the right signal about just how together of a person I am.
As I apply what I believe is the right amount of mascara, it hits me—I am infinitely more prepared for a safari than I am for this date. “So tell me a little about yourself,” I say into the mirror, like I’m conducting a job interview.
I tell my kids I’m going to my book club and accept Frannie’s enthusiastic squeeze of my hand as I head to my car. “I will be here, with all the time in the world to hear every single detail when you get back,” she says.
“I don’t want to act weird,” I say. I grab Greer’s red softball hat off the hook by my door and throw it in my bag. There’s no way I’m going to really need a hat.
“Then don’t,” she says.
Ethan’s waiting bya gray Audi station wagon in the empty rec parking lot. He’s in pale blue shorts and a white button-down. He’s casual but also dressed for a date. When he sees me pull in, he walks over to my car to open the door.
“I can drive,” I say by way of greeting.
“I bet you’re a great driver,” he says. “But I’m driving.”
“I didn’t picture you as a station wagon guy,” I say.
“You expected a minivan?” he asks. I start to say no, that I expected a Jeep or an SUV, but then I think maybehe’s kidding. I want to be kidding too, but I have suddenly forgotten how to be kidding.
