You sound more like my type than I would have guessed. I won’t tell you what envisioning Minka circa Friday Night Lights did to, um. Never mind. You’re my type physically. I’m excited.
I’m tall, 6’3”, sort of goofy, muscles, straight teeth. Funny you mention friendship. I’m sort of allergic to it. Throw me in the passion pit any day of the week. I’m not saying that because I’m a man. I’m saying that because I want the all-encompassing hunger that can’t be staved off by a…friendship. I hope you don’t think I’m being too graphic. I’m really a pretty straitlaced guy in real life. It’s so odd you brought it up, though.
The ideal first date for me would be something low key, away from public, and quiet so there’s plenty of atmosphere for talking and getting to know one another. I’m not into wasting time, you see? I’ve done that in the past and I’m ready to find the one and make the rest of my days count. The beach would be a great first date. A blanket, a basket of snacks, and a day with nothing else in it.
Sound interesting? How about it?
I waste no time replying.
Are you asking me on a date to the beach or the passion pit? You didn’t even ask me my ideal first date yet.
I hit send. His reply is quick.
When you know. You know. Your choice on the passion pit, but beach first. Tomorrow afternoon? 4 p.m. Blacks Beach. Salk Canyon Road entrance. I’ll be wearing a baby blue T-shirt and a white smile.
Drumming my fingers on my desk, I stare at his short message. I could sit here and try to decipher it all night, or I could go with my gut instinct and trust the three hundred dollars I put into the computer’s hands. My cell phone chimes with a text from Martina asking where I’m at. I have to deal with this message now. The type of people who come back to stuff like this later confound me. It’s an impossibility to put this off. Plus, I’ll probably be drunk when I come home tonight.
It’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume I don’t have plans tomorrow afternoon. I don’t, though. I don’t have time to meet with an axe murderer either, so I really hope you aren’t some creeper. I’ll wear a long, tan dress. Also, I’m not a fan of baby blue. Wear red.
Before I lose my nerve, and also before I make myself later than I already am, I send the message and fold my hand over my mouth. I’ve shocked myself with this bold move. Maybe it is desperation, or perhaps I was able to bring some of my new, brave qualities home from overseas. Whatever it is, I have a good feeling about it. Mancandy sends another message.
It’s a date. Candy Apple Red.
I haven’t smiled this wide in a long time, not since I’ve been home. I close my laptop and fly out the door when the Uber driver honks to announce his arrival.
++++
“Tell us the story again,” Martina gushes, her chin in her hands on the other side of the table. They love my stories from Spain. Well, they love my stories about Ricardo from Spain, mostly. I’ve had several drinks and the night is winding down. Mancandy stayed safely tucked away—a secret until the very last moment when I have to tell someone lest I end up on the side of a milk carton, or the front page of the newspaper.
I rattle on about the time he scooped me up on the handle bars of his bicycle and rode me through the farmers’ market on a Sunday afternoon. It was romantic in the best kind of way. I’ll never mind repeating that story. He was suave, spoke with a slight accent because his dialect was from a smaller town toward the south, and I broke up with him before I moved to Japan. “I don’t know why you didn’t stay with him. He was so obviously into you.”
Raising my brows, I say, “Yeah. If you’re into that sort of thing.” My sort of thing is a little more stable, but it was fun while it lasted. The red straw between my fingers, I swirl my drink that’s mostly ice water at this point. “Thanks for welcoming me back. You know how to make a woman feel special. Somehow my mom baking a pie just wasn’t as fun as this.” Everyone at the table giggles and we toast, some glasses a little more sloshy than others.
A song, one of my favorites starts thumping through the speakers. We all stand to dance, or as the alcohol dictates, sway along to the beat. I’m hot when the song finishes, a sheen of sweat glistening on every part of my body that isn’t covered by the black dress. The cute bartender stops by our table to clear our empties. All it takes is one look at each other to know we’re all on the same page.
“Until Janine’s birthday next month, then?” I ask.
We make plans for the weekend after next. Janine is turning thirty-five and wants to make a big deal of it, figuring it’s really the best birthday to go all out for. It’s the age where you’re definitely not a child anymore, but you’re still fresh faced. It’s a good birthday. We make our way to the front door of the club, holding on to each other as we go. When the cool SoCal air hits us, I see my Uber, the same one who dropped me off.
“It’s no Ricardo. But he’ll do for the night,” I joke and tip my imaginary hat in Martina’s direction.
A sad smile plays on her lips as she holds me by my shoulders. “It’s going to happen for you soon, Harper. I can feel it in my bones. You glow in a world of darkness.”
She hugs me and I wave her off. “I’m not a lightning bug.” I think better of it. “Maybe I’m a different breed of lightning bug. I shock potential mates. To death.”
“You’re sick, Harp.”
I get into the backseat of the white car and roll the window down. The neon lights of the bar shine behind Martina’s head. “I’m joking. I bet you’re right. Thanks for tonight.Lo pasé muy bien.Ricardo would have approved.”
Shaking her black curls around her head, she smirks. I wave, and we set off for home. There are at least twenty emails that need my attention. Even still, after years, after our lives have passed us by, I find my thumb hovering over Ben’s number in the wee hours of the morning.
I don’t call him. I like to think I’m stronger than that. Tapping his name, I send him a text:They played your song at my party tonight.
It’s 2 a.m., so I don’t expect him to reply.
His response:I am everywhere. And then another right away.I hope you danced.
We’ve held fast to the decision we made two years ago. Friendship only. The year before I left to travel was difficult—my body and heart wanting nothing more than to stay wrapped up in his arms. Right around the time when I felt like there was no way I could keep my promise, and honor the only decent decision I’ve made regarding Ben, my mother told me to get the hell out of here. In the nicest, I’m your mom, and I want what’s best for you, type of way.
