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“Hey D, Emily here is from Portland.” Matt tells his friend and redirects my attention from the amazing scent that is Jonathan over to Devon.
“Really? Well, then it is really nice to meet you, PDX.” Devon says this as he reaches out to shake my hand again. There is just something about him that makes you feel comfortable and at ease. I like Devon and the nickname he’s given me immediately. PDX is the airport code for the Portland International Airport and a common nickname for our hometown. It feels good to be around somebody from home.
“Yep, Cami and I are actually both from Portland but we’re down here going to school at San Diego State.”
“I knew I liked you guys! What a small world,” he says with a smile.
“Why is it a small world?” Cami asks as she returns with drinks.
After talking about food carts, restaurants, bars, bikes, hiking trails, The Saturday Market, Voo Doo Donut’s (The verdict is still out to as to whether or not it’s just a cool place to say you’ve been or if the donuts are really that good), and all of our other favorite things about Portland, I realize that the three of us were having our own little conversation. In fact, we’re so into our conversation that I didn’t even realize we were ignoring everybody else. Matt seems just fine talking with Sam and Steph, but nobody is talking to Jonathan. I turn to say something to him, so he feels included, and he seems just fine. He has his elbow on the table and is leaning on his hand and staring Right. At. Me.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
“So, I hear you’re from Portland,” he says with a straight face.
Knowing we had just spent a good thirty minutes going on about Portland and not understanding why anybody would ever want to live anywhere else, his comment makes me throw my head back and laugh out loud. There was just something so nonchalant about it. It was like he had just been sitting there waiting for us to stop talking so he could make his little comment.
Ah, it feels so good to laugh. It feel like I haven’t laughed in years, but in reality it’s probably only been about a week and a half. My laughter leaves him sitting on his bar stool looking at me with that havoc wreaking smile on his face.
I finally collect myself. “Sorry, we sort of went on and on didn’t we? Yes, Emily, Emily from Portland and you?”
“Jonathan Kelly of Savannah, Georgia at your service, Ma’am.” He says as he perks up at the prospect of actually having a conversation with me.
“I thought I detected a hint of an accent. It’s not very strong though.”
“I’ve been out west for three years now and I’ve spent a lot of time around people from all over the country, especially the West coast. To me everybody else talks funny and I never had an accent to lose,” he says with a wink, “I feel like I am picking up that funky west coast accent y’all have.”
“Well, I think some of your nonexistent accent is still there since we don’t say y’all too often out here on the West coast. Besides, I wouldn’t rush right out and lose it if I were you. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt in the dating department.”
I feel the heat rising from my neck and up to my face as I realize what I’ve just said. I wish I could take it right back. Maybe there’s too much noise in here and he didn’t hear me? If only I could be so lucky. Going by the shit-eating grin I see on his face right now, luck is not on my side.
With a raised eyebrow he asks, “So, you like an accent do you?”
“No, I didn’t say that I liked it, I said that I’m sure it helps you in the dating department. Since I don’t date, I wasn’t referring to myself.”
“Oh, so you don’t date, interesting . . .” He assesses me out of the corner of his eye and takes a drink of his Corona. “So, why don’t you date?”
“Just not my thing,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders, wanting to talk about anything other than my dating status or lack thereof. As he continues his assessment of me, I’m just waiting for the next probing question, but he surprises me by changing the subject.
“Well, it’s a good thing I am just hoping to spend some time with you and not start a relationship. I mean, that would just be awkward,” he says with a shiver.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at him and take a sip of my now watered down ice tea.
“So, what are you studying?”
“Teaching.”
“And what would you like to teach, Emily from Portland?”
“Well, Jonathan from Savannah . . .” I say with my best southern drawl, “I am hoping to go into the Special Education field. It’s something that I’ve wanted to do as long as I can remember.” I say as I lift my right shoulder, tilt my head toward it, and bring my hand to my chest in my horrible attempt to act like a Southern Belle.
“Emily, sweetheart, was that your attempt at a southern accent? And well, I am not sure exactly what the hell that was?” Waving his finger up and down in front of me, he says seriously, all laughter gone from his voice.
I have no idea what to say. I can’t believe that I’ve offended him. I feel so bad and once again feel the red creeping up from my chest, to my neck and now my face.
Jonathan throws his head back and out comes the laughter that I am afraid I could easily become addicted to. As I sit there, embarrassed yet enthralled by this man, he reaches out and puts his hand on top of mine. He gives it a couple of friendly taps and then just leaves it there. There’s that heat again and it’s not from the embarrassment I was feeling just moments ago. What is happening to me? How is this happening?
