Mark stood up now and his eyes ran the length of my body again. I shivered. “It definitely gives off a vibe.”
“Okay, I’ll change. And let’s stop saying vibe!” I rushed off and put on a much simpler dress and flatter shoes. I rushed back to Mark who was now in the kitchen making a cup of coffee.
“And now?” I asked, giving a small spin.
He turned around, and his eyes drifted down to my feet. “Maybe the shoes are a bit too . . .?” He looked like he couldn’t find the word.
“They’re Gucci,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I nodded. “You think they’re too fancy?”
“I didn’t say that. You did,” he replied.
I sighed. “You’re right, too fancy and showy.”
Mark didn’t say anything, but nodded his head.
“Okay.” I rushed back outside to change.
“Perhaps it’s more of a pants and T-shirt thing,” he shouted after me as I ran. And then I thought I heard him say something like, “the older and uglier the better,” but I probably imagined that.
I emerged again in some jeans, a T-shirt and pair of sneakers, and wearing less make-up. And this time, when I walked in, Mark’s eyes widened.
“What? Is it terrible?” I asked self-consciously, holding my shirt against me, hoping the Spanx had flattened that loose muffin-top of skin I had.
“No. You look . . . perfect.” His voice was soft and low and suddenly all I could think of was that kiss under the sprinklers and how much I wanted to do it again, and how much I wanted him to tell me not to go on this stupid date.
“Thanks,” I replied, my voice equally low and slightly breathy.
“You have freckles,” he stated.
“I . . . uh, yes.” I lifted my hands to my face awkwardly and covered my cheeks. Shit, clearly, I’d taken too much make-up off.
“They’re cute,” he said quickly. “I’ve never noticed them.”
“I usually cover them,” I mumbled, feeling self-conscious.
“You shouldn’t!” He said it so matter-of-factly. I lowered my hands and our eyes met. I was overwhelmed with a desire to run across the room and throw myself in his arms. I took a small step towards him, hoping he would too, but he didn’t. He turned away from me and busied himself in the fridge.
“Have a good time,” he said over his shoulder, so casually that it sounded like he didn’t care again that I was going.
“Okay.” I stood there and looked at him, but he didn’t look back. “I don’t think I’ll be too late.” I only said this because I was fishing for some kind of response from him.
“Cool. Take your time.” He was still scratching in the fridge.
“You think?” I asked.
Mark turned and our eyes met again. “There’s no curfew here, so come home when you want to.”
I nodded at him. “But if I come home too late, that might give him the impression that this is a—”
“Date?” he interrupted. “I thought it was a date.”
“What’s a date, really?” I said with a chuckle now, feeling strange and awkward.
“Well, in my experience, it’s usually when two single people decide to go out together to see if they’re romantically compatible.”
