I grin, shaking my head as I pull out my phone. Opening up my Facebook profile, I search through my oldest pictures. I wasn’t into selfies and haven’t posted much content since I started my account in 2006, but I’ve been tagged in enough images on other people’s accounts that I can easily find an old one near the bottom of ‘Photos of You.’
It’s not exactly flattering, but I was seventeen, getting drunk at a party on Mike’s Hard Lemonade after the big homecoming game. I’m smiling, but I look like a hot mess because I was already wasted when they took the picture. It’s odd seeing that version of myself again after so long. Clean-shaven with slightly too long hair, towering over everyone else, and thin as a rail with no muscles to speak of. A total beanpole. I don’t remember what it was like back then. It’s hard to recall much of my life before my dad passed, but at least I looked happy.
I pass the phone to Chrissy, and her jaw drops in awe.
“Oh, mygod.”
Her eyes dart between me and the phone like she can’t believe she’s looking at the same person. Honestly, I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of this kind of transformation when I was seventeen. I may have fantasized about getting stronger back then, but the reality seemed too impossible to achieve. Still, when it was a matter of finding structure and routine, or losing my life because of lethargy and crippling depression, it was surprising to see just what I could accomplish. But that’s not a story for a first date.
“Honey, that is one hell of a glow-up.” Chrissy swoons as she hands my phone back, looking me up and down with a new eye, and she hums her approval. She’s giving me a clear sign of whatshe would like to do to me, sending a jolt through my heart, my stomach flipping.
But the action does worse to me than a little shot of nerves. I freeze as the feeling immediately reminds me of the last few times I’ve experienced the same gut reaction. All of them this week, whenever I was withLuke.
The thought startles me, and I recoil slightly.
All this time, I’ve been confused about what was happening to me whenever Luke and I were alone. From the consistent heart palpitations to the weird feeling of queasiness in my stomach, I never guessed what my body was trying to tell me—or maybe I was suppressing it. Now it suddenly seems so clear. Am I…attracted toLuke?
No, that’s not right. That’s notpossible. I’m not gay. I’mnotgay! Am I? No. No, I’m definitely attracted to women. My whole life, I have beenverydrawn to women. I would know if I made that up and was secretly attracted to men the entire time. I wouldknowif I liked men. Wouldn’t I?
Thankfully, while I’m having a mild panic attack at the realization that something is happening to me, Chrissy is distracted when the waiter arrives as if summoned to the spot to hide my disquiet. He sets the bill down in the middle of the table, equally spaced between us as if to say he doesn’t assume anything about who might be paying, then asks a bunch of questions about how we enjoyed our meals that I’m having a hard time processing. I think Chrissy answers him.
At some point, I notice that Chrissy is talking to me instead, and when I look up at her, I finally snap back to reality. She’s holding the bill in her hands and looks absolutely mortified.
“What?” I ask, still a little dazed. She mistakes my confusion for confirmation that I agree with whatever she just said.
“I’m so sorry, Ethan. I didn’t realize this place would be so expensive,” she hisses quietly, staring down at the check. “I’ll pay for half of it.”
“What?” I ask again, frowning.
She passes me the bill, and that’s when I see what she’s freaking out about. It’s over $300. She’s concerned about how much the dinner costs. Is that all? I’m having a full-on gay crisis over here. I think that takes precedence.
The look on Chrissy’s face is the only thing tethering me to reality. There’s one brain cell left operating at the moment, and it’s working overtime to remember that typical meals do not cost this much money, and her concern that this will somehow break the bank is genuine. Also, I’m supposed to be on a date withher. Why am I spending so much time worrying about whether or not I’m attracted to the hottest man I’ve ever met? Jesus Christ.
In a feat of herculean strength, I shove every thought I do not have time to process right now into the back of my mind and turn my entire focus to Chrissy.
“Um,” I stammer, coming back to myself. “Please don’t even worry about that. I owe you for doing all the legwork for me anyway.”
“Ethan,” Chrissy chides, seriously upset. There are honest-to-God tears in her eyes. Was I too distracted to notice? “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s way too expensive. You have to let me pay for half of it at least.”
“No, honestly. It’s fine. I’ve got this.”
“It’s not fine! I shouldn’t have had so much to drink or ordered all that food. We should have gone somewhere cheaper.”
“Chrissy,” I say gently but firmly. She looks like she might start crying from guilt, but eventually nods and gives up the fight, going quiet.
I sigh to myself. I don’t know how to tell her that I couldn’t care less if this meal was $10 or $1500. It’s all just a drop inthe bucket for me. I would have gladly paid it for her company, even if I’m turning out to be a poor companion. But those are dangerous waters to tread simply because she’s upset. At the very least, $300 is worth what I put her through leading up to this date. She deserves more, honestly.
I take out my card and put it in the billfold without a second glance at the total. And when the waiter eventually returns with the receipt to sign, I leave a $100 tip.
The atmosphere changes after that. I can tell Chrissy’s still distraught as I drive the roughly twenty miles home from the restaurant. She fiddles with the cross at her neck, running her fingers over it absently. It makes me anxious to see her so tense. I reach out and gently grab her hand, holding it over the middle console, brushing my thumb over her fingers. She doesn’t look at me but squeezes my hand in return.
“Please don’t worry about this, okay?” I say. “Believe it or not, it’s not the most expensive meal I’ve ever paid for.”
“You’re lying.” Chrissy laughs, but it sounds a little wet, like she’s crying. Fuck my life.
“Swear to god,” I chuckle. “Marcus had the bright idea once to start a tab at a Chili’s, of all places, and he was getting drunk at two in the afternoon, celebrating his divorce from Heather McIntosh. You remember her? I think she was in your grade.”
Chrissy frowns but nods.
