The door shuts behind him, and it’s just us two. With walls and a barrier and abed.
“Are those for me?” I eye the flowers, my smile modest and timid.
He nods. He offers them, letting me bury my nose in the soft petals.
“They’re beautiful.” He watches me, his gaze near reverence. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I walk to my kitchen, the distance closable with a long step. For James, it’ll probably take a mere shuffle. I open a cabinet and crane my neck in search of a vase. It’s there, on the top shelf. As if it was done with intention. So I can ask him to reach it for me. Which he does without me even asking, shuffle and all.
“Thank you,” I say as he sets it down.
“Was there a reason Sylvia was here?” he asks, creating some much-needed distance between us. I fill the vase and answer over my shoulder.
“Just playing…hall monitor.”
He nods. He’s on the opposite side of my small galley-style kitchen, and he’s leaning back, one ankle crossed over the other and his arms crossed. “She really cares about you.”
“We’ve known each other for a while,” I explain, “almost nine years, so…”
“That long?”
“College,” I explain. “And we were both in the same cohort for our credential program.” I pause. My posture mirrors his, and I ask with a head tilt, “She didn’t tell you this?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Finally, something she managed to keep her mouth shut about.” He smiles, ducking his head with an air of modesty. Like I could continue and talk about my entire friendship with Sylvia and he’d listen. Just like how he’s apparently done with Sylvia when she talks about me. Because the subject matter isme. My life. My past and my future, whatever goals or delusions come out of my mouth. He’ll stand there, hanging onto every word. “Are you ready to go?”
He cups the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
I grab my purse and sweater and walk to the door. James stays a close step behind, ready to press a hand to my lower back at the first opportunity.
We’re walking to his car, parked in the lot just outside my building. An empty spot that isn’t marked as visitor or guest, a risk he took. He rounds the hood, following me to the passenger side, and opens the door. I wonder after how many dates that’ll go away, and I’ll have to open my own doors.
“I hope you’re in the mood for something sweet.” He says it like a warning or bait, I’m not too sure which one.
“I like sweet.” He hooks his hand to the back of my seat as he backs his car out, and I get a glimpse of his profile. All chiseled jaw and focus. I almost poke my finger at the freckles lining his nose, wanting to confirm my previous assumption they’re fromlong summers spent in the Southern California sun or ask him if it’s just genetic. Maybe his siblings have the same constellation of spots on their sun-kissed faces. “Are you taking me to a candy buffet or something? Making sure I see that dentist?”
He chuckles. “Nothing like that.”
“Is that…” I take a studious whiff. “Tropical Blast?”
“How did you know?” He taps his middle finger at the air freshener attachment clipped to his air vents.
“I might have the same one.” His loose fist nudges my thigh, and it sort of lingers there. Resting on the leather seat while bumping against my knee with every twist and turn.
“Pulling out the big guns, I see,” I tease. “What do you reserve for the third date? New car smell?”
My hand lands on his, and he turns his palm, letting our fingers brush.
The first thing I noticed when I got into his car, aside from the coconut-beachy scent, was that it’s a manual transmission. It requires an ounce more focus and heed to drive safely. Also, two hands. Yet he somehow manages to continue driving with one. He keeps his right nestled up to mine, and his left moving from the steering wheel and the gearshift. And I pretend not to notice.
“Waffles for dinner,” I comment. “I’ve never done that before.”
“You’ve never had breakfast for dinner?” One of James’s brows draws up to his hairline.
I shake my head, a fork and a knife held in each respective hand. He scoots the plate closer to me.
