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Sailor
My emotions range from excitement to regret. I can’t seem to mellow out somewhere in between. When I decided to come tonight, I was in this frame of mind where I thought if I didn’t make a change in my life, I was going to end up like Candy, throwing myself at married men in the hopes they would leave their wives for me because I’ll wake up one day and it will hit me that I do want to fall in love and I wasted the best years of my life on great sex and twenty-four-hour-long relationships.
I realize now that I am never going to be that woman. Only I realized it after I got in the vehicle with Logan. I’m not into jumping out of moving trucks, so I stayed, and this uncomfortable silence has settled over us.
“At least let me feed you,” Logan says as if reading my mind.
I sigh and smile because even though we’ve spent years apart, he has this way of putting me at ease. I fought so hard to be angry at him, to harbor this hatred for him, and even then, it was easy to be around him. I just didn’t want to admit that.
He pulls into the parking lot at Phoebe’s, settling on a familiar place, and we walk inside together. Music drifts from the stage as we find a seat, this time not at the bar ? my usual spot ? but in a booth.
I sit across from Logan because I’m not one of those weirdos who want to sit on the same side all close to each other where I won’t have room to eat.
“Does you feeding me include an appetizer and dessert, or entrée only?”
He chuckles as he looks over the menu. “I can handle everything.”
“You assume I’m referring to food.”
I keep my eyes on the menu, mentally scolding myself for flirting with him. It wasn’t ten minutes ago that I was questioning my decision to come on this date, and now I’m planning for what I’ll be doing after it’s over. I’m a fucking mess.
“That was your assumption.”
And now, I’m a hot fucking mess. What was that rule of mine about not doing repeats? Can I rewrite it? I do have that authority, correct? Better yet, no rewriting. Just eliminate it altogether.
I slowly lift my eyes from the menu, and Logan is looking at me, this half-cocked smile on his gorgeous face. I’m screwed.
“Are you two ready to order?”
I lick my lips and wait for him to break our stare. The waitress clears her throat, and he finally gives in. We put our order in, and after she takes our menus, he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“Let’s dance.”
I shake my head, but he tugs me to my feet. There’s a couple on the stage singing a Smokey Robinson hit, and they sound incredible together. Logan spins me and then pulls me into his arms, placing them firmly around my waist.
“What made you decide to come?”
“I pictured you sitting home alone on a Saturday night, probably watching some pro-football game rerun on television, and this incredible sadness overcame me.”
He laughs in my ear. “A pity date, then?”
“You take it however you can get it.”
“With you? I sure as hell will.”
