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The sapphire blue button-down he’s wearing is only a little darker than his deep blue eyes, and much like the pair of jeans he’s paired it with, it’s nicely tailored to his sculpted frame. He looks like he belongs in a cape, saving kittens from trees and rescuing orphans from a burning building or something. But, to my knowledge at least, he’s just a normal guy without the ability to fly or leap tall buildings in a single bound.
No, the only superhuman ability he’s displayed so far is the ability to make my heart do cartwheels with a single smile. An ability he demonstrates immediately upon laying eyes on me. “Wow,” he says, looking me up and down, “You look incredible.”
I can feel the heat rising to my face. “Thanks,” I flash him a smile in return, “You don’t look half bad, yourself.”
He waits while I grab my purse and lock up, then leads me out to the car, making sure to get there first so he could open the passenger door for me. “Thanks,” I tell him again, slipping into the seat.
He closes the door behind me, and I take the moment alone to let out a little sigh of girlie delight at the chivalrous display. I would certainly never expect this kind of stuff, I like to think I’m a pretty low-maintenance person, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it.
On our first date, he’d been so sweet as to bring me a bouquet of sunflowers. Unfortunately, while I love the appearance of sunflowers, I also happen to be majorly allergic, so those were quickly disposed of. But even so, the thought was enough.
He slips into the driver’s seat beside me and off we go. His phone is plugged in, playing a song I vaguely recognize and like, but to my surprise, he unplugs it and passes me the cord. “Here,” he says, “Pick one of your favorites.”
“Is this a subtle way of judging my tastes and deciding if I’m still cool enough for you?” I tease, plugging the cord into my phone and opening my music streaming app.
“Oh, absolutely,” he says, trying to sound serious but completely failing with any semblance of a poker face, “Passing the aux cord is a foolproof litmus test of personality.”
“Well, now I’m just torn. Part of me wants to be sincere and part of me just wants to put on late-nineties boy bands to see how you respond.”
He glances at me and smirks. “How do I know you’re not just saying that to cover up a sincere lover for late-nineties boy bands?” he counters.
“I mean, if you were a tween in the early 2000s, you unironically liked at least one Backstreet Boys song, even if you wouldn’t admit it.”
“Personally, I was more partial to NSYNC.”
“Maybe I’m the one who should be doing the judging,” I shoot back, making a face at him.
He laughs, and I go back to looking for something to actually play. I choose a track from one of my favorite artists and let it begin. He nods approvingly, and I’m delighted when he starts to sing along.
“I take it you know this one,” I laugh.
He nods and keeps singing. “How were you not up on that mic at karaoke night?” I ask him, “You sound great.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, having stopped anyway for an instrumental bit, “I don’t mind when it’s just us, but I can’t see myself singing in front of a crowd, even just for shits and giggles.”
My heart flutters a little bit at the “us” part. But I see what he’s saying, and I nod. “Fair enough. But if those two girls in the matching tube tops had the courage to go up there and shamelessly rupture everyone’s eardrums with their rendition of ‘Someone Like You’ by Adele, I think you’d be fine.”
He grimaces. “I’d rather listen to a full hour of Gilbert Gottfried screaming at the top of his lungs than suffer that one again,” he agrees.
We talk the whole way there, and when we pull into the parking lot of the restaurant, we have to sit for a minute so I can calm down because he has me laughing so hard I can’t catch my breath.
The whole date is like that, with both of us cracking each other up all night and the conversation flowing like a river. We talk about everything from music, to movies, to a rather spirited debate ranking the best Gatorade flavors.
The only awkward spot of the night comes when we’re talking about families and the inevitable question of siblings comes up. I reach for my wineglass and take a swig before answering. “Um…I’m a twin, but my brother died when we were eighteen,” I explain simply.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Elliot says.
As I’m setting the glass back down on the table, he reaches out and touches my hand. I meet his eye. “Thanks.”
For a moment, there’s silence between us. I know Elliot has no idea what to say, and I can hardly blame him. I wouldn’t know what to say either, so instead, I decide to redirect things. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
A tiny wave of gratitude flits through his eyes and he nods. “Yeah, one older sister and two younger half-siblings, a brother and a sister.”
He tells me a little about them, and the conversation gets comfortably back on track, leaving the awkward moment behind us.
And by the time he’s walking me out to the car, it’s all but forgotten. He takes a longer route driving me home, and I find that I’m dreading the end of the night.
When he pulls up to my apartment again, part of me wants to invite him to come up, just so I can spend some more time with him, but I know that the invitation will inevitably lead to more. And there’s part of me that wants that, too, but a larger part of me is terrified.
