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Clarissa looks a little embarrassed. “My parents were involved in aid work in different countries,” she tells me a little shyly. “So growing up, it was really normal to move every year or so. Eventually, I picked up some baking skills, and everywhere we traveled, I’d end up finding a job in a local bakery to help fund the trip.”
She gives me a quick smile, and I can’t help but be curious to learn more about this woman. She’s not just beautiful – she’sinteresting.
But I can already feel myself getting too invested in this. Instead of asking a bunch of follow-up questions like I secretly want to, I just nod politely before looking away. I’ve done my neighborly duty of making small talk. Any more than that would be inappropriate.
I can see Marcel staring at me out of the corner of my eye, a big grin plastered on his face, and I do my best to ignore him. Unfortunately, Marcel is a person who refuses to ever be ignored.
“Well, that’s interesting,” he says, tearing his eyes away from me and instead gazing pointedly at Clarissa. “Actually, you and Emile must be cut from the same cloth because he has quite the adventurous spirit, too.”
“Oh, cool,” Clarissa says, clearly as uncomfortable as I am at this point. She obviously doesn’t know what to say, and I’m just about ready to grab Marcel by the collar and chastise him for making this conversation so weird.
But Marcel beats me to it. “Tell her about the boat,” he says, like a mother encouraging her child to play nice.
“Um, I’m building a sailboat,” I say weakly, feeling all kinds of self-conscious now.
But at this, Clarissa’s eyes light up. “Wow, really?” she asks. “By yourself?”
I feel a chill in my cheeks — probably the vampire equivalent of blushing if I could remember what that felt like.
“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal,” I say, desperately uncomfortable. It feels like she and I might be clicking, and I don’t think I want that.
Despite what it probably looks like, I don’t actually like being seen as a playboy. I don’t like hitting it off with women and breaking their hearts. I don’t like the fact that I can never give them the side of me that they deserve.
I don’t like knowing that it’s a side of me that probably doesn’t exist.
I realize only after I’ve spoken that I effectively just killed the conversation. It was sort of what I intended, but maybe not quite so efficiently. The three of us sit there silently for a second. I’m not sure if I feel relieved to have stopped myself from accidentally flirting with Clarissa, or if I feel bad for being such an unwilling conversationalist.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk about my boat. In fact, nothing would give me more joy than sharing my passion project with a willing audience, but I know myself. I know if I get too into it, and Clarissa is into it, too, I’ll start spiraling into flirting, which will lead to one of us asking the other out, which will lead to dating, and that, inevitably, leads to heartache.
These are the thoughts whirring around in my brain by the time Clarissa speaks again.
“Well, thank you for inviting me over,” she says. “It was nice to meet you both, but I should get going.”
“Well, do you want a ride home?” Marcel asks immediately.
The thought of sharing a car ride with Clarissa inexplicably makes the hairs on my arms stand on end – a sure sign that I’m into her and therefore that I should keep my distance.
But Clarissa seems a little uncertain. “Oh, thank you,” she says, looking between us with something akin to panic. “But it’s okay, I want to finish my jog, anyway.”
“Of course,” I jump in before Marcel can insist. “Enjoy your jog, it was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Clarissa replies with an awkward smile. She then turns and heads out of the diner, leaving Marcel and I to ourselves. I have to force myself not to stare at her ass as she leaves.
Once again, though, I don’t do a very good job of it.
“You are so into her,” Marcel says the moment Clarissa is out of earshot.
I sigh, burying my head in my hands for a second. When I look up again, Marcel is grinning at me like he’s finally caught me. Marcel would love nothing more than to finally find me rushing head over heels into love the way he always is.
Of course, he’s always rushing in the other direction a week later, sometimes with an angry husband chasing behind.
“I’m not,” I insist, hoping I sound convincing enough for Marcel to leave it alone. “But after that little song and dance routine, it wouldn’t even matter if I was. You totally scared the poor girl away. She thinks we’re creeps now.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Marcel responds, calling Martha over with one hand. “It was a perfectly lovely conversation between two neighbors, one of whom clearly wants to bone the other, even if he is a little rude about it. Women are used to drooling guys, you’re fine.”
“You’re a poet, you know that?” I quip back. But deep down, I’m starting to feel guilty for how that whole conversation went.
Was I really drooling? Or rude? It wasn’t what I was going for at all, and I try to brush off Marcel’s insinuation. Or rather, the several insinuations.
