“I didn’t go on a date last month, and I scheduled this before you got here.”
“Why didn’t you go last month?” he asks.
I grab my other shoe and slip it on. “I just didn’t feel like it.”
And that’s the truth. I hated leaving him behind, and I hated how that made me feel. I was worried about him, feeling guilty for essentially bailing on him when he needed me the most, and I didn’t feel like being social.
“Cancel it,” he all but demands.
“Why?” I freeze and look up at him again.
He pinches his lips together and looks away from me as I stand to full height in front of him. I like being a little taller when I’m in front of him; I don’t have to tip my head back as far, and it feels like a more level playing field, even if I only come up to his shoulder.
He swallows, not answering me, and I watch as his muscles shift under his shirt and tighten around the ball.
“It would be rude to cancel so close to the time we agreed to meet, and seriously, what’s your problem? It’s supposed to be fun, and I’ll be back later, so don’t get your feathers ruffled.”
“Don’t get my feathers ruffled.” His eyes come back to mine, and they are like molten chocolate as they stare down at me. “It’s not fun, it’s dangerous, and I don’t like it.” He’s leaned over a bit and is more in my face.
As I hold my head high, not backing away, a chuckle escapes me. His lips tip down even farther as I tease, “All right, Dad.”
“That’s not funny.” His voice and his eyelids have dipped lower. It does strange things to my stomach, so I take a step back to put some space between us.
“It totally is. Jack, I like meeting new people—you know this. I find them interesting, and you never know what can happen.” I turn to look in the mirror next to the door. I unbutton the top button of my shirt, decide it’s too revealing, and then button it back up.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks animatedly.
Glancing up, I see his reflection is next to mine in the mirror. He’s watching my hands, but as I stop moving, his eyes rise to meet mine.
Suddenly I feel guilty about going. Well, maybe my conscience has been knocking all day, but we’re just supposed to be friends. It shouldn’t bother him that I’m headed out with someone else, and it shouldn’t bother me that I’m worrying about what he thinks.
Turning to move past him, I walk to the kitchen and pick up my purse.
“Think about it—in the last year, I found Taylor from my date in March, learned about a great new local farm from my June date, and recently the guy I met in December hooked me up with a new electrician who’s been awesome.”
“Wait, you still talk to the guy from December?” he asks.
“Of course I do. He’s a great guy.”
Jack drops his gaze to the ground and takes in a deep breath. He looks perplexed, and even kind of hurt—but why would he look like that?
“Have you gone out with him again?” He looks back up at me, and the previous disapproving expressions he was throwing me are now replaced with a wariness.
“No, but he has stopped in at the restaurant a few times to eat.”
“Has he asked you out again?” He tips his head to the side, studying me.
“He has.”
“So why didn’t you go?”
“I told you—the whole purpose of this is to meet new people and learn new things, not to find a forever-till-death-do-us-part. People are interesting. I’ve enjoyed it. You know, we can make you an account too. Maybe you need to get out, meet some new people, have a little fun.”
“I don’t want to meet new people. I like being here with you.” He reaches out and pulls one of my curls between his fingers. My brows draw down. He’s not touching me, just my hair, but it feels very intimate, and the strange feeling in my stomach, almost like butterflies, is back.
“You’re acting crazy, but if it makes you feel any better, I won’t go out with anyone next month.” I move to step around him, and he drops my hair then follows me to the front door.
When I turn to look at him one more time, his expression goes serious, and I pause with my hand on the doorknob.
“How about you go out with me instead?” He shifts the football so it’s now between both hands, and he compresses it.
“We go out all the time.”
“Not really,” he says. “And when we do, it’s casual. How about I plan something for us?”
Us.
I try not to linger on the word. There isn’t an us, not in the romantic sense, even if the idea of it does sound nice. He knows where I stand, knows I just want to be friends, but as he stares at me, waiting for my answer . . . if I didn’t know any better, I would say there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. What he has to be unsure of, I don’t know. At the end of the day, I would go anywhere with him.
“I think that sounds amazing, and I can’t wait.” I smile, his face finally relaxes, and he smiles too.
“Good.”
That one single word caresses my skin. As I wave goodbye and walk out the door, it finally dawns on me that I just agreed to go on a date with Jack.
A date with my best friend.
This date is not going well.
Instead of him meeting me at OBA, I thought it would be a good idea if we just met at the restaurant. I suggested High Cotton because they have an amazing drink called 199 that I adore. It’s made with a house-made pineapple-infused orange vodka, shaken, and served in a frosted martini glass. Just thinking about it has had my mouth watering all day, and I figured even if the date is a bust, I’ll at least get my drink.
Only now that we’re here, he’s talking and talking. He’s been talking nonstop for the last forty-five minutes about healthcare insurance plans, and now my drink and my dinner have lost their appeal.
Frequently, my mind drifts to Jack and his reaction to discovering I was heading out tonight. He was surprised and bothered, and the more I think about it, maybe he has a right to be. After all, he did come to Charleston to spend time with me, and from this angle it’s like I just left him there. It occurs to me that while I’ve moved him into the roommate category, he may not be staying all that long. I need to clarify with him, and I need to apologize.
“Our company recently switched to a PPO plan, a preferred provider organization. It’s great because now I can visit out-of-network providers and they’ll still cover some of the cost,” he says, breaking into my thoughts while speaking with his mouth full. As if I don’t know what that is. I am a business owner, and I do offer benefits for a few of my full-time employees.
I understand some topics are more interesting than others, but he has to know based on my body language that this is overkill. It would be like if I talked for just as long about lard. After all, in the south, fat is defined by bacon fat and lard.
To prove my point, I cut him off and start describing in detail different reasons why one should choose lard as their cooking oil. His face scrunches as I talk about how sustainable it is, and how it has one-third less cholesterol than butter. It’s right after I finish talking about how it’s higher in monounsaturated fats, which are good for cardiovascular health, and have moved on to how pasture-raised pigs are better than industrial-raised pigs that he cuts me off to ask the waitress for the bill.
Maybe he understands what I was doing, or maybe he doesn’t. Either way, we’re both polite and relieved in our goodbyes out front on the corner as we know this dinner is the end.
Letting out a deep sigh of freedom, I spot a stand across the street promoting carriage rides around the Battery. My night is now free, and as I walk down the block to the intersection, I think, Why not?
“Are you okay?” It’s the first thing he says after he answers his phone. Not hey or hello, but straight to a panicked voice.
“Of course I’m okay, silly.” I laugh, and in front of me the horse jerks his head away from a fly that’s bothering him then neighs.
&nbs
p; “Then why are you calling me?” he asks, his tone a little bitter.
“Because I want you to put your shoes on and come outside.”
“Why?” he asks, but I can hear him moving through the house.
“Just do it and stop asking questions.” I grin. I also realize I’m nervous. That’s stupid, but for some reason I am.
“Fine.” He hangs up.
A few minutes later, the front door swings open, and he’s standing there not wearing the same thing I left him in. He’s showered, his hair is damp, and he’s shaved. He’s wearing jeans and a black button-down shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up, and he’s stuffed his feet into black boots that are only partly laced. He looks like he’s about to head out somewhere. My heart dips a little with an emotion that is foreign to me: jealousy.
Suddenly, I don’t want to make an account for him on a dating site. That was the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. I don’t want him going out with anyone else, and I think I’m starting to understand why he doesn’t want me to either. We may just be friends, but I’m feeling greedy for his attention and time, as he must be for mine.
“What is this?” he asks at the same time I ask, “Where are you going?”
He looks down at his clothes and back up at me. “Food—I need some.” Then he pops up one brow as if it’s my turn to answer.
“I thought we could go for a ride.” I hold out my arms in a Ta-da! manner. I’m sitting in an old-fashioned white carriage with the top down and a thick red blanket spread across my lap.
“In that?” he asks incredulously.
“Yes, and be kind.” I lower my voice. “The horse’s name is Baby Love Love and he can hear you.”
The driver turns and winks at me, and Jack just shakes his head.
“How’d she talk you into this?” he asks the driver, who answers, “Money.”
Turning, Jack pulls his keys from him pocket, including the one I gave him, and locks the front door. He heads down the front steps of the house and climbs in next to me. He smells so good, and I breathe him in, letting my toes curl in my shoes.
“You do realize this is ridiculous, right?” He eyes me as he runs his hand through his hair then over his knee.
“Yes, but fun too. You’re new to Charleston, and I can’t think of a more perfect way for you to tour the Holy City.” Pulling the blanket up, I toss it over his leg that’s closest to mine while he drags it over the other.
“What happened to your date?” he mutters.
“Eh, let’s just say we’re interested in different things.” I scoot a little closer to him, and he looks at me curiously as the driver taps the horse and clicks his mouth. The horse moves, and we jolt backward.
“Here, I got you some of these.” I reach down to my purse and grab him a paper bag of candied pecans. “Hopefully they’ll tide you over until we’re done, and then we can get you some food. I can make you dinner, or we can go out.”
He opens the bag, and the sweet smell of roasted pecans wafts out.
“These are great, and I’m indifferent. I wanted to get out for a bit, and dinner seemed like a good reason to do so.” He pops one in his mouth, and I watch him chew. He really is such a handsome guy, from his dark features to the line of his jaw. My heart thumps hard as I tell it what it already knows. I could fall for him, easily.
But not tonight. I’ll worry about that another day.
“So, where to first?” Jack asks the driver.
“Rainbow Row. It’s the name for a series of thirteen colorful historic houses. It represents the longest cluster of Georgian row houses in the United States,” he says proudly.
Settling in, Jack wraps his arm around my shoulders and tucks me in next to him. We remain silent as he eats the pecans and the driver tells us story after story. While a lot are about the history of Charleston, he also includes a few spooky ones. He tells us about Lavinia Fisher, the first female serial killer ever convicted. She was also the first white woman ever hung in South Carolina. He pauses the carriage in front of the old Charleston jail, where visitors claim to have seen her ghost. Apparently, according to the legends, Lavinia used her last breath to yell out, “If you have a message you want to send to hell, give it to me—I’ll carry it!”
Jack chuckles at the absurdity, and as he glances down at me, I can see the strain from earlier has left him. With his free hand, he reaches for mine, tangles our fingers together, and places them on his thigh.
The driver talks about the Gray Man, Nettie Dickerson, and even the Gullah culture and how in the early nineteenth century, old antebellum plantation homes used to paint their porch ceilings blue to represent water. The idea behind it was that it warded off haints, or haunts, as they could not cross water and enter the house.
“Is that why the inside of your porch cover is painted blue?” he asks, church bells ringing for some occasion in the distance.
“No, that’s an old wives’ tale trick to keep the bugs away. Wasps and other insects see the blue, think it’s the sky, and take their nests elsewhere. Although, a very light blue paint would look lovely on the ceiling of OBA.” I think about how pretty it would be in contrast to the whitewashed brick wall and the other colors present.
“If you want to paint it, I’ll help you,” he says, running his thumb over the back of my hand.
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“Yep.”
Later, after we stop for some barbecue and then end up on the couch to watch a movie, my phone vibrates with a notification. Sitting next to me, Jack posted a picture of us in the carriage in front of St. Michael’s church with the caption: Touring the Holy City in style with my favorite angel.
When I glance up, his dark eyes find mine from his end of the couch. Neither of us says anything, but then as a small thoughtful smile curves his lips, he looks away.
Oh boy. Feelings are changing, whether I want them to or not. I just need to keep my head about me and things will be okay. He’s not staying forever, and we’re just friends.
I can do this.
I hope.
Candied Pecans
LIFE HAS BEEN interesting, to say the least.
For starters, it’s been a really long time since I’ve lived with someone. As easy as it has been for the two of us, there’s also been a learning curve. I can’t walk around in my underwear, as much as I’d like to. Hell, I wouldn’t complain at all if she wanted to walk around in hers, but she doesn’t. Sometimes I have to tell her no when she wants to cook certain foods, and that practically kills me, but I have to be careful. And as much as I like to have sports on, although she doesn’t complain, I can tell she doesn’t like it hour after hour. She’s more of a music over TV kind of gal.
Secondly, watching Meg work has been insane. She’s up at the crack of dawn, works ten hours, and then at three I bring her home, where she works on social media, deals with the business side of things, or cooks to try new recipes. She never stops. Just like at my house, she’s a little tornado that’s constantly spinning around and moving—in high heels—and it’s overwhelming.
Third, although things are easy with us, since her last date two weeks ago, things have been different. She’s still funny, kind, and great to be around, but I can see the wheels turning in her head, and I don’t know what to think about that. She’s more quiet than she was when I first showed up, she blushes more when I touch her, and when I’m not looking at her, I can feel her watching me. I’d like to think maybe she’s about to have a change of heart about her whole let’s-just-be-friends thing, but my fear is that she’ll retreat instead of moving forward.
I don’t get it. I really don’t. Granted, I’ve never been interested in a girl for longer than a few weeks, so I’m not a pro when it comes to the ins and outs of a relationship, but if you like someone and are attracted to them, I feel like the possibilities are supposed to be endless. And I like her a lot.
Tomorrow, I will have been here for three weeks, and tomorrow is also the last day of the Ch
arleston Wine and Food Festival. While I’ve had a grand old time wandering around the city finding something amazing to eat each day, she hasn’t left the restaurant hardly at all. I get it, though; I do. This is her moment to shine, and I can’t wait to stand in the background and cheer her on. I also can’t wait until it’s over and things calm down a bit. Call me selfish, but one day soon—fingers crossed—I’ll be heading back to Tampa, and I want all the time I can get with her. That’s why tonight, I’m going to cook dinner for us and she’s going to put her feet up.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out as I enter the house with a bag of groceries.
“Hey,” I hear from the dining room.
Kicking off my shoes, I wander into the kitchen to drop the bag, and that’s when I find her sitting at the table. Her face is puffy, her eyes are red, and every bit of me goes on alert.
“What’s wrong?” I scan her body for injuries. The only time I’ve seen a hint of tears from her was at the Super Bowl; otherwise, never—like, not ever, not even while watching a movie. So, seeing her like this now, I’m alarmed. Testosterone flares, and I need to fix this, fix her immediately.
“It’s nothing. It’s stupid. I’m just having a moment, but it’ll pass.” She lets out a deep sigh then undoes her knot of hair. Dark curls fall around her head.
“Clearly it’s not nothing. You don’t cry. Tell me what happened.” I pull out the chair next to her and angle it so I’m right in front of her. Plopping down, my elbows go to my knees so we are eye to eye. She looks down and fiddles with the rubber band.
“The florist called twenty minutes ago to tell me the orange blossoms didn’t get delivered today like they were supposed to. At the moment, I don’t have any arrangements for the tables.”
My brows pull down. I don’t know much about decorating tables, but I do know she was extremely excited for them. A conversation from earlier in the week comes to mind where she said, “You don’t understand—this is one of the largest food festivals in the nation, and I know for a fact there are at least six big-name food bloggers who have booked a ticket for our brunch, and no telling how many others. Everything has to be perfect.”
Lessons in Lemonade Page 15
