The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  “I’m glad you like them,” I say. I mentally take back all the curses I just sent the hipster florist’s way.

  “I love them.” She crosses over to the kitchen, pulling a plastic vase from the cabinet. Only she would bring a vase to college. I watch her as she fills it with water and expertly unwraps and trims the flowers before placing them in the vase. All while keeping her dress pristine.

  Damn, that dress. I try to keep my eyes on her hands as she works with the flowers, or her lips as she rambles on about Yaz and Perfect10 being like The Bachelor or something.

  But it’s hard not to look at that dress. It’s tight and black with a plunging but classy neckline, cut in a way that makes it clear she couldn’t possibly be wearing a bra underneath. It is longer than most dresses you’d see around campus, but it hugs her body perfectly, showing off the way her hips curve into her long legs, especially in those heels, which must be at least five inches.

  “Which is ridiculous, don’t you think?” She concludes her story.

  I clear my throat. “Uh, yes, totally.”

  She smiles. “I cannot say how relieved I am that you feel the same way. Like of course our business model is completely different than some sort of love competition show.” She adjusts a few of the flowers. “Okay, there.” She sets the flowers in the middle of the table and stands back to admire them. “Beautiful.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  She smiles innocently as she slides on her coat. “Shall we?”

  We step into the cool night, and I think about taking her hand, but I’m not sure how to without being awkward. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that sober. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever really held a girl’s hand, except as a way to lead her in the direction I want to walk, which is really more like leading someone by their wrist than holding their hand.

  I have never strolled with someone, hand in hand. I’ve never wanted to take someone’s hand just because I want to feel what it’s like, to have her fingers laced with mine.

  Not to sound too much like a douche bag, but I kind of know the playbook forward and backward when it comes to the random, often drunken, hookups. But it’s been a while since I’ve dated a girl. Since eighth grade, I think. Catharine Grimes. We kissed at my best friends bar mitzvah, and then “dated” for the rest of the summer. Which basically meant we texted on Sidekicks constantly and would awkwardly avoid each other while hanging out with a group of twenty or more of our friends. She was my first and last girlfriend. And then I went to an all-boy boarding school and girls became conquests you would go out and find and exaggerate about to your friends when you got back.

  Nowadays, when it comes to the club and bar and dating app scene, I know exactly how to play the game, and I know how to win. I’m not thrown off by a girl who is hot or rich or cool. I know how to act like I don’t care, so they will.

  It’s easy, because, honestly, I really don’t care. There’s always a new set of Laker Girls. New aspiring dancers and actresses land at LaGuardia and LAX every day. Hell, they even crown a new Miss America every year.

  But a girl I care about—I have no idea how to deal with this.

  Sara is a few feet ahead of me, her pace faster than mine even though she’s wearing those ridiculous heels. She waits, so I can catch up. The wind blows as she turns to look back at me, and she tucks a stray hair behind her ear, which is adorned with a little silver teardrop earing.

  “So you were just joking, right?” she says when I meet her. “With that thing about the helicopter?” She laughs. “Because Yaz thought you were serious.”

  “No.” I smile. “I wasn’t joking. We just have to walk to Main Quad since that’s the only place it can land.”

  “What?” She stops walking and just stares at me.

  “Yeah,” I laugh. “C’mon.” I take her hand to show her the way. She adjusts so that our fingers weave together.

  I haven’t used the chopper here before, and when it used to pick me up in high school, my father would always have me take a car to a nearby airport or helipad.

  Our pilot charges him more to land at remote locations, not to mention the fines you can get from the city, or in this case, my school, for landing somewhere you don’t have permission to be.

  But I think my father will forgive me this time, if I tell him it was in the interest of wooing a girl who would actually be able to carry on a conversation with my parents over dinner. An actual possible, respectable match for me. Tonight, I need to go for wow factor, not practicality.

  It is unusually quiet as we walk through Main Quad, with only the sound of Sara’s heels clicking against the stone disrupting the California night. Lamps burn along our path, creating circles of light among the shadows. The sandstone arches of the arcades that line the quad look regal in the quiet, blue night. A bit different than during the day when this place is filled with tourists snapping pictures and hundreds of athletic-wear-clad students, biking through the quad and dodging between arches as they race to class.

  We make it to the oval, the circle of road just beyond Main Quad, filled with about a football field’s length of grass. This is where I told Jeffery to land.

  Above us, the wind rustles the leaves of palm trees, but there is no chopper in sight yet.

  I look to Sara. She smiles easily; I manage to smile back before looking down, embarrassed. I want to say something, but suddenly small talk seems so hard.

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know why he’s not here yet.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.

  I had a text from Jeffery ten minutes ago saying he’s on his way.

  “It’s okay.” She smiles. “I got nowhere else to be.”

  I nod and smile back, feeling the weight melt off my shoulders.

  After an awkward few minutes that feels like a century, I can see the light of Jeffery on approach.

  We stand back as the chopper lands, kicking up the few leaves on the meticulously kept lawn. Once he makes contact with the earth, the propellers begin to slow toward a stop.

  “I usually get on with them still going,” I say. “But I thought you’d want it this way. Since it’s your first time.”

  “Yeah,” she says, making a face. “It would not have been cute if you’d told me to get on with those things going.” She laughs. “You’d probably have seen me cry.”

  I smile politely. Although it was probably the furthest thing from her mind, I can’t help but think how odd it is that she’s the girl and she’s seen me, the guy, break down crying.

  “Okay, ready?” I ask, when the propellers completely stop.

  She laughs nervously. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Here, I’ll help you.” I rest my hand on the small of her back.

  She nods gratefully, stepping forward.

  I open the sleek back door of the helicopter and wave hello to Jeffery. I take Sara’s hand and help her step up, carefully, in those crazy heels. She moves slowly, and I am rewarded with quite a view for my help.

  She slides into the cabin and I follow her, pulling the door closed.

  “How’s your night, sir?” Jeffery asks.

  “Going well so far,” I say. “This pretty girl agreed to have dinner with me. What more could I want?”

  Jeffery laughs as he turns around to hand us two pairs of headphones. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he greets Sara.

  “Hi!” she says, clearly nervous just being in the helicopter, although we haven’t gotten off the ground yet.

  I hand her a pair of headphones as I talk to Jeffery. “It’s getting a little late for dinner already, so I—” I watch Sara as she tangles and untangles her harnesses. “Babe, like this.” I click mine into place, slowing down my motions so she can watch.

  “Ooooh.” She clicks hers into place. The straps stretch across her chest in that low-cut dress. “Tha
nks.”

  I bite my lip. Although I’d called her names like babe and sweetheart many times, I was being sarcastic and mocking. Just now, I’d done it sweetly and as if it were second nature, and she responded like it was totally normal.

  “Ready?” Jeffery asks from the cockpit.

  I look at Sara, whose eyes are wide in anticipation.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sara

  The ocean below is dark and stormy, at once both beautiful and terrifying. I am leaning as much toward the window as I dare.

  When we started out there were so many lights below, some twinkling and pretty, others the harsh beam of streetlights on the highway. But as we reached the ocean, there were fewer and fewer bright spots.

  The coast is dotted with a few large houses with their lights on and a big resort every once in a while. But often there are sleepy towns with just a few twinkling lights. And now there are whole sections where there is just the shadowed outline of trees and the reflection of the moon on the water. From the air, it is sometimes easy to imagine that this part of the earth is untouched by man.

  I turn back into the cabin, toward Braden. “This is amazing!” I yell over the sound of the propeller.

  He laughs. “You’ve said that twelve times already.”

  “Well, it’s that cool!”

  He shakes his head as if he is frustrated, but a smile plays at the edge of his lips, and I bet he’s happy with how much I like his surprise.

  After about thirty minutes, we land in a grassy field near the water. Part of me wishes we were going somewhere farther, because I want to see more—I want to see the entire world from that perspective.

  But I must admit, I am also very grateful to be back on solid ground, literally.

  “Get out on my side,” Braden says as he unclicks his harness. “That way you’re going downhill.”

  I nod as I undo my own seat belt with shaking hands. I try not to think about the propellers above that are still spinning, if slower than before, and what would happen if I walked uphill instead.

  Braden hops out first and extends an arm toward me. I slide across the seat and take his hand. I probably squeeze it a little too hard as I step down, my heels balancing precariously on the grated metal step.

  I make it to the ground and sigh in relief. My shoes sink into the soft grass as I step forward, my hand still in his. Rolling hills of dark grass lie before us and sprinklers water the grounds, the water shimmery and silver in the moonlight. Luckily the ones near us seem to be off, although damp wisps of grass brush my open-toe shoes. The bright smell of the grass mixes with the cool scent of salt water drifting off the ocean waves.

  In the distance there is a large house with many lights on, shining into the dark, quiet night. It is the only man-made light visible, and although it seems to be trying its darndest, it doesn’t manage to block out the stars the way the lights in the city do. Thousands of them sparkle in the sky above.

  I look from the sky down to Braden and our intertwined hands.

  “This is beautiful,” I say.

  He laughs. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he says as we walk toward what looks like a small car, parked nearby.

  I look over my shoulder and wave goodbye to the helicopter pilot. He seems surprised at first, but then waves back. As we get closer to the little car, I realize it is actually a golf cart.

  “The house is too close to the water to land by it,” Braden says. “I had someone bring the cart out though, since I thought you might wear heels.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.” I wonder how that person got back to the house. I mean, they probably weren’t wearing heels, but still it seems silly for them to drive out and walk back just so I don’t have to make that same walk.

  “Honestly,” he admits, “I’d do that even if it was just me wearing gym shoes.” He shrugs. “Guess I’m lazy that way.”

  He drives the golf cart across the field like it is a go-kart, making big drifting turns and keeping the accelerator flat against the floor. I grip the handle beside me, the only thing that separates me from the outside world, since the cart has no doors.

  My knuckles are probably white from my grip, but at some point during the drive, my heart stops racing from panic and starts racing from the thrill. I let out a screech that turns to laughter as he narrowly misses one of the blaring sprinklers.

  He is still speeding as we pull up at the side of the house, flying up a sweeping cobblestone drive that leads to a garage with four doors the size of cars and one mini, golf-cart-size door.

  I lurch forward as he comes to a halt, breathing heavily as I clutch my chest. “You’re insane,” I say.

  He just shrugs as he pushes a button that makes the little door open and we pull in. The garage has that weird distinct smell that all garages seem to have. A staleness of the air, combined with the slight smell of gasoline, the leathery smell of sports equipment and the fresh smell of various gardening products.

  But that’s where the similarity ends to every other garage I’ve been in. There is not just a Tesla, but two Teslas, alongside a Porsche crossover and a shiny red, convertible Porsche.

  I try not to stare as we walk past cars that look more like works of art than automobiles on our way to the door leading to the rest of the house.

  I follow Braden through a mudroom with no shoes in it and into a large living room.

  The whole back wall of the room, and maybe the entire house, is glass, opening to a dark view. I make my way across the hardwood floor. Up close to the window, you can see that the house rests on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The darkness of the water is hard to distinguish against the darkness of the sky, but just below, white foam makes the crashing waves visible. I can only imagine how this view must look when the sun is out.

  I turn at the sound of movement behind me. “Welcome,” Braden says, extending his arms.

  “Whose house is this?” I ask breathlessly.

  “Mine.” He smiles. “Well, I mean, my parents’.”

  I look down at my dress. Definitely not meet-your-boyfriend’s—or not-boyfriend-but-something’s—parents attire.

  “They’re not here,” he adds, as if he knows what I’m thinking. “In Paris this week, I think.” He checks his watch, as if they move countries by the hour; although from what he’s said before, it seems close to that.

  “This is our beach house,” he says. “Welcome to Big Sur, Sara.” He smiles. “Or, I guess, Big Sur adjacent—they won’t let you build on the national park.”

  He shakes his head, and I nod like I understand. Ah yes, I encountered the same problem when I tried to build my hunting lodge in Yellowstone, I think.

  “Are you hungry?” He checks his watch. “I guess it’s a little late—sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” Now that he mentions it, my stomach does ache a little bit, but it wasn’t like I noticed while I was in a freakin’ helicopter. “Do you wanna order pizza or something?” I ask. I doubt there’s much food here, since no one’s been living in the house. “Does anyone deliver this far out?”

  He laughs. “I had something else in mind.”

  We walk through the house, past a grand dining room and another large sitting room that opens onto a big back porch. Or maybe porch is the wrong word. It’s more like a giant balcony overlooking the ocean. On it is a table, set with clean white linens and tall candles.

  “This is amazing,” I say as I step onto the balcony. I shiver a bit but don’t mind; the air smells of the ocean, crisp and fresh like salt and citrus fruit. “How did you set this up?”

  “Our housekeeper did before she went home.” He picks up a set of matches from the table and lights a candle. It flickers from the wind off the sea.

  “That’s so nice.”

  “It
’s her job.” He shrugs. “Shall we have some wine?”

  Inside the house is an industrial-sized kitchen and a large pantry that seems to be solely for wine. I pick out a bottle based mostly on the picture on the label.

  “A nice choice,” Braden says, when I hand it to him. “I think this wine is older than us.” He uncorks the bottle and pours me a glass. “My parents offered to have a chef come over, like they do when they’re here. But I thought it might be more romantic if I cooked for you. So I had some groceries delivered.”

  I take a sip, and it doesn’t burn like I was expecting. It tastes heady and warm, like the heat of summer or when you are cuddled up by the fireplace in the winter. It is the kind of flavor that overwhelms your senses.

  Braden opens a large stainless steel fridge and pulls out a plastic-wrapped tray of cheese and meats and sets it on the counter. “In case you’re hungry while I cook.”

  The wrapper crinkles as I peel it back. I don’t know anything about cheese. I mean, I love mozzarella sticks of course, and Parmesan on my pasta. But I don’t know fancy cheese any more than I know fancy wine. Although, I guess I like the latter now.

  I pick a piece that isn’t too smelly and nibble it. It tastes sharp and poignant and a little nutty. Not bad.

  “This one’s yummy,” I say.

  Braden smiles. “A little better than dorm food, right?”

  He opens the fridge again and pulls out two giant, blood-red strip steaks. “So I was thinking—” he says as he opens cabinet after cabinet, obviously not familiar with where anything is “—we could do New Year’s Day for the next big launch.” He pulls a large frying pan from one of the cabinets and sets it on the stove, turns on the Brunner, then drizzles the pan with olive oil.

  He throws the steaks into the pan, and they immediately start to sizzle.

  “It’ll be after the holidays when everyone is sad they didn’t have people to bring home, and with Valentine’s Day looming in the near future.” He is pulling spices off the rack and throwing them on the steaks, seemingly without rhyme or reason.