Must Love Jogs

by Xavier Neal

  I stand my ground. “I’m not driving all the way back into town to meet you for dinner.”

  “Then I’ll pick up take out and bring it by your place.”

  “I-”

  “Chinese, okay?”

  My fondness for egg rolls will not outweigh the repulsion I have over the idea of him stepping foot in my house. Men like him do not belong anywhere near my doorstep.

  “Text me your address.” Blake smirks, winks, and prepares to jog off. “I know you’ve got my number.”

  There’s no waiting for a response. He quickly resumes his run leaving me equal parts annoyed and flattered.

  It doesn’t matter if his repeated efforts to want to spend time with me seem genuine by the way he keeps handing me the reigns to do it when I feel comfortable. It doesn’t matter his eyes are only on me whenever it is we have a conversation. And it really doesn’t matter that my body buzzes with this unfamiliar sensation any time he’s near. No. I am not going on a date with a serial beer drinking, bed hopping, most likely afraid of monogamy type of man. I refuse.

  His warm, smiling face flashes in my mind again.

  No. Absolutely not. Just because he was right about me having his phone number, though now it’s in my phone, doesn’t mean he’s right about me using it or me seeing him again. In fact, when I get to rehearsal, the first thing I am doing is deleting it. The last thing I need in my life is to be distracted by a man like Blake. Hm. I guess I should say more distracted. Regardless of my logical reasoning for abandoning the idea of having even one date with him, part of me can’t help but want to give into the little voice in the back of my head demanding I give him a chance. Demanding to venture out in the unknown. I need to figure out a way to remove that voice before I end up being able to relate to the very music I just shamed him for loving.

  I don’t get this woman. Every time I’m pretty sure I have her figured out, she does the opposite thing of what I’m thinking she will. I assume she’ll text me by the end of the night. She doesn’t. I assume she’ll pretend she doesn’t know who I am when we run into each other. She doesn’t. I assume my demand for dinner at her place will go denied. It doesn’t. As excited as I am she finally said yes to a date, I am more confused than I’ve ever been. Her hot cold nature isn’t easy to interpret or be sympathetic over. Her push and pull isn’t normal. It isn’t predictable. Those two facts make her intriguing, exciting, and flat out fucking frustrating. Maybe by the end of the night I’ll understand just what the hell is going on with her. Maybe by the end of the night, I can make her come so many times she forgets whatever it is she’s afraid of or running from.

  With a heavy sigh, I check the last new comment over the pre-date selfie I took and turn the app off.

  I may enjoy the ridiculous amount of compliments women tend to leave, but it’s not right to be reading them on a date. More importantly, I don’t want to give this woman any more ammunition to believe I’m just another self-centered jerk. I know I shouldn’t care what she thinks. I know it shouldn’t matter. I know it should be enough I know I’ve got a good heart and kind ways, but it does. It bothers the hell out of me, and I’m hoping by the end of dinner I understand why.

  Abby opens the door to her unexpectedly large one-story house in a gated community right on the edge of downtown. She tries not to smile, something I find myself more and more determined to have her do. “If you forgot egg rolls, you can just turn back the way you came.”

  I lightly chuckle. “You’re not gonna get rid of me that easy, Angel.”

  She hums sweetly and opens the door wider to grant me entrance.

  With the bag of Chinese food dangling from my grip, I tuck my phone in my jeans pocket, stroll in, and stifle my initial response to the size of her home. The outside gives the clear indication it’s not small, but it doesn’t exactly spell out just how wide and open the interior is. While the dark tiles and calming cream-colored furniture are not worthy of any eyebrow raises, the accomplishments posted in brightly colored frames are. I come to a halt to admire her achievements. There are several newspaper clippings with headlines featuring her name in bold print alongside words like outstanding and phenomenal. There are magazines I’ve never heard of with her face plastered on the cover posed with her cello, while others feature a photo of the entire orchestra. The headlines are similar to the ones of the newspapers. Extraordinary. Incredible. Her photos, which span from what looks like the age of seven through recently, trail closer to the top of the wall, all containing the same forced grin. She looks established, even in her childhood pictures, but far from content. She’s smiling with her face, not her eyes. If I know anything about happiness, you can always see it there. It’s harder to hide the lie. I’ve seen Abby’s genuine smile. Her dark brown eyes shift in shade. Her cheeks naturally get the faintest light tint. This wall and these photos may be an ode to undying dedication to her passion, but they also reveal something is definitely missing.

  Just as my face leans closer to read the article about a Grammy win, Abby informs, “The kitchen is this way.”

  Quickly, I divert my attention towards the end of the hall where she is patiently standing with a nervous stare.

  A Grammy? That article says her orchestra won a Grammy. Two others mentioned how she played for a King’s private party and some wedding in the Bahamas for a Hollywood actress. Who the hell is this woman? Do I even belong within fifty feet of her? Should I have taken her out to some fancy restaurant with steak and specials of the day I probably can’t pronounce? Does she just think I’m some backwoods idiot in comparison to the people she meets and deals with daily? Hell, how far am I out of my league?

  Once I cross the threshold, I enter the small kitchen that’s just on the other side of an ample sized living room. The island, which is home to the sink as well as a set of bar stools, is what separates them. Directly across from it is a kitchen table beside a large window.

  Abby busies herself with closing the black and white zig zag pattern curtains. “You can start unpacking the food on the table.”

  I nod and silently kick myself for being so distracted.

  My mind can’t stop spinning, and to make it worse, it can’t pick a damn direction. On one hand, the intellectual level this woman most likely retains is probably enough to make everything I say sound like a small child is speaking, but on the physical level, I know she wants the man who knows what he’s doing. The man who isn’t going to fumble around or lack confidence about his ability to make her cum. The raging war to think with my head instead of my dick has quickly become a losing one. I’ve already spent all afternoon obsessing over the idea of tearing off the buttons on her black blouse so I can see the full extent of her voluptuous tits, but now knowing her hands probably possess the skills to get me off with minimal effort makes it fucking impossible to push my brain into the necessary conversations we should have. I already know what she thinks she knows about me. I know she thinks all I can talk about or think about is her naked, but she’s wrong. And I’m going to prove to her she’s wrong, even if it kills me. Which it probably will. I could beat a deer to death with my dick right now. That’s how hard just thoughts of her make me.

  After noticing the two place settings she already has out for us, I start unloading the contents into the middle of the table and exude all efforts into maintaining focus. “Wasn’t exactly sure what to get, so I went simple. Sesame chicken, sweet and sour chicken, General Tso chicken-”

  “Anything other than chicken?”

  “Beef fried rice.”

  “And if I only eat steamed?”

  “Got that too.”

  “And if I am a vegetarian?”

  “Then watching you inhale a hamburger, Angel, is giving me a lot of questions.” I glance up with a smile on my face just in time to see one growing on hers. “Well would you look at that. Twice in one day.”

  Her scowl swoops in to take its place. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Why not? You’re not going
to do it for me.”

  Abby sits down in the empty wooden chair closest to her while I take it’s opposite. “The last thing you need is anyone else to feed your ego.”

  I open the containers at the same time I state, “Is that why you finally said yes to me? So you could spend the entire evening stomping it down?”

  “No.”

  Our eyes meet. “So you could spend our time stroking it?”

  Her gag makes the double-entendre worth it. “No.”

  “Then why did you decide to give me a shot?”

  She reaches for an egg roll. “My best friend, Dana, threatened me with bodily harm.”

  “Same woman from the pub?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remind me to send her a very special thank you...”

  Abby makes an unexpected annoyed sound.

  Quickly, I question, “Jealous?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The sound you jus’ made. Sounded like what a woman would make if she were slightly jealous.”

  She lets her jaw bob around, but never replies.

  I lean back, grin, and slyly say, “You don’t have anything to worry ‘bout, Angel. You’re the only woman who has my attention.”

  “For now,” Abby bites. “You know, until you realize I don’t plan on sleeping with you. Then you’ll grow bored and forget all about me and stop wasting your efforts.”

  The very distinct description causes me to ask, “Is that what happened with the last man you went out with?”

  “Pretty much all the men I have been out with.”

  “Which is why you’re defensive.”

  “Protective.”

  “One in the same.”

  She shrugs and dips her egg roll into the container of sweet and sour sauce.

  “Since you brought up the topic….When’s the last time you had a date that went well?”

  “Never.”

  Her reaction stops my pursuit of piling food onto my pale colored plate. “You’ve never had a date that you enjoyed.”

  “No.”

  “Not once?”

  “No.”

  “Not even in high school or college?”

  “I didn’t date in either of those.”

  Too baffled to continue the action of gathering food and proceed with the conversation, I stop. “What? How is that possible?”

  Abby finishes the piece she had been nibbling on before noticeably slinking down into her chair. “There wasn’t time. I was busy in middle school and high school with orchestra practice as well as private lessons. In college, I was there on a music scholarship and doubled majored with a bachelor degree in music and fine arts. There was hardly time to sleep or eat, so dating wasn’t exactly anywhere on my radar. And I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t for Dana, I probably wouldn’t have accomplished those things.”

  “Class together?”

  “Dorm mate then eventual roommate until we graduated, which is when I joined the Sparkcane Orchestra and gave up the next five years of my life to travel the world.”

  Another wave of bewilderment blows over me.

  “My guess is you don’t know much about that type of music, but they’re quite an elite ensemble. We played for banquets as well as more private shows for prime ministers, Dukes, and even a couple of royal families. We’ve played weddings for celebrities. Charity functions hosted by them. We also participated in two global tours, won a couple awards, and were featured in few magazines.”

  What the hell am I doing here? I’m really not her type. She obviously needs some guy that’s got a closet full of Armani suits and rocks a five thousand dollar watch as he orders his red wine. No wonder she kept trying to divert me elsewhere. She tried to spare me the embarrassment that I could never measure up to the level of sophistication she secretly seeps.

  Abby folds her hands together. “Am I boring you? Because you asked the question and-”

  “No,” I promptly cut her off. “I’m jus’…tryin’ to…take it all in.” After clearing my throat, I encourage her to continue, the answer to my original question, basically outlined. “What about when you joined the Highland Orchestra?”

  “That’s when I actually began dating. Dana declared it was long overdue since I had spent my entire life essentially dating my cello.”

  “And not once have you found a date enjoyable?”

  “No. I either talk too much about the wrong thing or too little at all. I either come off too rude or too shy. Too bitchy or too dormatty. Too snobbish or too stuck up or not diverse enough in the trending daily cultural topics.” She picks up the remainder of the egg roll, her rant continuing, “Dating is insanely too much pressure and then you add in the fact I’m a virgin and it just makes it that much worse.”

  The slip of information grabs a gasp out of both of us.

  She didn’t say…She couldn’t have said…There’s no fucking way she’s…

  “Did you-”

  “No.”

  “But I heard-”

  “No.”

  “You said-”

  “No.”

  “You did.”

  Abby stuffs more food in her mouth to prevent from embarrassing herself further.

  My brain does its best to keep my thoughts from flying out of my mouth yet fails. “How is that possible? Are you waitin’ for marriage? Is this a religious or spiritual thing?”

  She shakes her head immediately.

  “And jus’…gettin’ it over with never occurred to you?”

  Her swallowing is followed promptly with her snapping, “Is it some sort of fucking crime to want sex to mean something? Just because you’ve never had meaningful sex-”

  “Hey,” I bite back. “You don’t know shit about my sex life.”

  “Oh, you mean you’re not a notorious fan of one nightstands and non-committed relationships? I’m making that up?”

  Defensively, I state, “Just because I enjoy a good time without having to promise a woman the world doesn’t mean I’m incapable of a healthy relationship.”

  “Is that so?”

  I don’t honestly know any more.

  “When’s the last time you went on a date that didn’t end up in bed?”

  She’s probably counting the back of my truck as a ‘bed’ too….

  My silence receives a curt nod. “Exactly.”

  An uncomfortable stillness wedges itself between us.

  I’m not sure what makes me more irritated. The fact I’m not an exception to her terrible date list or the fact she’s right to assume I’m the type of man who only has meaningless sex. Why does sex have to be such a big deal? I wanna feel good, they wanna feel great, and at the end of it all everyone is satisfied. I guarantee they leave satisfied. That’s meaningful, isn’t it? Why does there need to more? Why do I feel compelled to let her prove to me it does? When is it okay to care what someone else thinks about you? And what the hell is it about her that does it to me?

  “Told you, I wasn’t your type,” she mutters under her breath as she stands up. “Appreciate the food but-”

  In one swift motion, I’m on my feet and my hand is on hers. She briefly looks down at where we’re touching on the table before allowing her dark eyes to connect with mine. Her breathing seems to cease and the only thing I find myself wanting is to do everything I can to keep it that way. I want to be the reason she’s lightheaded after screaming my name all night as much as the reason she can’t catch her breath from laughing so hard. I want her to see I’m more than just another dick looking for a good time, and I want to see her face light up the way it doesn’t in those pictures.

  “Let’s take it slow then,” my voice softly declares.

  To no surprise her expression is skeptical.

  “Dinner. Dessert of the non-sexual kind…” When the corner of her lip kicks up, I give the back of her hand a gentle stroke with my thumb. “Definitely more smiles. I think yours is beautiful, Angel, and I know you don’t show it often enough.”

  Her mouth
cracks in anticipation to make an argument.

  “I saw the pictures on the wall, Abby. We’re talkin’ really saw those pictures. Those weren’t smiles. Those were professional expressions…Nothing more.”

  The guilt from hearing the truth shifts her attention down.

  My finger strokes her hand again. “I like being able to give you a real reason to smile, Angel.”

  Abby glances back up with what appears to be a longing in her eyes.

  “Look, you’re right about what you said. I love casual sex. I always have. It doesn’t require anyone to overthink or really invest themselves in it, which is the real reason why I like it.”