Page 27 of The Great Dating Fake Off
“She loves an adventure.”
I don’t add that she’s also restless, or that her inability to stay still has been a thorn in my side and an impediment to her career, or that I became numb to goodbyes from all our moves.
“What kind of adventures?” Sebastian props his elbows on his thighs and watches me intently. “Did you live in the jungle or something? Compete on The Amazing Race as a mother-daughter team?”
“Lower your bar, sir. Nothing that interesting.”The only place we were racing to was the grocery store with her food stamps card at the top of every month.
“How about I be the judge of that?” The steam is getting thicker the longer we sit here. It’s becoming harder to see the details of his face, so I slide closer. He does the same as he arcs his hand in the air. “Paint me a mental picture.”
At this, my brain conjures up the inside of a 1982 Mercedes and about fourteen different childhood bedrooms with astounding, visceral clarity. My life is a long, winding, inconclusive story.
But he actually seems like he wants to hear about it. He’s got those tell me eyes.
Growing up, my natural inclination was to talk people’s ears off, share my feelings, extend eight octopus arms of offering, and give as much of myself as possible to everyone I met. I believed that’s how lifelong friendships were forged. If I wanted a friend, or the attention of a boy, I was Little Miss Open Book. It was the only way I could think to make up for lost time with my classmates who had their whole lives to get to know one another.
Turns out it never mattered how much I gave. When you have only a year or two somewhere, sometimes less, and you never know when the time will be up, true relationships are tough to make and almost impossible to keep. I could never be as important to people as they quickly became to me. Being forgotten by everyone you’ve ever cared about after you move, or being inconsequential to the people you wanted to care about you, makes you wonder if you’re even worth holding on to.
Which is why you’d think I’d have learned my lesson and stopped opening up to strangers or fellow fake daters in steam rooms. That I’d stop trying. But as ever, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. It’s not in my DNA.
“Gosh, let me think.” I study my blush-pink wedding nails, keenly aware of his leg as his foot softly taps the ground like a metronome keeping our time. “Which of my amazing race anecdotes should I share first? There are so many.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Are we talking The Simpsons back catalog or Netflix releasing six episodes and calling it a ‘series?’”
“Simpsons, for sure.” I spin the gold ring on my pointer finger. “Okay. Indiana was fun. Oklahoma was horrific. Key West was my favorite. My mom moved us there when she thought she found The One. It was her sixth or seventh One, to be clear. But it was the coolest place I’ve lived. Every house looks like it was painted by a kindergartener with access to any color their heart could ever want. We had a little dock—or rather, my mom’s boyfriend at the time did—and I made it my entire personality.” My skin tingles as if I’m back in our sun-soaked backyard. “Imagine my disappointment when we moved to Vegas after that. The opposite of having a dock is living in Vegas.”
I feel wholly examined as his gaze traces my face. “I can imagine that was a mighty blow.”
We’ve inched close enough that I can admire the smooth skin of his neck and the scent of his soap clinging to his body. The smell of him alone could get me drunk. I’m weak for the soap-shampoo-pheromone cocktail of a man, but it’s never hit me quite this hard before.Maybe if I sit here long enough, I’ll be inoculated through exposure.
Or maybe I’ll get delirious and let myself imagine what it’d feel like to slide my palm over his chest.
His gaze moves over me once in a slow lick. I’d think it was an accident if it didn’t happen a second time, stalling on the hem of my towel before bouncing up to my eyes. “Why was Oklahoma terrible?”
I shake my inappropriate thoughts away. “Eh, boring reasons.”
“C’mon,” he says, voice deep and rumbly. “Had we gone on that date I never technically asked you on, I’d expect you to tell me the boring stuff, too.”
Red-freaking-alert, this guy is human quicksand. I’m sinking in the warmth of his attention. “If we were on that date you never asked me on, I’d tell you the people at my high school were rude, but I did have one friend, who became my first friend-boy.”
“What the hell is that?”
“I liked him, and I’m pretty sure he liked me—he kissed me a lot, at least. But never asked me out.”
Sebastian chuffs out a laugh. “I guess I can see why you’d hate the whole state over that.”
“It was mostly the mean people, but there was this one particularly terrible day. He and I were in his room kissing and a tornado came through. Like during the kiss, right as things were getting good. Or at least getting horizontal. His mother rushed into his bedroom and we had to go into a small storm shelter in their garage. It was so cramped I was trapped between him and his mom, and his parents were— You are not laughing right now.”
Sebastian lifts a hand as he gasps to take a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“This is my pain, Sebastian! My trauma!”
“What about his trauma? The guy had to wait out a raging hard-on while trapped in a standing coffin with his family and friend-girl.”
“He wasn’t…” I lose the nerve to say “hard” as he meets my eye. “That.”
He shakes his head. “Trust me, Nora. He was.”
His eyes meet mine, and he doesn’t look away. The soft smile falls off his face and we’re both just…looking. Allowing each other to look. Something shapeless and dangerous pulses in my chest as I visually trace a bead of sweat over his cheek, down past where his dimple comes and goes. Curiosity is like a third person sitting beside me, nudging me closer to him.
