Page 125 of Finding Him
She accepts that as an answer, taking a sip of her drink. “So do we have plans for after dinner?”
No, I really didn’t think that far ahead.
My grand plan for the perfect first date consisted of: 1. Go to Mulligans. 2. Don’t be a dick. And... that was it.
I was operating on a wing and a prayer, fueled by advice from Fitzy (who is, let’s be honest, clueless, but has had the most girlfriends and dates out of us all) and a few hastily googled articles with titles like “10 First Date Tips That Will Guarantee a Second Date.”
“Duh, of course we have plans. It’s a surprise.”
I don’t know if her smile is her way of saying she sees right through me or not, but it's addictive in any case. I clear my throat, trying to think of a better topic, something that doesn’t involve me admitting I’m a clueless idiot who’s making this all up as he goes along.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time I went swimming?”
It’s a risky topic, a minefield of memories and emotions I usually keep locked away tight. I usually avoided all topics having to do with water and memories of my dad, because it just brings the pain closer to the surface.
But with Molly, all the thoughts and memories feel like they’re safe with her. Like I know that she’ll understand what I’m saying, know what they mean to me, know how hard they are to remember—because I know they’ll only ever be in my past.
Past, present, future, me. Merge them all, what do I see...
That’s an old song Claire, Niamh and Marissa used to sing in our driveway, jumping rope. I think they made it up, I’m not sure. The next line says something about so-and-so kissing in a tree, how many babies do you see and then they’d start counting upwards.
I don’t know what made me think of that, but I do know that I want Molly in my future as much as she is in my present. And that I want to let her in on my past.
“Tell me,” Molly smiles, her full attention on me.
I was five years old. It was around the time Da just stopped drinking, but before he got the boat.
We’d always go down to The Strand in the warm months, to play in the sand and stuff, which is where Da had taken me that day. The sun was high in the sky, a brilliant, blinding white and the sea was a sparkling blue.
He was always better at teaching me things than Ma was—less likely to lose patience. He was the one who taught me to ride a bike, too, running alongside me, his hand a steady presence on the small of my back until I was ready to fly on my own. But swimming lessons were a different beast entirely.
“I didn’t like the water,” I admit, swirling my drink around in its glass. “I was scared of it. Of the waves, of the deepness of it, of... everything.”
Molly nods, understanding without me having to explain further. She gets it. She gets the fear, the irrational, all-consuming terror that can grip you and hold you under.
“He didn’t push me in or anything—he just held my hand and walked me into the shallows, and then he’d hold me up while I kicked my legs,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “He never let go until I told him to.”
I can still remember the way the sun felt on my skin, the way Da’s hands were warm and steady under my arms, his voice stillin my ear. The way he laughed when I finally got the hang of it, splashing around like a little fish, my fear forgotten in the joy of the moment.
“Sounds like a good dad,” Molly murmurs softly.
“He was.” I swallow hard, looking down at my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. “I miss him.”
Molly reaches across the table, her fingers brushing against mine. The small gesture feels like a warm anchor in the storm of my memories. “I wish I could meet him. He sounds like he was amazing.”
I get an idea. A crazy, impulsive, probably-terrible for a first date idea. But it feels right. “You could.”
“What do you mean?”
??` ?? ?´?
IN MY QUESTto take Molly on the perfect first date, I spent the last couple days getting opinions from my trusted peers, and the most trustworthy source of all: the internet.
It was a dark and twisted rabbit hole of listicles and forums, a cacophony of conflicting advice that ranged from ridiculously specific (“wear a matching pair of socks, it shows you’re detail oriented”) to utterly insane (“take her to a taxidermy museum, it’s a great conversation start”).
It was how I landed on simply going to Mulligan’s. It was easy, familiar, and according to one article, “a low-pressure environment” was the best way to go. And it worked out really well, because we laughed a lot and had nice conversations and I didn’t once spill ketchup on my shirt.
Somehow though, I don’t think the internet would approve of my choice to take Molly to the cemetery. Maybe the person who wrote the taxidermy thing, but even he might side-eye this choice.
