Page 20 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“That’s so nice of you,” I say, genuinely. “This must have been a fun place to grow up.” I feel a twinge of nostalgic longing at the thought. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about living here full-time. I loved visiting Lottie and Gramps so much. But my parents never considered leaving Seattle. And besides, living here wouldn’t have been the same as visiting, when I was always surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles visiting at the same time.
“You bet.” He waves toward the window, where the dark beach is visible, the first stars dotting the purplish sky. “Where else could a boy grow up half feral, catching snakes for pets and shooting Coke cans off the fence with a BB gun after school?” His smile is lopsided and a tad sardonic. “Only in Florida.”
“Is that really what you were like as a kid?”
“One hundred percent. Two older brothers. They showed me how to climb trees, how to fish for mackerel, how to find shark’s teeth and arrowheads in the woods. ’Course, now they’re both dads who won’t even let their kids walk home from school alone. And if they try to walk in the house with dirty shoes on…” He fakes a horrified shudder.
I smile and sip my drink. I’m completely charmed by his lack of small talk. Normally, if I found myself on a barstool next to a handsome stranger, he’d be asking me where I’m from and what I do for work. After a few questions, the conversation would hit a dead end and we’d avoid eye contact in the ensuing awkward silence.
This guy is not avoiding eye contact. I feel color rise to my cheeks, because he’s looking at me intently. I flick my eyes up to meet his.
“Let me guess what you were like as a kid.”
“You literally just met me, but okay,” I say.
His eyes, I notice, are light brown. He doesn’t look the least embarrassed as he carefully examines my face and hair and then my outfit. In the few seconds it takes for him to size me up, I experience a number of things. First, relief that I put makeup on. Second, wishing I’d worn my hair down—my long dark-brown hair is a point of pride for me. Third, feeling silly for wishing this. And fourth, a full-body surge, something like what I imagine the gulf feels as the tide flows inexorably toward the moon. It’s lust. I haven’t felt this way in years, since I was first dating Alex.
I decide in that instant that I’m entitled to a little lust, a littleflirtation. I’m alone at the beach on a balmy evening, and I haven’t had sex in almost two years.
Not that I’m going to have sex with this stranger, but hey, I’m a human woman. And I know all too well how rare it is to strike up this kind of conversation with this kind of stranger.
“You were a reader,” he says. It takes me a split second to remember that he’s deciding what kind of kid I was. “You were the one who took a book everywhere and sat under a tree at recess reading instead of playing.”
I can’t help the loud laugh that escapes me. “Archie comics, maybe. Or the American Girl doll catalog,” I tell him. Secretly, though, I’m flattered that this is his impression of me. “I definitely played during recess, though. Kickball was my favorite. And badminton.”
“Badminton? We didn’t have that here. Kickball, though, was definitely a thing. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was talking to a multi-talented athlete.”
“And I haven’t even mentioned my four-square career.”
“Four-square, huh?”
“I was the fourth-grade champion.” I examine my nails nonchalantly. This makes him laugh, which, in turn, makes me feel ridiculously pleased with myself.
“Fourth-grade me would’ve been intimidated by fourth-grade you.” He turns slightly on his stool so that his knees are pointing directly at me. Something shivers deep in my belly. I toss back the last of my purple drink.
“Are you in town for long?” he asks.
“No, just a couple days.”
“Too bad.” Again with the eye contact. The dating apps back home have got nothing on the small-town bars in Florida.
I swallow and feel like I have to end the tension somehow. “Yeah,it is too bad.” Saying this acts as a reminder that this conversation, albeit fun and distracting, is not actually going to lead anywhere. I’m going home in two days.
I leave some money on the bar for Amanda, then stand and shift my purse onto my shoulder.
“On that note, I guess I should get going. It was nice talking to you.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He stands, too. “Why don’t I walk you out.” He looks back over his shoulder and calls, “Be back in a sec.” His friends hoot and holler him out, which makes my face flame, but luckily he’s walking behind me and can’t see my embarrassment.
Outside, I gesture to my little red car. “This is me.” We stop beside the driver’s-side door. “Have a good night.” It comes out uncertainly, almost like a question.
He stands directly in front of me, smiling politely with his hands in his pockets. “You too. Drive safe.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to get in the car and drive away. But there’s some kind of magnetic thing happening between us, and I really don’t want to say goodbye, knowing I’ll never see him again. Standing this close, I can smell his unfamiliar, woodsy deodorant or cologne, mingled with the potent tang of salty skin. I haven’t hooked up with a random stranger in years, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting something to happen in this moment. If anything, it makes me want it more. I haven’t felt chemistry like this in so long, and the stakes are low since I know it can’t lead anywhere. Why not have a little fun before I go back home to normal life?
His hands are still in his pockets, and I get the sense that he has some sort of gentlemanly propriety about him. So I take a tiny step forward, leaving only an inch between us. He must have been waiting for a signal, because the next thing I know his hands are oneither side of my jaw and his mouth is on mine. It’s the kind of kiss where I lose myself completely in the sensations, the warmth of his mouth and tongue and our bodies pressing together. Our hands feverishly move from face to neck to back, pulling each other closer. We can’t get enough, we can’t taste enough of each other, we can’t get close enough. I’m distantly aware that this is the kind of make-out session that should be embarrassing to have in public, but I can’t make myself stop.
After a minute or maybe five, we pull apart. We’re both dazed. We look at each other for a long moment and I can see the question on his face. We’re each waiting for the other person to ask some form ofYour place or mine?But “mine” is actually “my grandpa’s place.” So that’s not an option. And the thought of creeping back into Gramps’s in the wee hours after a one-night stand kind of takes the shine off the situation.
