“That’s right,” he says, holding his half-eaten maple bar in midair. “Katie, the cashier at the Piggly Wiggly, told me that.”
“Really?” I ask. “I didn’t think she even knew my name.”
Gunnar laughs. “Are you sure you’re from here?” he asks. “Everyone in Green Valley knows everything about, well, everyone.”
“I’m not really from Green Valley,” I tell him, before I even have a chance to think better of it. “My mother and I lived in Maryville most of the time I was growing up. Then, I moved to Knoxville for college. I moved here a few years ago, after I graduated and got a job at the hospital in Maryville.”
“Why not live in Maryville?” His questions are kind of rapid fire and I find myself offering up all the information, telling Gunnar anything he asks.
“My mother lives outside of town and I need to be close enough to check in on her.”
“Is she sick?”
“No, a recluse.”
Next.
Gunnar’s eyes squint, but there’s no judgment there, just curiosity. “Hmm. So, she never leaves her house?”
“Nope.”
“Like, ever?”
“Never.”
He nods and finishes the last bite of his blueberry donut. After he finishes chewing and takes a sip of his coffee, he continues. “So, what do you do at the farmer's market? Isn’t that typically for farmers?”
I laugh, shaking my head at his assumption. “Farmers, gardeners, homemakers, artisans . . . if you have goods or services to offer, you can set up a booth.”
“And what goods or services do you offer?” he asks with a quirk of an eyebrow.
“My mother’s.”
“The recluse?”
Biting back a smile, I nod. “Yeah, she makes beeswax candles and honey, and seasonal jellies and jams. Occasionally, she throws in some pickled vegetables. Basically, whatever is in season.”
“I’m definitely going to have to check out this farmer's market,” he says with all seriousness. “Sounds like it might be the most happening thing in Green Valley.”
“No, that’d be the jam session on Friday nights.”
Gunnar’s deep, throaty laugh fills the diner and I’m entranced by him once again. “How did I know you were going to say something like that?” he finally asks, shaking his head.
“What about you?” I ask, wanting to turn the tables for a while and get the attention off me. But more than that, I want to know more about him. “Where are you from? What do you normally do for fun?”
It dawns on me, I already know what he does for fun and I don’t like the answer, so I’m hoping he says something else I don’t know. I’m enjoying this date too much to have it ruined by the reminder that Gunnar is a fighter.
“Well,” he says, picking at a few crumbs on his napkin. “I’m from Dallas.”
“Big city,” I comment, trying to decide if that fits the picture of Gunnar I’ve been painting in my mind. There are a lot of things about him that seem very urban, like he’s not from around here. He has a bigger-than-life air about him, so I guess it fits.
He smiles and nods. “I guess so.”
“And for fun?” I prompt.
Gunnar shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “Concerts, hanging out with my friends. I just graduated from college back in the spring, so I haven’t had a lot of free time yet.”
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask, glancing at the lone jelly donut sitting on the table.
“A little bit of everything. As long as it has a good beat and good lyrics, I’m a fan.”
I smile, because that’s the same answer I would’ve given. “Me too.”
Gunnar gives me that smile I claimed for my own again and it makes my insides melt a little.
“Wanna split this?” I ask, pointing a plastic knife at the donut. “You have to try the jelly-filled. They’re the best.”
I cut the donut down the middle and pick up half, handing it to Gunnar. When our fingers brush, along with the transfer of fluffy, flaky goodness is a zip of electricity. Kind of like during the winter, when it’s cold and the air is dry and charged and you touch someone, shocking them. Except this didn’t hurt, just caught me off guard, and from the look on Gunnar’s face, he felt it too. The zing traveled through my fingers, up my arm, and all the way to the pit of my stomach, working itself into a ball of unfamiliar desire.
Gunnar immediately takes a large bite of the donut, distracting me with his fervor. I know the second the jelly hits his tongue because his eyes roll and he groans. “Oh, my God,” he declares, looking down at the pastry like he’s holding the holy grail. “I had no idea.”
“I know, right?” I chime in, taking what feels like a decadent bite. I never eat more than one donut. Only one. And since I take it to-go, there’s never a chance of having another. Except for today. I guess it’s a day full of firsts. “You wanna know something else?” I ask, feeling brave and euphoric. Maybe it’s the extra sugar rushing through my veins, or maybe it’s the beefcake with the sea glass eyes sitting across from me, seductively licking jelly off his lip as he inhales the last bite of donut, but when he lifts his brows, encouraging me to continue, I blurt out, “I’ve never been on a date before.”
Gunnar’s hand pauses in midair and his eyes search mine. “Never?”
Shaking my head, I take another bite, filling my mouth so I won’t have to talk. Why did I say that? I doubt it makes me more appealing or bodes well for my likeability. How can a twenty-five-year-old go her entire life without being on a date? The only logical answer is that she's not dating material, which would be true—but only because I’ve chosen not to be.
“Well, I’ve never had a jelly-filled donut,” Gunnar says, like our two confessions are equal. “I’ve also never been to a farmer's market . . . or a jam session.”
Smiling, I swallow the bite I’ve been working on and wrap my hands around my still-warm mug of coffee.
“Hey, Frankie,” he says, drawing my attention back up to him. As he leans across the table, his hands coming dangerously close to mine, I hold my breath, waiting for whatever he’s going to say. “Thanks for letting me take you on your first date.”
The sincerity in his statement is so thick, I have to take a deep breath and let it wash over me. That warmth I felt thawing my insides earlier kicks up a notch.
Acceptance is a funny thing. Sometimes, I don’t even think we realize how much we want it, or need it, until we get it.
Gunnar’s acceptance of my truths I’ve entrusted to him mean more than I’ll probably ever admit.
I want to tell him I’m glad he was my first . . . date, that is.
“What do you do after you eat a donut and get a coffee?” he asks and it takes me a second to realize what he means because I’m so caught up in him.
Clearing my throat, I try to sound unaffected as I answer, “I volunteer at a women’s shelter in Maryville on Wednesdays and Fridays.” Taking the last sip of my coffee, I glance up at the wall, noting that according to the clock hanging there it’s now seven thirty. “Actually, I should probably be heading that way.”