“Okay. I wasn’t just about to text you, but I was going to text you back, I swear.”
“Alright.” I let the silence sit, not wanting to fill it with idle chatter or babble. I want him to say what he has to say, even if I have to wait all night.
Admit you changed your mind.
It would suck, but at least I’ll know.
“I wanted to figure out a few nights for me that would work to go out before throwing anything out there. My schedule is pretty hectic right now, so I had to look at my calendar first.”
At least he didn’t say he was busy.
Of all the excuses in the world, “I’ve been busy” is the laziest alibi, one that never fails to rub me the wrong way on both ends.
“And did you find a few days that work?”
“Are you okay going out during the week? I work most weekends.”
Inquisitiveness demands that I ask what he does for a living, but then we wouldn’t have that to discuss on this date we’re going on.
“I could do a weekday, sure.”
“How about…Thursday? Or Tuesday of next week?”
I am literally free every day of the week, but pretend to consider it. “How about Tuesday? I have some things to get done in the office space I just rented.” Plus, I need time to plan my outfit. “What time are you picking me up?”
There’s a long pause. “You want me to pick you up?”
Uh. Yes? “You said you weren’t a criminal and I assume that means you’re not a murderer. Call me old-fashioned, but…I’d love for you to pick me up.” So it’s official.
“Then it sounds like I’m picking you up.”
“Six thirty? Any later and I will die of hunger.”
“How about six? It will take us time to get downtown.”
“Ohhh downtown. Oo la la!”
“Or not? We can stay local.”
Hell no! If I get to wear a dress and go somewhere in the city, I am not passing up the opportunity. “Surprise me, okay? I’ll be ready at six. I’ll text you the address next week.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hey Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a date.”
11
Noah
I feel sick.
Literally ill as I slowly crawl my way down the street, the navigation system in my car directing me to the address I punched in before leaving my house.
Miranda’s place is twenty minutes from mine, not in the suburbs, but not in the city. A little offshoot near the mall tourists flock to, a cute apartment complex situated in an older part of town that probably used to be hip and trendy.
It’s not anymore, but still has some charm.
“Destination is on your left,” the guide instructs and I slow further, neck craning, eyes scanning the narrow street for a parking spot. Pull my car to the curb behind a hybrid.
I cut the engine of my truck and glance in the rearview mirror at my reflection. Fresh haircut, no ball cap. No bruises on my face, for once. Glance around the interior of my vehicle, making sure the leather is clean, the garbage is gone, and it doesn’t smell like a locker room from the bags I normally keep in the back seat.
Those are gone.
Tonight is date night.
Fuck that sounds weird to say and I keep thinking it all the way to Miranda’s front door.
We won our game this past weekend, our first scrimmage of what hopes to be a successful season, so I plan to celebrate tonight with alcohol. Liquid courage, celebration—same thing. I’m going to need it if I want to make it through the night without making a horse’s ass out of myself.
The door opens and I’m taken aback at how pretty she looks.
I remember what she looked like that night at Rent, but barely. The image of her from then versus the image standing in front of me now does not compute.
No wonder Wallace was hitting on her. Miranda is—
I don’t want to say adorable. She’s pretty in a wholesome way, not a bombshell way, and that’s probably a horrible way of describing it too and I’d never say that shit out loud because she’d probably be insulted.
Girls are funny like that.
Pretty. Gorgeous.
Pretty gorgeous.
“Hi.” Her hand holds the door open, her eyes running up and down the length of me, checking out my appearance—the same way I’m doing to her.
It’s a strange moment. A bit uncomfortable having her scrutinize me this way and I remember that this is customary dating behavior and not a critique. She has only met me twice, it’s normal for her to give me a once over.
She’s taking a mental picture of you in her mind, not adding up everything about you she doesn’t like.
Or maybe she is?
The soft look in her eyes tells me if that is my guess, I’m wrong.
“Is it cold out?” she asks, pulling the door open a bit farther. so I can walk across the threshold. I glance around, noticing all the little things. The stark white walls, white woodwork, white doors and trim. Couch? White.
Everything that’s nailed, screwed, or buckled down is white. Everything else is pops of color, like the pillows on the sofa and the weathered wood. The hutch in the kitchen area? Grayed wood, a glaring contrast to its sterile backdrop.
I see what she’s got going on here and as far as apartments go, it’s very simple, but stylish. I like it.
My hands get stuffed into the pockets of my pressed slacks and I shrug my shoulders, willing them not to slouch. “It’s not that bad, but maybe bring a jacket anyway. For later.”
She nods. I watch her walk away—presumably toward her bedroom—legs looking smooth, tan and freshly shaved, if I were a betting man.
Her hair hangs down her back, stick straight, and I’ve always been a sucker for brunettes, though I’ve never actually dated one.
The dress she’s wearing is short, but so is she, showing off her stems and ass nicely. It’s one of those wrap things that crisscrosses in front, giving me a decent shot of tits without being tacky or vulgar.
Conservative yet sexy.
Classy but young.
Miranda is gone for a hot minute, returning from the back room with a denim jacket thrown over her arm, wedge shoes a nude color I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t looked all the way down.
Hot pink toenails.
Man is she good-lookin’.
“Ready?” She’s chipper and seems excited, her smiling lips a glossy shade of light pink, flipping the light switches off as I stand by the door, gaping like a fool.
I step into the hall while she closes the door, listening for the lock to click into place, the door armed with one of those high-tech locks that doesn’t need a key.
I let her lead, all the way down to the street, the quick elevator ride silent, as I’m dreading the car ride will be, too.
Miranda looks left. Looks right.
“I’m the black truck over here.”
She follows and I open the passenger door, doing my best not to stare as she slides her way in, already buckling the seatbelt when I shut her in.
I climb in and start the engine.
“This is nice,” she says politely. “I feel so much safer in bigger vehicles.”
“Yeah, me too.” I clear my throat. Rack my brain. “Um.”