“It’s a Tesla,” he says. He keeps his eyes on the road, but gestures to the radio. “You can turn on what you want.”
I’m not sure I actually know how to work this radio. As a millennial, I’m a low-key failure. Technology is not my friend. Getting online at HERS was a freaking nightmare. Tech support and I are on a first-name basis.
“This is fine,” I say. He has on some station playing nineties R & B, and who can argue with that? A song I can’t remember ends and the unmistakable notes of Ginuwine’s “Pony” float through the air. Without thinking, a smile breaks free on my face and I bust out my best Tom Haverford impersonation. “Girl don’t even know who Ginuwine is.”
I bounce around in my seat, my fingers dancing across the touchscreen trying to find volume control. All of my chill thrown out the window.
However, instead of the music blaring from his high-tech speakers, the volume is turned down to where I can’t hear anything. “Hey!” I turn hard eyes to Maxwell. “What the hell?”
“‘Girl don’t even know who Ginuwine is’?” he asks, laughter thick in his voice. “What are you talking about?”
Now it’s my turn to look at him like he’s the alien. “Oh no-no list?” I ask, continuing on when he shakes his head no. “Parks and Recreation?”
“For the city of Denver?” His eyebrows scrunch together, total confusion taking over his face before he glances over his shoulder, changing lanes.
Oh my god. Is he serious?
“Are you fucking with me?” I turn sideways in my seat, studying him closely. He has to be messing with me, right? Everyone loves Parks and Rec!
“No,” he deadpans. “I have no idea what you’re rambling about right now.”
“Amy Poehler? Nick Offerman?” I keep going, sure he’s just blanking but actually knows what I’m talking about.
He cocks one eyebrow à la the Rock and shakes his head.
“Aziz Ansari? Chris Pratt? Retta?” I feel my eyes bulge when there’s still a look of zero recognition on his face. “How have you never watched Parks and Recreation before?”
Now I’m yelling. But what the fuck?
“Oh!” He starts to laugh, his solid chest shaking and trying to distract me from the conversation at hand. “It’s a show?”
“Not just a show, it’s the best show ever,” I tell him, feeling unbelievably offended on behalf of the entire cast and crew.
“I don’t really watch TV. Just ESPN and the news.” He looks at me for a second before moving to the exit lane. And my stomach drops a bit knowing my time with him is almost up.
“What are you? Sixty-three?” I poke him in the shoulder. “My dad isn’t even on the sports and CNN regimen yet.”
He shrugs, embarrassment flitting across his gorgeous face.
And in that moment, staring at his strong profile, dread gripping my stomach at going up to my small condo and being alone . . . like always, I don’t think, I just let the words run from my mouth. “You’re coming inside.”
His back straightens and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, his fingers drumming a beat against his steering wheel. “For what?”
“You are watching Parks and Recreation with me.” I leave no room for negotiation in my tone.
“Which way do I turn?” he asks, getting off the highway, ignoring my invitation to keep the party going.
“Left at this light, then right at the second light, and then the first left after the roundabout,” I tell him, the directions not including street names flowing off the tip of my tongue without a second thought. “There are always a few open spots in front of my building for you to park.”
His shoulders relax and he looks at me as we come to a stop at the red light off the highway. “One episode.”
I roll my eyes, knowing once he watches one, he’ll be stuck for at least six.
I don’t let him know that.
“Yes, Grandpa,” I joke.
He laughs, but he does it with a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there a second before.
And I laugh with him, just with knots in my stomach and excitement flowing through my veins.
Eight
“Home sweet home.”
I push open my door, trying to discreetly kick the pile of shoes I’m too lazy to move to my bedroom closet that’s not far at all considering my condo is just over nine hundred square feet.
Maxwell walks in, his thoughtful gaze lingering on my empty brick wall and exposed metal ductwork. “Nice place.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He’s full of shit.
It’s a cool condo . . . for probably anybody else.
The issue with my place is that where I poured my heart and soul into HERS—even my office—my condo is a total afterthought. My couch, though comfy as sin, is my dad’s old one he gave me because he was sick and tired of having to sit on a beanbag when he came over. Luckily for me, my dad has good taste. Not my taste, but not bad. There are no personal touches anywhere, even the one frame I have on my side table still has the stock photo inside. I don’t really know why I bought this place. My dad was fine with me living at home. It just felt like the adult thing to do, I guess. Though, I did buy it before real estate prices skyrocketed, so no matter what, it was a good investment.
And I love the security I’ve created for myself knowing I’ll never have to jump from man to man to have a roof over my head. Even if that man happens to be my dad. Ugh. How lame.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, hoping he says no because, thinking about it, I’m pretty sure all I have is water.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Oh, thank god.
“Cool. Well.” I motion to my butt-indented couch. “Get comfy and I’ll turn it on.” I feel awkward all of a sudden. It’s not like I haven’t had guys over before, but when I have, they aren’t looking at anything except my ass, and I don’t have to worry about conversation.
I open the drawer to my coffee table (also my dad’s) and pull out the TV and Roku remote, pushing buttons until the NBC peacock flashes on the screen and Leslie Knope makes her glorious debut.
I plop onto the couch, toeing off my Keds, thankful I put on matching socks for once, and laugh at the drunk guy stuck in a slide like I haven’t already watched this episode umpteen times. But unlike the other times I’ve watched this show, I’m more focused on the man next to me. Is he laughing too? I feel like I need to laugh harder to prove how funny this show is. There’s actually a lot of pressure sharing your favorite show with another person. I’m not sure I could be friends with someone who doesn’t love Leslie.