“Yeah. I only have one sister, and my parents are awesome. They’re living in Florida for the winter—snowbirds—so I haven’t seen them since Thanksgiving.”
“Oh.”
“No one’s at the house tonight. I could show you where I grew up.”
Equally intrigued and frightened to see his childhood home, I agreed, “Okay.”
We reached a small town in less than thirty minutes. Charming stores dotted the old street, and I suddenly felt like I’d stepped onto the set of Gilmore Girls.
“You grew up here?”
“Right down that road.”
“It’s so pretty.”
“It’s a nice area. They filmed the movie Signs in the next town over.”
It looked like a movie set. He parked in a half-full lot filled with expensive cars. As I waited for him to get my door, it occurred to me he hadn’t taken me anywhere over the top, but somewhere that would teach me a little bit about him. It was personal and intimate, in a way my other dates weren’t.
The taproom was a restored historic building with exposed stone masonry and glass walls and vaulted ceilings. The menu was New York inspired but simple—gourmet pizzas and samples of exotically seasoned lamb skewers and bacon wrapped scallops.
Between the delicious food and laid-back atmosphere, my anxiety slowly dissipated. The beer also helped.
The waiter supplied narrow trays of tiny beer glasses, each one a different shade of amber and some tastier than the rest. “I don’t usually drink beer, but this is fun. I like learning the different flavors.”
The more I sampled, the more at ease I became. Conversation soon flowed effortlessly between us, and I stopped worrying if he was out to unravel all my secrets.
“What’s your major?”
“Education.”
“Really?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No, I think there’s a nurturer hidden in you somewhere, the sort who makes her neighbor chicken soup when he’s sick.”
“Well, it was broth—”
“It was sweet.” His hand closed over mine, his thumb tracing the back of my fingers. “What grade do you want to teach?”
“Kindergarten or sixth grade. They’re not as cute in between.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say high school. You’d have a class full of hard-ons and no volunteers to go to the board.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, you don’t. You know boys better than most, and you’re well aware of how sexy you are.”
When he called me out like that it made me nervous. “Did you go to college in the city?”
“No, I did a two year school down south that specialized in media, arts, and technology.”
“So you always knew what you wanted to do?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
I just knew I wanted something different, something useful and respectable. I wanted something I could count on that wouldn’t become obsolete and something that would make others believe I was decent and good—two things I very much wanted to be.
He nudged the last glass toward me. “Drink up. I’m driving.”
I chuckled, my tension now transformed by tipsiness. “Are you trying to get me drunk on the first date?”
“It’s only a first if there’s going to be a second.”
“True.”
The word left my lips before my common sense weighed in. The agreement was one date. One. Yet, the idea of doing this or something like this with Noah again held more appeal than I wanted to admit. I was enjoying myself more than I had on a date in … years. Or … ever.
I raised the glass and sipped, finishing off the tray of sample brews. “This one’s good. Probably one of the best I’ve had tonight.”
He smiled. “After you’ve had that many samples, everything starts to taste good.”
I waved a playful finger at him. “Ah, is that your strategy with dates?”
“Yeah, but don’t tell my date.”
I laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He glanced over his shoulder, but there was no one left in the dining room but us. “Do you wanna get out of here?”
“And go where?”
He shrugged. “Walk around? Drive?”
“Two seconds ago you said I knew boys. That carries over to men. If leaving here meant driving back to the city and saying goodnight you wouldn’t be rushing us out the door.”
His blue stare met mine, and he smiled. “Touché. Will you let me show you where I grew up?”
“Noah…”
“Night’s not over, Avery. Have you been enjoying yourself so far?”
“Yes, but…”
He tossed several twenties on the table and stood. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I’ll show you where my mom keeps the embarrassing pictures of me.”
Unsure if this was a mistake, I followed him. What choice did I have? He was my ride home. But more than that, I wanted to pretend for a few hours—see how the other half lived.
As I slipped on my coat, he helped me with the buttons again, this time holding my stare. Our breathing seemed suspended, as if holding onto an unspoken promise about to be released.
He held my hand as we walked to the car and opened my door, making sure I had plenty of opportunities to notice his manners. As we drove, the streets were uncongested, and the night was clear.
“Do you live far?”
“Just another few miles up the road.”
Tension twisted with anticipation, forming a delicious potion in my belly. It was enough to keep me on the verge of punch drunk, yet sober enough to maintain my wits. I wanted to tip over to the drunk side and let go, but that wasn’t my nature.
His house was enormous, the sort of home featured in magazines with Martha Stewart baking muffins in the kitchen and Pottery Barn furniture in every room.
“I’ll hang up your coat.”
He left me standing in a gaping foyer feeling well outside of my comfort zone.
“Want a tour?”
“Sure.” The contrast in our backgrounds had never been as evident as they were the moment he flipped on the lights.
The kitchen was incredible. He took my hand and escorted me into what could only be the living room. It was twice the size of my mom’s trailer. There was an entire game room in the basement, furnished with cinema chairs, a big screen television, and numerous arcade games.
“I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s a suburban palace.” And completely intimidating.
“Wanna see upstairs?”
I hesitated, knowing full well what upstairs would lead to and unsure why I was still fighting what now seemed an inevitable outcome. I was in a losing battle, and it wasn’t like me to surrender without a fight.
There were consequences. I knew my answer would come at a price, but standing here in his beautiful—normal—childhood home made me want to pretend I belonged, pretend I was worthy.
Tomorrow we would be back home, and I’d be a sugar baby, and he’d be the out of my league man I fucked. He had to realize the consequences wouldn’t change.
Was it just about tonight for him? Was that how he could overlook all the ways we were unsuited? Was this about sharing his background or fucking me on a neutral playing field?