“I’m going to go. Thank you for the recap dinner.”
“Sure you don’t want to practice not blurting out how green you are at this whole dating thing before you go?”
“Absolutely not.” I shoulder my purse. “If I practice I’ll sound like I practiced. I want to be genuine and see what happens.”
“Well, we have all week.” Again with the dark, contemplative look. It’s so foreign parked on his face I don’t know how to react. He’s typically a happy person. I’ve always found it remarkable how a kid could lose both his parents and come out the other side as optimistic and pleasant as he did.
Dennis lost his parents too—though our mother is very much alive, “lost” seems an apt descriptor—and we had him in and out of school psychologists for years. Thank God I had power of attorney and no one looked too deeply into our home life. I wonder if Benji went through a dark period when he was a teenager. I never asked. It seems like I should have asked sooner since I’ve known him for ten years. We only became close recently, so now it’s like I can’t ask. We talk about current events and physical fitness. We talk about work. Talking about my dating status and how to proceed is new. And weird.
He opens the front door and I step over the threshold, turning to say goodnight. He leans one hand on the door over his head and props his other hand on his hip. His hair is stylish and messy. His eyes are tired in a good way—the way that makes me imagine snuggling against him on the couch and listening to jazz while sipping a glass of wine. Then retiring to bed for a little fun…
I stop short of imagining more, lest I have to go home and have fun without him. It’s never as satisfying as I hope, and I usually feel guilty for objectifying him afterward.
“Night, Cris,” he says, looking tall and strong and delicious and perfect.
“Night.” I turn and walk to my car, waving one last time. He waves too, and then shuts the door.