by Quinn Nolan
I nod and slip into the passenger side. I want to ask where we’re going, but I don’t. I can’t. It’s been too long since I’ve been on a date. I don’t want to ramble—something my ex, Scott, admitted I did for the first weeks of our relationship. He insisted he thought it was cute, but I’m not sure everyone would. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and Graham starts the car. The radio comes to life with the engine, and the strains of “Mischief Chain” meet my ears. As Graham backs out of the driveway, back onto Jefferson, I avoid looking at the lake house and curse the heat rising in my cheeks. If I can’t tell Reagan who Everett really is, there’s no way Graham can find out.
Once he’s on the road, Graham starts talking some more about the van—or rather the car he had before the van and how hard it was to haul a drum kit. I nod and uh-huh at appropriate intervals, but my stomach is still too knotted to pay attention. The song’s still on.
I figure he’ll turn off Jefferson relatively quickly and am surprised when he continues on. Are we heading to the brewpub? He can’t think that’s a good idea for a date spot, can he? But he drives past Shores and stops in at a restaurant about a half mile south of it. He hasn’t stopped talking and I try to catch the thread of the conversation as we walk through the parking lot. He doesn’t take my hand, but he holds the door open and settles his palm on the small of my back as he guides me to the table. The touch should excite me, make my stomach flip, but I’m too nervous to feel anything but the butterflies partying in my abdomen.
“Charlie’s got a studio set up in his basement—well, his folks’ basement—and we’re gonna start recording soon,” Graham says as we’re seated.
“That’s exciting.” It’s the first thing I’ve said since we got into his car. “Are you recording covers? Like you sang the other night?”
He shakes his head before launching into a story about a fight the band had a week ago about a track list for their demo. He throws out the names of his band members—Charlie, Fred, Nick—but also a few others he hasn’t mentioned before. He doesn’t stop to tell me who anyone is and my attention wanes.
The restaurant’s theme, no surprise, is a nautical one. There are wooden pirate-ship-looking wheels on the wall, along with anchors and paintings of mermaids and seascapes. The walls and chairs are cream and soft teal, like the water.
Graham stops talking to peruse the menu and I do the same. I decide almost immediately on lobster mac and cheese—who wouldn’t? My menu is closed by the time the waitress comes for drink orders. It’s not until our drinks have arrived and Graham is finally ready to order that it dawns on me lobster mac and cheese might not be a date-appropriate dish. My mother would be appalled if she saw me stuffing my face with something so heavy and decadent on a first date. I slip the menu open again, checking out the salads. None of them look particularly appetizing. I never could see going to a restaurant and paying ten bucks for a salad and then having to eat, well, a salad. I was so nervous about the date all day that I barely ate and now my stomach is threatening to bust through my abdomen and start munching on the table if I don’t fill it with something. My eyes land on one the words chicken and avocado in the description of one salad and I close my menu.
When the waitress arrives to take our orders, Graham asks for the surf and turf and when it’s my turn, it’s lobster mac and cheese that escapes my lips. I want to take it back as soon as I say it, but the waitress is already writing it down.
Well, so much for that. Maybe I’ll just eat a little and have them box up the rest. That seems like something my mom might approve of.
With our orders placed and our menus taken, Graham launches back into regaling me with stories from every show he’s ever played. Well, maybe not literally, but that’s what it feels like. He starts young—back in early high school when he was just a freshman trying out for the school’s talent show. “When I signed up, the seniors running the show were all like, ‘No way, man, just give up now. There’s no way we’re letting a freshman into our show.’ But I signed up anyway. When I was backstage the day of tryouts, everyone else was nervous. One girl actually threw up. But I was cool—I knew I was good, so I had nothing to worry about. Then I walked out on stage and blew the senior dicks away with my audition—a cover of ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’”
From there, he moves into the shows he did at high school parties, his first paid gig, and the different groups he’s played with. It’s not until our food comes out that his steady stream of talk dissipates. I figure it’s just because he’s eating, but when I glance up, he’s looking at me expectantly. Shit. He finally asked me a question and I missed it.
“Huh?” I pinch my leg under the table. Reagan is right, I am a ditherspaz.
But Graham’s mouth curls at my attempt at human speech. “I just asked about that other guy—the one from the other night.” He spears the hunk of steak on his plate. “I mean, I understand if you don’t wanna talk about him—it’s just I kinda wanna know my competition.”
“Oh, Everett?” I bite my lower lip. Maybe I shouldn’t be so free with using his name. I stab a chunk of lobster along with some creamy noodles. “What do you want to know?”
He shrugs. “How do you know each other?”
I hastily take a bite, almost sputtering the food back out when it touches my tongue. It’s much too hot—I should’ve been paying more attention. My eyes water and I grip the napkin to my right. But I can’t exactly spit it out now, can I? Can you say date-ender? I chew the bite as quickly as I can before choking it down, reaching for my water glass and downing a few gulps.
Smooth.
I don’t have a back-story for Everett. I didn’t think to make one up because I didn’t think Graham would ask about him. Then again, of course he would. It was jealousy of my interactions with Everett that made him interested in the first place. “We don’t know each other that well,” I begin—deciding the truth is the best starting point. But I can’t stay there, so I branch out. “He likes me,” I blurt, taking another sip of water to buy time. I need to tell him something that will keep him interested in me. “I like him, too, I guess. He’s a great kisser.”
I clap my hand over my mouth after the last statement, but Graham just nods, tilting his head thoughtfully. I press on.
“We’ve been out a couple times.” Not an outright lie. We have been out in the same place twice. “And we’ve got plans to see each other again soon.” Also true—I’m supposed to listen to his new songs.
Graham picks up his knife and cuts his steak before popping the piece in his mouth and chewing it slowly, thoughtfully. I think he’s going to say something about Everett, but when he starts talking again, it’s about guitars.
The rest of the meal passes much this way. I say just a handful more sentences, but they’re never about me. By the end of the night, I know more than I thought I’d ever know about Graham’s musical path and his ambitions, about his bandmates’ girlfriends and even his father, but he has no idea about who I am, about my own high school career, about how I took college classes from sophomore year on so that I was nearly half done with my degree before I graduated from high school. He doesn’t know I taught for two years, and he has no clue as to why I quit.
When the waitress comes with the bill, I think I see the slightest hesitation in his eyes when she asks if we’re paying together or separate. But then he says together and takes care of everything and I’m sure I imagined it.
It’s still light out when we cross the parking lot to his minivan. The days are getting longer and longer—a time of year I’ve always loved. Summer has always been freedom from responsibility—even when I was in college and the years I taught. This is the first summer I’ve ever worked. The thought doesn’t make me as sad as it should.
The drive back to my apartment is short, and about halfway up Jefferson, a knot of panic swells in my stomach. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date, I’m not sure of the etiquette. I’m also not sure of Graham’s expectations. On Saturday
night, I made out with a complete stranger in front of a crowded bar and was ready to go home with said stranger. But now... Does Graham expect for me to invite him up? Do I even want him to?
My heart hammers in my chest by the time he pulls into the driveway. My hand goes to the handle but I don’t open the door. Graham doesn’t cut the ignition.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
And then he’s out of the van. The hum of the engine reverberates through my chest, loosening my tight muscles and allowing my heart to slow. It takes two tries before I can undo the seat belt’s buckle, but when I’m finally out of the van, I feel a million times lighter. If he’s leaving the car running, he doesn’t want to come upstairs. One question answered.
Graham meets me at the back of the van and laces his fingers through mine as we walk toward my apartment. He squints at it like it’s the first time he’s really seeing it. “It’s kinda weird you live in a garage.”
You’d know why if you’d bothered to ask me. I bite the inside of my cheeks to dispel the wave of bitterness that rises.
Graham doesn’t give me the chance to explain. “Maybe you can tell me about it next time.”
I stop in my tracks. “Next time?”
Graham stops too, tugging my hand and smiling. “Yeah, of course next time. I mean, I had a good time tonight, didn’t you?”
Not really. Guilt swoops my stomach for even thinking it, but the truth is I thought a date with Graham would be more special. Magical. Like when he’s singing. But I can’t tell him that. “Of course.” A smile I hope doesn’t look too forced stretches across my face. “I’d love to go out again.”
We’re at the door now and Graham runs a finger down my cheek. “Good.”
I know what he’s about to do and my swell of panic from before returns at full force. His face drifts toward mine and my eyes dart around furiously, the only part of my body that moves. The rest of me is stiff, frozen.
Why am I freaking out? How long have I fantasized about this exact moment?
Besides, I didn’t panic like this when Everett kissed me.
Graham’s lips are soft, but the whiskers of his beard scratch my chin. He opens his mouth, running his tongue along my lips, but I don’t reciprocate. I’m still frozen. He keeps up the attempt for a few moments longer before pulling away, a smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll call you.”
I nod, numbly, finally able to move. He’s halfway to the van before I start digging through my purse for my keys, and backing up before I find them. My fingers tremble, knocking against the lock, and it takes me a few seconds to connect with the hole.
What’s wrong with me? I open the door and enter the garage, closing it behind me and leaning back. I run my hands over my hair, sighing. I’ve wanted for Graham to notice me for so long, dreamed of the feeling of his lips on mine, and when it actually happens, I’m like a statue.
If this is what I wanted, why do I feel so...disappointed?
Chapter Seven
Everett
I shouldn’t watch. I know I shouldn’t, but it doesn’t stop me.
It’s not like I was waiting for them to get back from their date or anything. I just couldn’t help noticing when he pulled up in his raggedy-ass van. The house is, like, ninety percent glass, after all.
I feel a little like a pervert, standing behind the door nearest the driveway, peering out the window beside it, but I watch anyway.
Ashlyn looks a little unsteady and—if I’m not mistaken at this distance—a bit ashen when she gets out of the van. Graham grabs her hand as they head to the garage. The building sits just off the main road and at a right angle to the driveway, so I can see everything.
I wonder what the apartment’s like. This house is gigantic. I’ve been here for days and I still haven’t had occasion to walk into every room. Why doesn’t she have a servant’s quarters in the house itself? There’s gotta be one—probably a secondary kitchen and everything. But, no, she lives in the garage a football field away. So close, but so far.
They stand a long time in front of the door, and from the way Graham is stooped, they’ve gotta be kissing. My stomach clenches at this and I ignore it. This was what Ashlyn wanted, and I’m happy she’s getting it. My one good deed done. That’s gotta count for something, right?
When Graham heads back to his van, I release a breath. Am I relieved he didn’t go up to her room? Well, if I am, it’s for her sake. She might try to play like she’s worldly and up for anything, but it’s painfully obvious she’s more innocent than she wants to admit.
Graham isn’t quite out of the driveway when my hand finds the doorknob. I just want to check in with her—see if the date was everything she dreamed it would be. And it’s not too late yet—maybe she can still listen to some songs.
Yeah, that’s the reason I’m crossing the lawn now, heading to the garage for the second time today.
The sun glows orange over the tree tops and I stick my hand out in front of my face to shield my eyes as I walk.
My finger hesitates over the doorbell. Why am I here, really? Ashlyn’s probably already on the phone with one of her girlfriends, gushing about how perfect her date was. Why would she want to tell me about it? I’m just the guy who helped her achieve her goal. Nothing more.
I press the button. At the very least, I can set up a time tomorrow to have her listen to the songs. Yeah. That’s what I’m here for.
The door swings open so quickly I jump back. There’s no way she got down from her apartment that fast. Emotions pinwheel over her features—concern, relief, confusion—before she offers a half smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I return, flashing a grin. “Sorry—I just saw you pull up. I can come back.”
She shakes her head, stepping back out into the balmy summer evening. “No, it’s fine. I was actually thinking about taking a walk.”
I fall into step beside her and we head up toward the house. She doesn’t speak and I wait until we’ve crossed half the distance before I can’t contain my curiosity. “How’d it go?”
“It was...nice.”
Am I imagining things, or is there a bit of hesitation in her voice?
“Great, I mean,” she continues quickly. She kicks a tuft of grass as we go before veering to the left, around the main house. “We had a really great time. The restaurant was nice. The lobster mac and cheese was great.”
I can’t help myself. “And the kiss?”
“Great.”
She tugs at the fringe on her scarf as we walk. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out on a date. It’s a bit of a learning curve getting back into things.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t really date.”
She snorts.
“No really.” It’s true, but now I’m a little embarrassed to explain. There are groupies at every show, every event. I can have my pick. There’s no wining and dining. They know what they’re signing up for when they bribe their way backstage or onto the bus. I can’t remember the last time I met a girl in a non-band-related moment and invited her out for dinner and a movie—or whatever lame shit constitutes a date nowadays. It’s just pageantry anyway. Whether they want to admit it or not, both parties are there for something—sex, security, oblivion.
Dates are just the foreplay society tells us is necessary before we demand those other things. Relationships are means to an end, always. And I’ve only got time to get to the ends. It’s easier that way, less complicated. Why pretend I’m looking for something I’m not? With my tour schedule, odd interviews, and time spent recording, I don’t have time to devote to a “girlfriend” who wants to be taken out for long walks on the beach or to fancy restaurants just because I can afford them. “I just don’t have time.”
She nods but doesn’t look at me. We’re almost past the house now. She’s heading to the beach.
I haven’t actually been down here yet. I haven’t gone any nearer to the lake than the back porch. But Ashlyn moves so pu
rposefully I know she’s taken this route many times before. She heads onto the dock, which sways under our feet as we walk to the end.
“It’s been over two years since I’ve been on a date.” She looks out across the water as she speaks. The sky on the horizon is growing darker by the minute, as the sun continues its journey toward the opposite side of the world. “My last boyfriend was in college. After we broke up, I didn’t really have time to date. I was too busy with work.”
“What changed?”
She offers a small, almost sad smile. “Quit my job.”
I don’t say anything, waiting for her to go on. She doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of person to quit at anything. She’s tenacious, even if her tenacity is misguided. I string together meaning from what she’s told me so far. She was in college. People don’t go to college to tend bar. I haven’t really put much thought into her back story before now. She’s young—probably right around my age, and I’m only twenty-three. How long do people go to college? I guess I just figured she was a college student, but that doesn’t sound like the case.
“I was a middle school teacher. For two years.” She wraps her arms across her stomach. “I hated every minute of it.” She stops, pressing her lips together. “Okay, maybe not every minute. Sometimes the kids were funny or sweet. But there was so much I didn’t expect. The actual work of lesson planning and grading papers. Having to contact certain parents every single day because they apparently couldn’t trust their kids to do anything. All the committees and meetings and extra work on top of what I had to do in the classroom. And the department head shutting down all the ideas I had to tweak the curriculum. It was just...” She shakes her head. “I worked so hard to always get good grades, to graduate from college as fast as I could so I could, you know, begin my life. And when I was in the middle of it, I just thought, ‘Really? Is this really what my life’s going to be for the next thirty-plus years?’ I didn’t like the look of it. So I quit.”