I Don't: A Romantic Comedy

by Andrea Johnston

  I’m just as confident about my decision today. This is the right move. Spending time with Whitney as friends is the first step to whatever happens next. I’m going to show her that beneath everything, beneath the attraction we have for one another, is friendship. If there is one thing I take away from living with Jonah and Carmen, it’s that friendship in a relationship is important. The most important.

  With renewed determination, I get out of the truck and jog up the stairs to Whitney’s door. Two quick raps and I wait. Another two quick knocks and I wait more. She wouldn’t stand me up, would she? There’s no way. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap the screen to see if I have a message or missed call from her. Nothing. Just as I tap the call button, the door flies open and Jessi is laughing with a drink in her hand.

  “Luke! You’re here!”

  “I am. And you’re drunk?” It’s a question not a statement.

  “Nah, just a little tipsy. I’m a generous bartender, and your date was a little foggy this morning. You. Are. Welcome.”

  I follow Jessi into the apartment cautiously, not sure what I’ll find when I enter. To my surprise there is no party. Whitney shouts to me from the end of the hallway, “I’ll be just a minute.” Tension melts from my shoulders and Jessi giggles as she takes a drink of what appears to be a Bloody Mary.

  “Day drinking?”

  “It is Sunday Funday, Luke. Want one?”

  “I’m good,” I reply, taking the seat next to her on the couch.

  “What grand plans do you have for our sweet Whit today, Luke?”

  “Why do you keep saying my name?”

  “Whitney told me she’s been testing it out, not calling you Lucas and what not. I figured if I keep saying it, she’ll catch on.”

  “She’s not in the room, Jess.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, what are you guys doing today?”

  “Just hanging out.”

  “I’m glad,” she says. I look her direction and smile when I see the big grin on her face. “Not that you’re hanging out, but that you’re back around. You’re good for each other. I’m happy you’re finding your way back.”

  “Thanks, Jess.”

  She’s about to say something else when our attention centers on the hallway where Whitney stands. Unlike her outfit from yesterday, she’s wearing another plaid shirt unbuttoned with a tight shirt underneath. Her fucking tits look amazing, and I allow my eyes to linger a second short of too long before following down to her tight fitted jeans. I know if she turns around, her ass is going to be high and tight, and my palms will itch to touch it. Maybe I need to change plans and take her bowling to fully appreciate those jeans.

  “Am I dressed okay? I wasn’t sure what we were doing today.” Her voice knocks me from my appreciation of her, and when my eyes lift to hers, a huge smile takes over my face when I see she’s wearing her glasses again. Fuck, she’s perfect.

  “You look perfect.”

  “Mini golf?” Whitney asks as she slowly unbuckles her seat belt.

  When I was planning our first date, or “hang out” as we’ve been calling it, I wasn’t sure what to do. Everything seemed boring or not a way for us to laugh and be in the moment. Carmen’s advice to woo her, court her, had me thinking about what I would have done when we were younger. This seemed ideal.

  “Not just mini golf, girl. We’re also going to play in the arcade, and if you play your cards right, we’re going to drive the go-karts.”

  Her eyes light up like a little kid in a toy store as soon as I say “go-kart.” Shaking my head and chuckling to myself, I hop from the truck and walk around to open her door. I extend my hand to offer her help out of her seat. The moment her smaller hand slides into mine, I feel an instant current through my body. Shyly, she looks up at me with a small smile. Timid isn’t something I’m used to seeing on Whitney but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

  Taking a chance, I don’t release her hand when she steps down. Instead, I interlock our fingers and guide her to the front of the building. She doesn’t stop me, and that gives me a sliver, however small, of hope that this hanging-out thing is more like a date. Or at the very least, a prelude to a date.

  As we step to the cashier, I eye the board of activities and prices. “You okay with golf and karts?” I ask.

  “I’m game if you are. I should warn you, though, I’m pretty fierce with a club.”

  “Noted.” Turning my attention to the cashier, I only let go of Whitney’s hand when I reach in my pocket for my wallet. As I slide my credit card for payment, I watch out of the corner of my eye as Whitney eyes each available club on the counter before choosing one with a pink handle. A purple ball follows her decision making. Instead of choosing my own club and ball, I motion for her to do the same as I place my card in my wallet.

  “Blue,” she says teases.

  “Are you saying I have blue balls?”

  “Do you?”

  “I think this is a conversation for later. With beer.”

  Laughing, Whitney grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the first hole. She sets her ball down and lines herself up like she’s trying out for a spot on the professional golfers’ tour, and I snicker, which garners me a dirty look.

  Rolling her eyes, Whitney turns her attention to the task at hand, and in thirty seconds I’m eating my words. Damn, she wasn’t kidding. Hole in one.

  “Beat that, pretty boy,” she teases.

  “Pretty boy? Someone’s a little feisty today.”

  “Damn straight. Let’s do this. My hangover is almost gone, and I’m going to need a hot dog by the time we hit the fifth hole.”

  My attempts at mini golf are just that. Attempts. I suck in the most epic way, but the joy it brings Whitney to beat me is worth the jab to my pride. She didn’t only need a hot dog by the fifth hole, but also a platter of nachos and a beer to wash it down. We’ve had a blast and as I pick up the mallet to smack a mole on this video game, I can finally see victory in at least one activity today.

  “Finally,” I declare with a fist punch.

  “Congrats. You won . . . yep, five tickets.”

  “What do you say we pool our tickets?” I suggest, looking at the hundreds of tickets in her hands. Apparently, Whitney Wheeler is a master at not only mini golf but also arcade games. Specifically, anything with a ball. Whether she’s shooting, tossing, or hitting with a club, she’s winning.

  “That works for me. After this I need to hit the ladies room but I’m ready to hit the go-karts. How about you, Luke?”

  That’s the third time she’s called me Luke today. I know it’s hard for her to adjust, but she’s trying and that speaks volumes.

  “I feel like I should ask for a head start with the karts,” I say as we step to the ticket redemption counter. The young clerk counts out our tickets while we peruse the display of options.

  “You’ll be fine. I’m not the best driver,” Whitney says with a hand on my forearm. Rolling my eyes, I know she’s teasing. She’s probably certified in Indy racing or something.

  “Three hundred eleven tickets,” the young clerk advises.

  “I’d like one of these and that clapper,” I say, pointing to a ring pop.

  “Oh, I’d like a pink crown and umm . . .” she says, biting at the end of her nail before continuing, “the rest, just give me all the candy. Thanks.”

  “A crown?” I ask as the clerk bags up handfuls of candy and hands me my clapper and ring pop.

  “Yes, silly. I’m the queen of the day, obviously. I swear, Luke, it’s like you haven’t been paying attention.”

  She scrunches her nose at me and without a second thought, I grab her by the waist and pull her to me. Squealing, she wraps her hands around my waist and looks up at me. I want to kiss her. I want to stake my claim right here and now on date one, or hangout one, that this girl is mine. But I don’t. Instead, I place a kiss to the top of her head and hip check her while the clerk hands her the crown and a bag of candy.

  I’d l
ike to say go-kart racing was my chance to shine. It was not. Nope. It was absolutely Whitney’s crowning moment. Which is exactly what I did when we finished, and she completed her victory dance. A dance that included a weird hop and skip with a jump in place. Finally, something I’m better at. Dancing.

  My plan was to grab some dinner after our competitive afternoon, but Whitney’s been yawning, and I think the high of the afternoon is wearing on her. Once we’re settled in my truck, I pause before shifting in reverse.

  “I thought we could grab dinner, but it looks like you’re exhausted.”

  “I am.”

  Nodding, I turn slightly to look out the rear window before backing from the parking spot and she places her hand on my arm. Pausing, I look at her. I return the small smile she offers as she leans her head back on the seat and says, “But I don’t want to stop hanging out. Want to come back to my place and order a pizza?”

  “Got any beer?” I ask.

  “What do you take me for? A rookie?” Her tone is light and because I’m a man on a mission, and perhaps a glutton for punishment, I place my hand on her thigh and squeeze. A gasp from her has me worried I may have pushed too far, but she shifts herself so her hand is on top of mine, and I relax.

  “Does this count as hanging out number two since it’s a different location?” I question.

  “Date, Luke. Let’s call it what it is. And, I’d love to call it the second one. I’ll even change my clothes so it’s totally a different experience.”

  Groaning, I pull my hand from her leg as her laughter fills the truck. Maybe we’re on the same page after all.

  Inviting Lucas over seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. Pizza and beer is harmless. Then I touched him. He touched me.

  On the thigh.

  Zing.

  Zang.

  Electricity.

  It.

  Right between my thighs. I swear, a touch from Lucas is like binge-watching porn with a set of brand new batteries in Sven. Okay, maybe not like the battery part. Regardless, it’s enough to have me squirming in my seat.

  Then I called it a date. Stupid, girl. It’s been obvious the entire time we’re on a date. Were. Are? Hell, I don’t even know anymore. What I do know is I don’t want it to end. I’m having a blast with Lucas and haven’t been this relaxed since . . . well, I don’t know when. That’s sad. And pathetic.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  And that. He knows when I’m overthinking. He isn’t just my friend or my date, he’s my insightful friend and date.

  “Do you have six toes?” I ask. Surely there’s something wrong with him. Not that having extra toes is a bad thing. Actually, they may be pretty freaking cool. I had a friend growing up with two webbed toes and while it didn’t mean jack to us growing up, it’s a perfect winner in a serious game of two truths and a lie. Imagine what having extra toes would mean in that game.

  Coughing, Lucas looks at me like I’m crazy to ask him about his feet. I shrug. When he pulls into the guest spot next to my car and still hasn’t answered, I unbuckle myself and turn to him. “Well? Do you?”

  “I have the standard five on each foot,” he declares with gusto.

  “Proud of that I see.”

  “Eh, it just makes me average. I was thinking, after your question, it’d be pretty cool to have an extra toe or two. I could win all kinds of trivia games.”

  Staring at him, mouth agape, I don’t have an opportunity to respond when he quickly exits the truck. When my door opens, I turn to face him, eyes wide and a huge smile on my face. The giddiness is oozing from me, I can feel it. Lucas, on the other hand, is looking at me like I have three heads.

  “Do you like trivia?” I ask, excitement and possibilities bubbling through me.

  “Doesn’t everyone? This thing,” he says tapping his temple, “is not just for the books, baby. I’m full of useless information.”

  “We need to go to trivia night. Not just at one place either, like hop bar to bar and win all the prizes. I’m pretty good with pop culture and food. Mostly reality television and tacos, but nonetheless, we’d rock at trivia night.” I’m amped just thinking of the possibilities. What can I say? I love a good competition.

  Shaking his head, either in disbelief or acceptance, Lucas offers his hand to help me exit the truck. When I hop out and face him, yes, like a bunny, he’s laughing.

  “I haven’t seen you this excited since Fred and Wilma.”

  “Oh, this is more than that. This is an opportunity for epicness, Luke. Epic. Ness.”

  Walking toward my apartment, I have a little extra pep in my step and all the exhaustion I had before dissipates the closer we get to the door. When I pull my key from my purse, a wave of nerves hits me. Jessi isn’t here. She mentioned going to a study group before we left today. Luke and I haven’t been alone in privacy since Portland.

  Portland.

  “I don’t mean to be a pest but I kind of have to take a piss, and if we stand on this stoop any longer, I’m going to have to water some plants.”

  Laughing, I quickly open the door and motion him inside. While Lucas uses the restroom, I check the refrigerator to make sure we have beer and am relieved to see at least six bottles. Next, I grab the menu for my favorite pizza place from the menu drawer and walk into the living room. Yes, a menu drawer. What can I say? We like delivery.

  “Sorry about that,” Lucas says as he throws himself on the couch next to me. “Did you order the pizza?”

  “Nope. I was waiting on you. What’s your poison?” I ask, tossing the menu to his lap.

  “I’m easy. Anything is good as long as there are no olives.”

  Gasping, I throw my hand to my chest in mock horror. “No olives?”

  “Nope. Can’t do it. I’m cool with them being on half, just not my half.”

  “I’m teasing. I don’t like olives either. But I make up for it with jalapenos.”

  Chuckling, he rises from the couch and walks to the kitchen. “I’m getting a beer while you order.”

  Since I order pizza at least once a week, I have the pizza place on my favorites and quickly place an order for a large pizza, a large salad, and a piece of their cheesecake for dessert. When the call is over, I toss the phone on the table and follow Lucas into the kitchen to get a glass of wine.

  As I stand in the entryway to the kitchen, I’m greeted with a sight I hope burns into my corneas for life. Lucas DeCosta bent over, his jeans tight across his ass, and his head in the fridge. Sweet peppers, he’s a sexy sonofabitch. Clearing my throat, Lucas jumps up from the refrigerator and smacks his head on the shelf, and I break out in giggles.

  “Motherfucker,” he mutters, rubbing his head.

  Slowly I walk toward him, stopping just inches from where he stands. Reaching up, I touch the red spot on his head, and he flinches before I make contact but relaxes when I lean in to his personal space and place my finger tip to his head.

  “That may leave a mark.” My voice is a whisper. A husky whisper. What the hell?

  “Chicks dig scars. Do you think it’ll scar?” His voice is just as husky, and my heart skips.

  “I don’t think you’re that lucky.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m lucky. But the question is, do you think scars are sexy?” he asks, taking a step toward me. We’re so close now. I can feel the heat of his skin, smell the citrus from his body.

  Words escape me, and I nod, willing him to kiss me again. To place his hands on my hips, to tug me to him. I want to wrap my arms around his neck. My legs around his waist as he lifts me. God, I need him to do these things. I’m wound tight, my heartbeat is rapid, and my mouth is dry. My palms are cold. I’m nervous. This feels different. It’s as if everything will change if we kiss again. A third kiss. After a date.

  Only he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he steps to the side and twists the top from his beer and says, “I thought you were going to change? Make this an official second date.”

  A second date. />
  “I will. Give me five minutes. The pizza should be here any minute. Just answer the door, I already put it on my card,” I say, walking out of the kitchen and down the hall to my room.

  The second date. That’s when more kissing can happen. There will be more kissing. For the first time in, well I don’t know how long, I’m excited and hopeful. Maybe this being friends and dating idea isn’t such a bad thing.

  What does one wear on a second date? A second date that is technically part of the first date and in her own apartment. I kick off my shoes toward the closet and quickly strip away my jeans. Standing in front of my closet, I contemplate a pair of leggings. No, if there’s a chance Lucas will run his hands on my legs, I want to feel it. Shorts it is. Pulling on a pair of draw string shorts, I remove my shirt and add a little deodorant and a spritz of body spray before removing my bra. The tank I have on is enough to keep the girls in place and my oversized sweatshirt will keep my nipples from playing peek-a-boo.

  Quickly, I rush into the bathroom and brush my teeth before running a brush through my hair. A little wilder than I’d like, I pull my hair to the side for a braid before taking a deep breath and looking at my reflection. There’s a lightness to my eyes, a happy spark I haven’t seen in a long time. I hadn’t realized how much of my spark dimmed the last few years. Here, with Lucas, it’s back. I’m not sure what is next but the way I feel gives me hope.

  I hear a knock at the door and assume the pizza is being delivered so I flip the switch to the light and return to the kitchen where Lucas is setting the food on the table. Without a word, I grab plates and cutlery from the drawer as Lucas opens the containers.

  “Thanks for ordering salad. I’m starving and could probably eat this entire pizza but really shouldn’t.”

  Like a hose to a fire, the spark I felt a few minutes ago flickers. Of course, he has to watch what he eats. He has to dance. For women. Naked. Well, half naked.