by Alexa Land
“I reserve the right to add demands as you inspire them.”
Quinn sat on the counter and watched me cook with rapt attention. But when I started to chop up some tomatoes for my salsa fresca, he slapped both hands over his eyes. I just had to ask. “What are you doing?”
“Your knife is moving too fast! I’m absolutely positive a piece of you is going to end up in that dish. Salsa con punta del dedo.”
“I didn’t know you speak Spanish.”
“I don’t.”
“You just happened to know how to say salsa with fingertip?”
“Yup. I can also ask where the party is, and I can say, Chuck Norris es un chico malo blanco culo.”
“God, you’re weird.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I hate to break it to you, but bad ass and badass don’t translate the same way, so you basically just said, ‘Chuck Norris is one bad butt white boy’.”
“What’s your point?”
“I have no point. I am, in fact, pointless.”
After a moment, Quinn asked, “Are you fluent in Spanish?”
“I’m getting there. I’ve been working on it for about ten years now.”
“How come?”
I shrugged and said, “I guess I wanted to get in touch with my Mexican heritage or something, which doesn’t make much sense. My dad doesn’t speak Spanish, and his side of the family could really give a shit about anything I do.” As I was talking, I quickly sautéed some marinated shrimp, then wrapped one up in a warmed mini tortilla with some of the salsa, a bit of crema, and a squeeze of lime. Then I handed the plate to Quinn and said, “Tell me honestly what you think of this.”
He popped it into his mouth, then moaned so loudly the neighbors must have heard it and exclaimed, “I just came in my pants! Fuck, that’s good! Can I have eighty-seven more, please?”
“You can have three more. I need to save the rest to put together a decently-sized appetizer. You sure the shrimp wasn’t too garlicky? I thought it might overpower the salsa.”
“I didn’t taste garlic. I just tasted yum.” While I assembled a few more mini tacos for him, Quinn asked, “Is that why you’re making Mexican food for your date? Because you want to embrace your heritage?”
“No, I’m making Mexican food because it’s delicious.” I handed him another plate.
He scarfed down the taco trio, then looked around and asked, “What can I eat next?”
I spent the next forty minutes or so prepping, cooking, and trying to keep Quinn from eating absolutely everything. When someone knocked on the door at ten minutes to seven, I looked at my roommate and deadpanned, “I guess he’s early. Try not to plunge to your death on your way down the fire escape.”
He leapt off the counter and exclaimed, “Shit, he’s early!”
“Dude, I was kidding about the fire escape. You can meet my date. Just don’t embarrass me.”
Quinn waved his hands and said, “Why are you talking about the fire escape? We have a crisis here! He’s early!”
“And?”
“And you’re not ready!”
“Sure I am.”
“Oh fuck no,” he said, staring at me like I was insane. “You can’t go on a date like that!”
I looked down at myself and said, “I can’t go on a date like what?”
“Do you not see what you’re wearing? You’ll never get laid in that get-up. And you need to get laid! Otherwise, I’ll have to go on living with your cranky, uptight, not-getting-any ass!”
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this outfit!” I was wearing khakis and an oversized, dark brown polo shirt, both of which I’d bought at the thrift shop the day before.
“I’m telling you this out of love: shit brown is not your friend. You look like Jake from State Farm fornicated with a UPS driver and gave birth to a poop emoji.”
“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He’s here!”
I started to head to the door, but Quinn jumped in front of me, grabbed the hem of my shirt, and yanked it right off over my head as he yelled, “This is for your own good!”
As I lunged for it, I exclaimed, “Give it here!”
“No!” He twisted around to keep the shirt out of my hands.
“Just when I was starting to almost like you.” I tried to tackle him, but he easily evaded me. Stupid ballet training!
“You do like me! Hating me is like hating puppies, or rainbows, or—”
He ran to the window and threw out my shirt, and I exclaimed, “Asshole!”
He straightened up and said, “Hating me is like hating asshole? That’s a super weird analogy.”
I looked out the window and watched my shirt fluttering into the street three stories below. “That was new! Well, new to me. You owe me three dollars.”
“How much did those pants cost?”
“Ten bucks. Why?”
“Start me a tab!”
With that, the little shit grabbed my pants by the waistband and yanked, hard. Because they were a bit big on me, he was able to pull them straight down, and I lost my balance and fell on my ass. While that was going on, the pan I’d left on the stovetop started to smoke. I couldn’t do anything about it though, because Quinn turned my pants inside out and, in his effort to pull them over my shoes, ended up hanging me upside down by my ankles and shaking me like he was trying to get the last piece of candy from the bottom of a trick or treat sack. The skinny little fucker was deceptively strong, and I flailed around like a rag doll as he tried to rid me of my khakis. Meanwhile, the fire alarm started to shriek, and I yelled over it and called him every name in the book (plus a few I made up just for the occasion). I was vaguely aware of yelling and knocking coming from out in the hall.
A moment later, we both froze in place when the frame around our front door shattered inward. Dylan burst into the apartment and appeared in the kitchen doorway a moment later. Then his mouth fell open.
My feet were up over Quinn’s head, and I was buck-naked, since I usually didn’t wear underwear. When I realized my bare ass was resting against my shirtless roommate’s cock, I yelled over the fire alarm, “It’s not what it looks like!” Although I could really only imagine what the hell it did, in fact, look like.
Dylan’s firefighter training kicked in a moment later. He grabbed a dish towel and used it to remove the smoking pan from the stove, then opened the kitchen window as wide as it would go and put the pan on the fire escape. He fanned out some of the smoke with a towel, then located a switch on the wall and turned on the vintage, chrome-plated kitchen fan in the ceiling, which made an immediate difference.
He hopped up on a chair, and while he was resetting the fire alarm, two things happened: my dumbass roommate finally let go of me, and about a dozen of our neighbors rushed into the apartment, which is, of course, exactly what you’re supposed to do when you think there’s a fire. I sighed and leaned back, propping myself up with my hands. I couldn’t do anything else. The inside-out pants held my feet like a straightjacket.
Once the shrieking stopped, I casually crossed one foot over the other as I said, “Good news, everyone. There’s no fire, and a member of the San Francisco Fire Department is on the scene to make sure we’re all safe and sound. Sorry to disturb you. Please go about your business, and remember: it’s a bit cold in here, and that causes shrinkage.”
While they filtered back out again, muttering to one another, I reached down and made a wild, desperate, flailing attempt at pulling the pants off over my shoes. Failing that, I tried to get my shoes off. Nope. Because I just needed this to be over, I reached behind me and pulled open a drawer, then felt around in it until I located a large pair of scissors. I used them to cut off both pant legs just beyond the tips of my shoes. Then I stood up, put the scissors away, and glanced down at myself. Buck-naked, plus dark brown socks and little khaki pant leg bags over each shoe was not a good look.
I put my hands on my hips and turned to Dylan a
nd Quinn, who were both completely staring at me, and said calmly, “I know what you’re thinking, and yes. I do regret the dolphin tattoo on my hip. What can I say? It was a different time. We were all so innocent and dolphin-loving back in 2012. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I’m going to go put on some clothes. And Quinn, if you don’t like my outfit this time, you can suck it!” I yelled the last two words and crudely gestured at my crotch with both hands before turning and leaving the kitchen.
*****
I was sure Dylan would be gone when I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later. So sure, in fact, that I just threw on one of my old surf shop T-shirts and a pair of board shorts and padded out to the kitchen barefoot. But much to my surprise, he was still there, mixing up a pitcher of martinis.
He said, “Quinn wanted me to tell you he’s sorry, and that he’ll be back in the morning. He said, and I quote, ‘Don’t blame River for what you saw, because it was my fault. And please fuck him, because he really, really, really needs to get laid.’ Oh, he also said he owes you thirteen dollars, and that he stole your pie.”
I rubbed my forehead to try to ward off the Quinn headache that was brewing and said, “I can’t believe you stuck around after all that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Um, because that was completely insane?”
“Your roommate is a trip, no doubt about it. But come on, I’m a firefighter. I see all kinds of crazy stuff when I go into people’s homes.”
“Had you ever seen someone hanging naked by their ankles while being shaken like someone was trying to get a coin out of a piggy bank?”
“Okay, no, I’d never seen that,” Dylan admitted.
“Thought so.”
“By the way, I checked and your deadbolt still works, but the lock on your door handle is ruined. I’ll come back first thing tomorrow with my tool box to replace it, and to fix your door frame. Sorry I broke it. I heard yelling and the alarm, and I smelled smoke, so I thought you needed help.”
“Don’t worry about any of that, I can fix it.”
He opened one of my cupboards, then grinned and said, “This looks about right. I’m guessing you could use a big drink after all that.” He pulled a novelty martini glass from the shelves. I’d bought it as a centerpiece for a cocktail party I’d catered, and it was easily a foot across.
I grinned and told him, “I think I’d better stick to two or three regular-sized martinis. I might drown in that.”
As I pulled a couple glasses from the cupboard, Dylan said, “No worries there. I’m trained in CPR, so I wouldn’t let you drown.”
“That’s handy.” He poured our drinks, and I raised my glass and said, “Here’s to the most awkward first date ever.”
“It could have been worse.”
“Not by much.” I chugged the martini, and then I asked, “Are you hungry? It’ll just take me a minute to put together some appetizers.”
“I am. Can I help?” He refilled my empty glass as he said that.
“You can keep me company.” I found a new pan and started to heat up some oil. He’d been thoughtful enough to bring in the burned one and soak it in the sink.
“Thanks for going to all this trouble,” he said as he indicated the ingredients on the counter. “You know, when I asked you out, I’d been planning to take you to a nice restaurant.”
“It’s no trouble. I love to cook,” I said as I took the bowl of marinating shrimp from the refrigerator. “Usually, it goes a lot better than what you witnessed earlier.”
“The burning oil wasn’t your fault. Quinn explained that he was trying to save you from a fashion emergency.” He looked amused.
“In retrospect, he might have had a point about the shit brown polo shirt and khakis, though his methods leave a hell of a lot to be desired.” I snuck a glance at Dylan, who was wearing a form-fitting blue Henley and indigo jeans. Now that was how to dress for a casual date.
I cooked the shrimp, then quickly assembled a plateful of miniature tacos while Dylan and I talked about food. When I finished, we carried the drinks and appetizers into the living room and sat side-by-side on the couch. He raved about the appetizers and packed away three of them before asking, “Aren’t you having any?”
I drained my glass for the second time and poured another martini as I said, “I’m saving room for the main course.” Feeding my dumbass roommate had left me with a scant portion, and I wanted to make sure there was enough for my guest.
Dylan was easy to talk to. We chatted about cooking while we polished off the pitcher of martinis. Then he made another. After a while, I blurted, “Shit, I’m totally hammered. How many different ways can I fuck up this date? You’re such a nice guy, too. And cute! God, you’re cute. I should have tried harder and definitely not had all those martinis on an empty stomach.”
“You’re cute, too. I like your new haircut. I should have said that sooner, but the compliment got lost in all the commotion. I also should have told you I like your place. It’s nice.”
I glanced around at the plain cube of an apartment with its blank, white walls and bare-bones furniture and said, “No, it’s not. It’s about as interesting as a cheap motel room. I just haven’t found the motivation to make it feel like home.”
Dylan knit his brows, then put his glass on the coffee table. “You know what? I’m drunk, too. I don’t usually do that. Guess I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my first date in a very long time.”
I shook my head, which was a mistake, because it made me dizzy. I grasped the arm of the dark blue sofa to steady myself and said, “No way. You’re totally hot. I don’t believe it’s been a long time since you had a date.”
“It was by choice. But everyone keeps telling me it’s time to get back out there, especially Malone. He’s a good friend, and he and his wife have been worried about me.”
“I can totally relate. I had a bad breakup a year ago. Everyone was understanding about my need to be alone for the first month or two. But then, my friends and brother all started telling me I needed to get back out there. So, I did. I made myself leave my apartment and go to clubs and meet people. I let everyone think I was doing fine. I didn’t start dating again though, not until today.”
“You still love him, don’t you?”
I nodded, and then I had to swallow a lump in my throat. “I usually don’t tell people that. I let them think I’m over him. But I’ll never be over Cole. It’s just not possible.”
“You need to talk to your ex, River.”
“I tried so many times when he first moved out. Then we had this huge, public fight. It was during this big art show that my brother was in, and all our friends were there. I said things I didn’t mean and that I can’t take back. I was just so hurt, and furious at him for leaving me. I hate myself for the things I said in anger. And now, every time I see him, I feel ashamed. I apologized to him afterwards, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough. I can’t fix it.”
Dylan slid over to me and tried to look in my eyes as he rested his hand on my shoulder. “We all make mistakes, every single one of us. And we hurt the people we love, whether we mean to or not. I adore my husband, but we still fought sometimes, and we both said things we didn’t mean in the heat of the moment. It happens! No one’s perfect.”
I glanced at him and said, “You’re married?”
“I’m a widower. Travis was a firefighter like I was. He was killed when a burning building came down on him.”
I took his hand and whispered, “Oh God Dylan, I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t fair of me to ask you out. Everyone keeps telling me I need to get back out there, so I finally gave in. It’s been two years, four months, and eleven days since Travis died. My friends and family think I should have gained some closure by now, and that I should be ready to start the next chapter of my life. But I’m just not. Honestly, I doubt I’ll ever be ready. I think I’ll go to my grave only ever having love
d one man, Travis Jones. And you know what? I’m fine with that. He was the love of my life, and no one can ever replace him.”
There was so much heartbreak in his eyes that I pulled him into an embrace and held on tight. “To hell with what our friends think! We don’t have to be ready to move on, just because some arbitrary amount of time has passed. They don’t understand what we lost. Not really. If they did, they wouldn’t be pressuring us.”
Dylan grinned at me as I let go of him, and he said, “We’re actually a perfect match. Neither of us wanted to do this. For the record though, I really do think you’re cute.”
“You are too, and I’m glad to have made a new friend. Now I’m just gonna go ahead and get totally shitfaced, since this is officially no longer a date and I don’t have to worry about impressing you.”
“You’re not already totally shitfaced?”
I shook my head. “Only partially. The fact that I can still form sentences tells me there’s room for improvement.” I refilled my glass and raised a toast to him before slamming it down.
Dylan finished his martini and poured himself another, and when we finished that round, he said, “Show me a picture of Cole so I have a face to go with the name.” We both leaned back against the couch, and I pulled up Cole’s picture on my phone. When I showed it to him, Dylan said, “He’s beautiful.”
“Right? He never believed me when I told him that.”
He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo that made my heart ache. It had obviously been taken on their wedding day, and both grooms looked so happy. “That’s my Travis,” he said. “He’s the most beautiful thing in all the world to me. He never believed me either when I said that. He claimed that love made me blind.”
“He’s gorgeous.” Like his husband, Travis had been a tall African-American guy with broad shoulders, short hair, and a friendly smile. I asked, “How old were you in this picture?”
“We were both twenty. Everyone said we were too young to get married. They were wrong.” He flipped through the pictures on his phone, then showed me a photo of Travis sitting in a sunny kitchen with a coffee mug, grinning at the camera. Dylan’s voice was a rough whisper when he told me, “Travis died thirteen hours after I took that photo. He was twenty-seven.”