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It’s evening and the sun is planting its final languid kiss on the horizon. Josh and I are having dinner, which represents the last leg of our magical one-on-one date. The day has flown by, but has also felt like an eternal present, each moment complete with some ineffable fullness.
“You were a cute sicky.” Josh grins at me from across the beautifully set table.
We picked at our salads, and now we’re picking at our steaks. Our fancy dinner is a little gimmicky, with the crisp linens, layers of silverware, and multiple wineglasses. Neither of us is that hungry anyway—I’m much more looking forward to finishing our evening in the natural rock hot tub to our left, its tantalizing curls of steam rising into the cool evening. Plush white towels lie ready and waiting on two lounge chairs.
It’s been a perfect day. Not perfect like nothing went wrong. Not only did I puke, but a bird pooped on my shoulder, and Josh cut his foot on a shell. But perfect in a deeper way. Like together we shaped this unique piece of history to add to the relationship we’re building. Now we’ll always have our day at the beach with the puke and the bird and the shell.
“Tell me more about how cute I was while I vomited,” I say with the slightest sardonic tone.
“All moany, like Josh, Josh—”
I lean across to swat his arm. “No way! I was very self-sufficient. I got it all in the wineglass, remember? Or...” I grin. “Most of it.”
“I had no idea you had such a delicate stomach,” he teases.
“Neither did I,” I groan. “No more boats. That’s all I ask.”
He raises his eyebrow and his wineglass. “A small ask.”
“I’ll do anything else.” I clasp my hands dramatically. “Rappelling into a creepy cave, eating insects—”
He laughs. “But the beach was fun.”
The date started with a boat trip up the coast to a private beach, where we spent the late morning and afternoon lounging in the sun and picnicking, with plenty of chilled wine. Spreading suntan lotion all over Josh’s body was a revelation. The springy firmness of his muscles, the shape of his bones. The feelings in my own body as I massaged the coconut-scented lotion into every inch of his exposed flesh and he teased a little more to the left and ooh, rub harder.
“You have cute ears,” I say.
“Cute ears?”
“Yes! They’re tanned, and attached, and cute.” I got a good look when I was pinching them between my thumb and index finger to get the suntan lotion worked in.
“I’m not sure how to feel about your obsession with my ears.” Josh twirls a pretend mustache. “Are there any other parts of me you thought were...cute?”
I laugh full-out. “You’re a big goof, did you know that?”
I’ve only discovered this today, and I love that I know it now. Before today I was attracted mostly to Josh’s sexiness, which is significant, drawn mostly by intense feelings I couldn’t explain. Today, that’s changed. Today, I’m attracted to his humor. The way he doesn’t fill all the airspace with talk. His calm in the face of vomit. The way he rolls with the punches. And his ears really are cute. Each of these details are a foothold as I climb higher, toward surer ground.
He smiles, pleased, and takes a bite of steak.
He looks so good tonight, dressed in a white shirt, open at the neck, that makes his tan glow. I’m in white, too—a sleeveless cocktail dress, which fits me like a glove and brings out the sun-kissed freckles on my shoulders. The halter tie of the turquoise bikini I’m wearing underneath peeks out the top of the dress, providing Josh with what I hope is a fun tease of what’s to come.
“So, dinner. This is our time for serious talk, right?” I say. It’s been pretty light and jokey all day, and I want to make sure we connect on a deeper level, too, since I have no idea when I’ll get such a luxury of uninterrupted time with him next. Also, if Emma or another of the girls brings up compatibility, I want to have an answer.
“Let’s do it,” Josh says. “Where should we start?”
“Family. Tell me about your parents. Are you close? Siblings. Do you have any?”
“Only child,” he says, chewing and swallowing before dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I was born in Southern Indiana. Mom still lives there. Little town called Eauverte.”
“Come again?”
“It’s French for green water. We pronounce it O-vert. Accent on the O.”
“O-vert,” I practice.
“Perfect. Anyway, I live in Indianapolis, which is about two hours north of Eauverte. I try to go down and have dinner with Mom once or twice a month. She’s lonely. I keep trying to convince her to move to Indy, but...”
“And your dad?” I say softly.
