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I offered to help him practice so he could confess to the girl he’s in love with, but it occurs to me exactly three point two seconds after searching a menu that I want to order one of everything on that I am not great practice material.
I barely know how to date.
My only long-term relationship ended in glorious fire. The only dates I had with Noah consisted a lot of me rambling and him looking mildly irritated until I settled down, tried to get him to talk, failed, and sat in faintly hostile silence, wondering why things had changed now that we were finally together.
Talking too much about nothing was one of the many reasons he gave when he broke up with me. The extensive list he texted me still burns in my phone because, even a year later, I’ve not had the strength to delete it. Our messages were a huge part of our relationship, the good times, the reason I came so far. I don’t know how to get rid of them.
I don’t know how to have a conversation without saying something stupid or hogging every second.
“Sorry,” Doliver murmurs once my heart is rampaging and I’m disturbingly close to googling how to have a conversation with your date under the table.
Tense, I look up.
He seems just as tense, if not more. Tracing the edge of the laminated menu with a finger, he says, “I don’t do this. Ever.”
“This?”
“Take girls out to restaurants.”
I smile. “That’s the point, isn’t it? I said I’d help you practice.”
“Right.”
More strained silence infiltrates, and I find myself searching for an alcohol section on the menu, coming up empty, and narrowing down the shakes I want to a modest seven.
Doliver swears softly under his breath.
A spark of anxiety spears through my chest.
Before I can ask what’s wrong, the waitress comes by, looks directly at me, and asks, “What can I get you, hon?”
Doliver answers, “Three grilled cheese, a garden salad with ranch, a chicken salad with Italian, four orders of fries with cheese on the side, two orders of onion rings, nacho cheese steak burger, and a double steak burger. Banana milkshake, the fake kind. Mocha milkshake. Oreo mint milkshake. To go.” He looks up at me as our waitress blinks in surprise and hastens to jot down what he said. “Did I forget anything?”
I restart my brain and stammer, “Mac and cheese.”
Doliver, for some inexplicable reason, melts the smallest bit and nods tenderly. “Of course. And two mac and cheese.”
“All of this is to go?” the waitress asks, looking between us.
I don’t get a say in the matter. Doliver replies, “Yes.”
Once she walks away, I replay the interaction to the best of my abilities. He ordered everything I normally order, plus some. I am beyond confused. I lean forward a bit, wet my lips, and hope my smile isn’t as shaky or plastered on as I think it is. “Um. I don’t mean to be rude but where are we to-going?”
“Outside.”
“Like, in the parking lot?”
Helpfully, he shrugs, and I’m so distracted by the lean muscles of his shoulders, the next thing I register is him paying for our food at the front counter then walking out with our bags and milkshake tray.
I follow him like a lost puppy through the parking lot, past my car, and up to a cluster of trees separating the lot from the highway. Beyond it, the sound of trucks passing in the night creates a hum beneath the rage of chirping insects.
He sits beneath one tree.
I chew my cheek as I lower myself at the base of another and smooth my dress against my thighs.
He passes me the oreo mint milkshake.
Our fingers brush when I take it, and his brown eyes flick up, catching the pale light streaming from the restaurant windows.
