“Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Okay, it’s a date.”
A date. We haven’t had one of those. Unless we count the nights spent in my bed or his as a date. If that’s the case, then we’ve had more than a dozen. But the kind of dates that usually involve candlelight over a pressed white tablecloth and a fork for the salad and another for the entrée? We haven’t had one of those yet.
It’s not necessarily intentional. Andrew hasn’t asked if I’d like to venture outside of our comfortable homes, and I haven’t asked him to do so either. The mere thought of leaving our bubble of refuge and heading into the great big scary world of reality feels…too real. It does seem as though Andrew’s caught on. He doesn’t pressure me, using things like fancy dinners or activities that require a larger outdoor space to lure me. Instead, he just lets me be.
I’m pleased to find that the rest of my day takes a more optimistic turn. I meet with a client and her husband who’s recently become her primary caregiver after an accident left her temporarily confined to the limitations of her mobility. She isn’t able to shower on her own or get from her room to the kitchen without her husband’s help. Their faces turn rosy and hopeful when I provide them with a list of resources at their disposal. Watching them realize this new dynamic in their relationship doesn’t have to negatively impact her quality of life, even if it’s only until she’s recovered, feels like I’m doing my job. I’m helping someone.
When it’s finally quitting time, I’m looking forward to spending the rest of the night with Andrew and an order of fresh hazelnut waffles. When I walk up to my door, my tote bag nearly dragging along the floor, I’m surprised to find Andrew already waiting there. He has a plastic bag which most likely contains our dinner, and his face brightens when he sees me walking down the hallway. He meets me halfway, and I sink into him when he pulls me close.
“Hmm,” I hum.
He chuckles into my hair. “Hello to you too.” I notice the shirt he’s wearing is a little rumpled around the collar area, right where my cheek is nuzzled against, and the bottom hem is untucked. I get the faint whiff of sweat mixed with his cologne still lingering on his clothes, showing how long his day has been. Just as long as mine.
“I think you should carry me to my door.” It’s a joke, obviously not meant to be taken seriously. But I don’t even have a second to grasp the fact that my feet have been swept out from under me. “Andrew!” I squeal. “Put me down!”
“This was your idea,” he says without budging. We both laugh, the happy sounds echoing off the walls. My bag and our dinner dangle from our fingers, making Andrew’s steps clumsyand awkward. It’s quick to our destination, about ten paces, and he plops me back on solid ground with a pleased grin. All the energy that was drained out of me has been replenished. I grin back at him, and we stand there. My back facing the door and his face hovering over me.
“Have you been waiting long?” I ask as his nose brushes along mine.
“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”
I frown, jutting out my lower lip. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says. He kisses me, pushing me back while using his palm as guidance to make sure I don’t bash the back of my head against the wall. My bag drops to the floor, as do the waffles, and our hands join our lips. The make-out session turns heated, and a loud moan thrums between us. From him or from me, I don’t even know who.
Footsteps sound nearby, and they grow louder, following the crescendo thumps with a harsh cough. We pull apart with a jolt only to find a man with two grocery bags walking past us, his gaze intentionally pointed toward the ground. We wait until the man rounds the corner, and we dissolve into giggles.
“You are such a bad influence,” I scold. I reach down for my bag and fish out my keys. With my back to him, my hands fumble with my keys. I feel a jittery high vibrate just beneath my skin, and it feels unnerving and rousing at the same time. “We need to get you a key or something. Maybe that’ll keep you in check.”
I set my bag on the floor as I walk inside and slip off my shoes. When I turn to face Andrew, I’m graced with a look of confusion and intrigue. “A what?”
“A key?” I just realized what I said. A key. That’s a big deal. While it’ll make things convenient for us, it denotes more than that. So much more. It means commitment. It means a more formal relationship status. It means more nights like this,but without the formalities of an invitation. And that sounds absolutely blissful.
But then I remember his commitment issues. His fear of being open and vulnerable. A key would infringe on every one of those boundaries I’m sure he’s not willing to bend. I’m about to take it all back, claiming it was just a silly little joke, when he asks a follow-up question.
“You want to give me a key?”
“No! I mean…I don’t have to.” I pause, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean to say it. I just thought it would be more convenient. You know, last week you got here like, twenty minutes before I did, and you had to wait outside. If you had a key, you wouldn’t be waiting around for me. And what if you have to use the bathroom, or Buster needs to be let out or…” I’m blathering. Taking the long-winded way out of this by saying a bunch of words to mask my embarrassment.
He saunters toward me, carefully placing the takeout bag on the dining table. “It would make things pretty convenient,” he agrees. He smiles at me, a crooked little smirk telling me he absolutely agrees.
“But, I mean, if you think that’s weird, or…whatever, then I get it,” I stutter.
I idly trace my fingers over the back of a chair tucked under my dining table, attempting to hide my shame. But that’s quickly snuffed when Andrew reaches for my cheek. He cups my jaw, running his thumb over my skin with a touch that feels like reassurance and comfort. I look up at him with a slowly spreading smile that starts to match his.
“I’d very much like a key,” he tells me confidently. “And I’ll have one of mine made for you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s not a tit for tat kind of situation.”
“No,” he argues. “I want to, Grace.”
I wonder where those commitment issues he so openly confessed are now. Because they aren’t here, sitting between us while we discuss exchanging keys or other private access ways to parts of our lives. He kisses me, offering reassurance when I respond with silence.
“Are you sure?” I finally ask.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
