“I’m taking you out on our first date,” he answers matter-of-factly. “First dates don’t let themselves in.”
“Oh, if that’s the case, I’ll make sure I do whatIdo on first dates.”
“What’s that?”
“Go home alone.” I scrunch my nose and poke my finger into his chest, playing into our little game.
“Ho–hold on. Let’s not make any rash decisions.”
I offer a delighted giggle and a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. Assurance that of all the outcomes tonight may have, either one of us going home alone isn’t going to be one of them.
“I just need to grab my purse, and I’m ready to go.”
After I have my small clutch, I slip on a pair of nude pumps by the door, relieved my blisters have healed since I’ve opted for some footwear that’s been properly broken in.
Andrew’s picking some lint off his suit lapel, and he runs his hands over it to smooth out any wrinkles. I take over, gliding mypalm over his shoulders, swiping away at any small specks he may have missed.
“You know, you don’t look too bad yourself,” I tell him. “Boyfriend.”
He grins like a damn fool. “You think so?” He stands up straighter, plucking at the collar of his white dress shirt he wore sans tie. His chin is tilted upward with pride, and I want to just pinch his cheeks. Instead, I settle for buttoning his suit jacket and grabbing my keys.
Andrew makes a show of opening the passenger door for me to his freshly washed Mazda and closing it after I slide in. I watch him round the hood to the driver’s side. I’m surrounded by a waft of new car smell, an air freshener that most likely came with the car wash he obviously paid for.
“So, you really aren’t going to tell me where we’re going?”
Andrew pulls out of the parking spot in my building’s garage, taking the turns around stretches of packed parking spots. He holds an impassive look directed toward the barrier boom as we leave the garage. When he finally peers over at me, a smirk hides behind his cool look of composure.
“I told you, it’s a surprise.”
“But like…is it nearby? Or…”
“Can’t handle the pressure of a surprise?”
“No, it’s fine,” I answer meekly with a dismissive shrug.
I really can’t pinpoint it. My stomach feels a little jittery, and I don’t know if this “first date” makes me nervous, or if I’m hungry. I can’t help but feel that everything is perfect and as it should be when we’re in our bubble. What if outside of it, he realizes we don’t really fit? All the elements of the outside world will mix with what we have, making it muddled and tainted.
“If you’re worried about running into someone we know, we’re going out of San Diego,” he tells me.
Is that why I’m nervous? Am I worried about running into someone we know? I consider it a possibility for my slightly rattled nerves as I jokingly ask, “What, like Tijuana?”
He laughs. “No, like Orange County. Specifically, Irvine.”
“Irvine? What’s in Irvine?”
“I know a place.” He winks at me, holding tight to his ultra-secret itinerary.
Though the drive is a little longer than we’re used to, we fill it with random pillow talk. The kind of conversation that comes naturally between us. He tells me about his work, if he’s heard anything else from the interview with The Hope Foundation. He tells me about a recent CNN article he read about artificial intelligence and the misuse of it, commenting how creating reels of a hundred cats doing yoga isn’t as productive as using it for something like cancer research. I add in my two cents, throwing in how AI is a detriment to the creative community. He also tells me about a new fish oil for dogs that can easily be added to Buster’s food after he noticed he’s been scratching behind his ears more frequently.
By the time I tell him about a new book I started about two estranged sisters who come together after one has been diagnosed with a terminal illness, we’re exiting the highway. The conversation somehow segues into what song we’d want played at our funeral—“Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift for me, “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor for him—when we’re pulling into Warehouse 72.
The valet opens my door, and I step out with care. Andrew’s already at my side, his hand extended in my direction to help me out of the car. He doesn’t let go, linking our fingers as soon as the valet hands him his ticket.
“I feel like royalty,” I whisper as he leads the way inside.
“Does that mean I should call you princess tonight?”
“Hmm, I kind of like that.” He hooks my hand into the crook of his arm. With his elbow bent, securing my loose grip, and my boyfriend looking so handsome and suave, I really do feel like royalty. Maybe not the kind with a gold throne, but one a very doting subject.
