He laughs as we get out of the car and head inside. As we stand in line, scanning the menu posted behind the registers, Jesse asks me, “What do you think you’regetting?”
“Two ten-piece nuggets. That’s usually what Iget.”
“What a coincidence. I get the nuggets, too. I actually usually get it with a bowl ofchili.”
“A bowl of chili sounds nice,” Isay.
“If you’re going to follow through with that thing you mentioned last night, I wouldn’t recommend thechili.”
“No, I wasn’t actually planning on having it, but I have enjoyed Wendy’s chili from time totime.”
This expression he’s making at me is cheeky, but he looks skeptical, like he’s wondering if I’m going to make good on the offer Imade.
A part of me doesn’t want to follow through, but I push that voice aside. I’ve entertained it for too long, and now Jesse’s awakened something within me—this desire, this need. I want to explore it, and I feel comfortable exploring it withhim.
After we order, we get our drinks and take our trays through the restaurant, passing the other patrons—a lot of families withkids.
As we sit, my back to the wall so that I can see all the people behind Jesse, I truly appreciate we’re here in public and that I’m not nervous or worried about being caught…because of how much I like this guy. I like having him in my life. I like getting to know him more. I’m certainly not ashamed of what I feel forhim.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, those thick dark brows pushingtogether.
He has such a boyish face at times, but when he pulls his brows together like that, stern and serious, he looks somature.
“You don’t think it’s kind of nice being able to dothis?”
He glances behind him and then at me. He tucks his face low and glances up at me, almost sheepishly, and there’s the boy all over again, like a kid who’s appreciating something he shouldn’tbe.
“I like it a lot, actually. I’m excited about doing it a lotmore.”
He’s not teasing or being playful, just admitting that he’s into me, which in some ways is startling. It surprises me that someone like him would desire me, and I feel lucky that’s thecase.
I savor my chicken nuggets, feeling a little deprived ofchili.
He doesn’t dip his nuggets in any sauce, something I take note of, whereas I’m getting globs of barbecue all over mine before I inhalethem.
“I don’t want to take up all the sauce,” Isay.
“No, no. I don’t need anysauce.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m just not a sauce kind ofguy.”
“There’s one sauce I know you’reinto.”
He laughs. “Well, they don’t exactly have that behind the register, and I prefer to have it, um, à la carte,” hejokes.
“There’s only one way to take that, but I’m pretty sure it’s totally inappropriate to be saying that so loud in thissetting.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says before whispering, “À lacarte.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Isay.
“I think the f-bomb is worse than me saying à lacarte.”
Littlebastard.
We finish our meals and then get back on the road. He gets talking about some of the podcasts we’ve listened to. He’s very opinionated about some of the topics that come up, asking for my thoughts, which I’m eager to provide. It’s a stimulating conversation, and I’m fascinated because this wasn’t my idea of what would happen. I imagined we’d be discussing music or making random conversations on a long drive, the way we typically do at my condo, but this is so seamless. I can see where some of his everyday conversations come from now that I’m listening to these with him. That he stays informed and enjoys absorbing new information and sharing it with others. His enthusiasm about it is contagious,electric.
