A cinema pop-up company is screening the film on the deck of one of the largest wrought-iron sailing vessels still afloat. Its jutting bow pokes up and out in front of its teardrop-shaped body with dozens of flags flapping in the breeze.
The employees are all dressed in period garb, and our tickets are stamped to look like realTitanicpassenger tickets. On the deck, there’s a screen and a small smattering of chairs. This is an exclusive and expensive event, one I had to get up before 7:00 a.m. to secure admission to. A never-ending virtual queue and one whole paycheck later, I still knew it would be worth it. The ecstatic look on Derick’s face is priceless.
Our hands braid together once more as we move to find our designated seats. The evening in my basement felt like a blocking rehearsal, and this feels like the first take on the film of our future relationship.
“I know you’re used to drive-ins, but I figured a boat-in would be something different.” We shuffle down our row. “And this is one of the movies I had on the docket for our We Love Leo movie marathon. Just enough love story for me, just enough action for you.”
Derick’s mouth breaks into a gleeful grin. I’m thinking back on our late-night text conversations about James Cameron’s directorial choices, the scintillating performances, and the geometric proportions of a certain door that probably could’ve held two bodies.
A waiter comes over and serves us flutes of sparkling wine as I recall our running argument: whether the “draw me like one of your French girls” scene or the hand-on-foggy-car-window scene was steamier.
It dawns on me that I’ve orchestrated our official first date. The more that sinks in (pun intended), the more I realize that this is the right time to tell Derick about my blossoming demi-ness before anything goes too far. Give him an out if he wants it.
“Hey, I wanted to explain about the night of the fireworks,” I say in a small voice.
“What else is there to explain?” He chokes on the bubbles of his champagne. Even his chokes are charming.
“Well,” I start, “you were right when you said it was too soon, too fast, but there’s another part of this, ofme, really, that I’ve…uh, well, I haven’t fully talked about or figured out for myself.”
“Okay.” His hand cups my knee. That hand acts like an anchor holding me tight to his dock, which is exactly what I need since I feel as adrift as Kate Winslet will be in three and a quarter hours. “You can tell me anything.”
He planned a perfect trip, comforted me through Alice’s movie, and forgave me for publicly shirking his advance. I owe him—no, scratch that—I owe myself this moment of honesty. If I don’t, I might sit on this secret forever, never letting my true self see the light.
“I think I might be demisexual.” The words feel even more right, which assuages most of my anxiety, until his brows crease. My stomach circles in on itself.
“You gotta help me out here. I’m not sure I know what that means.” There’s no trace of disgust or disdain in his voice. Instead, he’s properly engaged in listening, like he did dutifully when I geeked out over female filmmakers from the seventies.
When I finish explaining as best I can, he puzzles through it. “So, basically you’re saying before you feel attracted to me, you need to feel close to me?”
“Yes!” I shout too loudly. Curious gazes come our way. I mouth an open apology to anyone willing to accept it. “Yes, and I had just started to develop that attraction for you before the Fourth of July, starting that night you helped in the snack shack, but when you went to kiss me, a Code Red fired off in my brain. I felt like I was in danger, which is maybe because I didn’t know this about myself yet. It helps explain why I’ve never been in a rush to fly through my firsts. I was in sexuality limbo, thinking some wires inside me were crossed, but now I’m pretty sure that I equate physical affection with my sexuality, and before I feel sexual attraction, I need to feel emotionally safe.”
His face goes crestfallen. “You don’t feel safe with me?”
“No!” I shout again, even louder. Our seat neighbors are seriously annoyed with me. I hold a finger to my mouth, promising to whisper this time. “No, I do. Or I do now anyway. I’m romantically attracted to you. I know that for sure. I want to hold your hand and do couple-y things like this with you, if that’s what you want too. But kissing, making out, sex? I’m not sure when I’ll be ready for those things. Maybe in a month or a year or tomorrow or an hour from now. I can’t predict it. I thought all these firsts came in a predetermined timeline, but relationships can’t chart a course over three acts like a screenplay. Life is so much messier than a story arc.”
He laughs. “I like the way you see the world through the movies.” Calmly, he squeezes my shaky hand. “I was just happy we had a second chance to be friends again this summer. I’ll be happy with the chance to be more than that too, even if it doesn’t include kissing or touching or sweaty hands on car windows. I don’t need that stuff right now.” He sets his flute down and takes my other hand in his. “In the future, I can’t promise I won’t want it, but I can promise that I’m happy with what we have. I like being around you and getting to know you. You make me feel good about myself in a way nobody else does. You challenge me. I learned how to regrout tile because of you!”
“Because of those blog hacks, really.” I nudge him playfully, and he nudges me back, until our constant nudging turns into a full-fledged nuzzle. “Thank you for saying all that. Just please be sure to tell me if you’re ever not good with what we have. I don’t think this can work if we don’t communicate openly and honestly.”
He raises his hand in salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He gesticulates around us. “See? We’re on a boat. It really works in so many ways.”
My heart swells to impossible proportions. I lean in and peck his cheek with the utmost reverence. He’s a once-in-a-lifetime 56-carat blue diamond, and I’m not about to let him slip from my hand and sink to the bottom of the ocean.
This time, I’ll hold on tight.
Chapter 20
“I think I see your point finally,” Derick says, settling down at a bar not far from the seaport. It’s filled to the brim with finance bros, and a stuffed stag is mounted on the wall above the plentiful liquor bottles that line the long, mirrored shelf. “The ‘I want you to draw me like one of your French girls’ scene is significantly hotter than the hand on the window.”
It’s well past midnight. Loose and not wanting the night to end prematurely, we decided another round was in order.
“Right?” I ask. “It’s more seductive and teasing. ‘Wearing this. Wearingonlythis.’ She knows she’s got him. She knows she’ll have him. She’s so confident when she takes off the robe. I wish I had that kind of confidence.” My drunken alter ego has taken the reins, and I’m spouting embarrassing truths, overserved and speaking out of my ass.
“You’ve got confidence,” Derick says, poking me right in the center of my chest. A starburst of pleasure fans out from the site. “You just keep it locked in here. I had to look long and hard, but I see it. Especially at Wiley’s. Someday, you’ll see it too and let it out.” He makes an explosive noise, his hand flying away like a spellbinding supernova.
Even though we’re already light-headed, Derick flags down the bartender. He orders a vodka cran for me and a whiskey sour for himself. It’s strange to down the drink that decimated my decision-making skills on the night of the email blast. The familiar bitter-tart combo scorches my stomach.
“Tonight was perfect,” he says, snatching a pretzel nugget from the nearby bowl.
