I still cannot believe he’s real.
Call me ridiculous. He’s stepped out of the poster in my college dorm room and into my life. No sane person would believe he’s real.
Rod has on a pale cream button-up shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans that make him look like he’s either going to try and sell me a house or ask me if I want to join the brothers at the keg party this weekend. On his feet are an actual pair of nice white leather sneakers which, thus far, I hadn’t realized he owned. His stubble is trimmed up all neat, his wild, wavy hair tamed, but just slightly so, enough that it’s still the right amount of unruly – the way I like it. This is likely the farthest from L.L.Bean and Patagonia Rod I will ever see, and I will be taking the opportunity to cherish it the entire car ride to Boston because, while I’m going to make fun of him, he still manages to looklike he stepped straight out of a Hollywood movie. I also cherish the unfiltered longing in his eyes when I catch him staring at me, but I like to interpret that at surface level instead of letting myself spiral into the weird something-else simmering between us. He holds the most beautiful bouquet of flowers, with all these bright pinks and oranges that somehow match my dress perfectly.
‘You didn’t have to,’ I immediately deflect, instead of taking a good thing at face value, naturally, but Rod stops me.
‘I knew you were going to say that,’ he protests. ‘Which is why I brought something else, something you probably can’t say no to. For the drive.’
With a knowing smile, he holds up a clear coffee cup in his other hand, although, the connoisseur I am, I automatically clock that it’s not coffee. It’s theperfecticed chai, just the right shade of beige, with a hearty layer of cold foam up top, and a little heart Sharpie’d onto the side.
‘Oh mygosh.’ I accept the chai, and then the flowers, with a modicum of shock. It’s not like it’s the first date I’ve ever been on. It’s just the first one where I’ve been pampered with a massive cup of chai first. Rod, you angel. You well-dressed, muscular angel. ‘Come on in. I’m gonna find a good vase for these.’
My hands are shaking so much – in anticipation of good things – that I’m afraid I’m going to break the big Mason jar I fill with water and use as a makeshift flower vase. I grab the chai off the small dining table and take a steadying sip before turning back to Rod with a very nervous grin I can’t hold back. ‘So.’
‘So.’ He crosses his arms with a smile. ‘You look beautiful, Jordan.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, but he reads me on impact.
‘This is like the overalls thing.’ Rod raises a knowing eyebrow. ‘Compliments are normal, Curly. Compliments happen because you deserve them. Because you are brilliant and worthy of praise.’
If I weren’t blushing before, I’m going red as a fire truck now. There are a lot of empty gaps in my childhood where validation probably should have occurred, gaps I’ve only started to fill in college. Even then, I never really filled them in healthy ways. This is so different. Healing.
‘Thank you,’ I say again. This time, a little laugh bubbles out. ‘And you look wonderful too, Rod.’
‘Thanks.’ Rod beams, extending a hand. ‘Ready to hit the road?’
I hike the strap of my purse up on my shoulder, swipe the big chai off the table, and take his outstretched hand with a nod.
We’re the only ones in the room. No one else will hear a word we say. Either way, Rod leans in, and in that sort of tone that is intimate, meant for just us, not even for the particles of air in the room, he says, ‘You’re beautiful, Jordan. A million times over. I hope no one ever convinces you otherwise.’
A weight on my shoulders that I did not totally realize was there seems to dissipate. It’s like magic, the way my body feels a couple hundred pounds lighter. Rod presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, before opening the front door for us.
‘After you.’ The little smile lines by his eyes crease. I’m still nervous, of course, yet I can’t believe my luck. I don’t quite know what I’m walking into, but whatever it is, it ignites a smidge of hope in my chest.
I roll the window of the car down just a crack more. Hopefully Rod doesn’t mind fresh air, because I definitely need some. This drive, as much as I quickly accepted Rod’s proposition to make it, is fully testing my stomach. The Dramamine I popped, combined with the speed at which I downed my chai latte, is doing nothing for my car sickness. No amount of oat milk could save me now.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Rod assures me, although I catch the way his hands white-knuckle the steering. Passengers on the verge of puking will do that to a person, I assume. He clears his throat. ‘So. A billion miles an hour on a horse, but car sickness?’
‘What can I say. I’m just full of tummy-aches, remember?’
‘That I do.’ He throws a smirk my way. The wind coming through my window ruffles his dark hair, and the sun glints off his aviators, threatening to flare back in my eyes. That same treacherous ache replaces the motion-induced churning in my stomach. The ache to know more. The ache to feel what I felt during that dumb camp wedding.
And then the niggling question I’ve been fighting since Rod asked me if I wanted to come and see Amato’s, just like that, snakes its way back into my heart. This is a different kind of ache. It wants to know what he must be feeling.
Rod, for his part, stays true to his promise. About ten minutes later, we end up at the predicted parking garage, which is quite far, according to the GPS, from Amato’s. The city is gorgeous, both modern and extremely historical for obvious reasons, not to mention full of parks, trails and walkability, which we will definitely be utilizing.
We get out of the car, Rod opening the door for me, and head out of the parking garage towards the street. He does thatdumb thing again, where he moves so he’s walking closest to the sidewalk, and glances my way. ‘So. I’ll take it from you first, J-Dog. Is this a date?’
So much for hope and healing and getting it together.
I clear my throat awkwardly. How weird will it be if I pretend not to have heard him? I think the shock all over my face has made it way too obvious, though. I’ve had a pretty dang hard time hiding my emotions since the fake wedding. ‘Is there any harm in it?’ I ask, because I would naturally rather do that than answer his question straight.
‘Do you think there is?’
The Question. It’s easy before The Question comes up. Before the broaching of the ‘commitment issues’ topic. Everything feels good and warm and fuzzy at first, but then, that question. That’s when it becomes not-so-smooth steering. When my big mouth screws up, and when I run. Like I said. I wish feelings were more like lacrosse. Not necessarily Rod’s feelings, whatever they may be, but mine.
‘We’re here,’ I say instead, with a modicum of relief, when I realize that we have, in fact, arrived at Amato’s. It’s just as adorable as the photos Rod showed me. The little red awning, the cursive sign with the light-up bulbs. Through the windows, tables set like we’re getting ready for another one of Bia’s family dinners.
