I’m not prepared for this. Jack brought lunch earlier but didn’t stick around. Before I passed out for a two hour nap, I got a text saying he wants to have dinner tonight so we cantalk.He’s picking me up at our joining door in thirty minutes, and I’m still wrapped in a towel, post midday nap and shower, staring at every item of clothing spread on the bed.
I sigh, smiling at the pretty clothes I missed the past few days.
It’s by no means a large or exciting selection, and the stupid butterflies in my stomach aren’t helping. Jack has only ever seen me in semi-practical hiking gear or pajamas. And I can’t exactly go on our first real date wearingthose. Which leaves the single clean outfit I have. It’s the embodiment of fashion-aware Willow, and I’m worried Jack won’t like that version of me. As great as it’s been living in athleisure the past few days, this girl, the one who’s passionate about style and aesthetic and likes to look nice, is a bigger part of who I am.
It’s admittedly hard to believe that someone like Jack, who lives a life so far removed from that world and doesn’t care about the length of a boot shaft or whether or not a wool coat isdouble-faced, could be into someone like me, especially when most people write me off as superficial and shallow.
Not that it even matters whether he likes this part of me if this is a “See ya in another life, kid” kind of parting.
“Arghh,” I groan as I inspect the only real option—a midi-length teal dress with a high neck and halter-style collar. The cinch at the waist makes it feminine and flirty, and she looks gorgeous with my yellow pointed-toe pumps and gold teardrop earrings.
I can only hope I don’t frighten Jack when I walk out in a dress and heels, like when you seeSurvivorcontestants for the first time after the show ends, and the makeup, styled hair, and regular clothes look all wrong on them.
Carefully removing the waterproof Band-Aid from my arm, I grimace at the stitches, but I’m happy to see there’s no sign of infection. The three little black knots on my skin remind me of cloves in a pastry dessert.
I slip into the dress before applying minimal makeup, just a swipe of lipstick and blush. I decide to let my hair air dry, which, let’s be honest, could go either way. It’s possible I’ll end up with soft, beachy waves, but I’m just as likely to walk out of here looking like Lord Farquaad after he was attacked by a hair crimper.
I’m just finishing up and putting in my earrings when there’s a knock at the door connecting my room to Jack’s, sending a swirl to my stomach. I make a mad dash to the bathroom to dab my sweaty armpits with toilet paper and swipe my makeup bag, since it’s doubling as a purse tonight, and I hurry back to the door. Breathing heavily from both the run and my eagerness to see the man on the other side, I pull the door open and take a step back to fully appreciate the display of masculinity in front of me.
Jack is wearing black slacks and a warm charcoal shirt withthe top two buttons left open and the sleeves rolled up. He looks like an Italian god.
“Wow. You look?—”
“—Beautiful,” Jack interrupts, his expression reverent. I soak it up, my shoulders relaxing a fraction at the admiration in his eyes, and I even detect a hint of yearning that sends flutters to my stomach.
“Thanks.” I simper and glance down at my shoes, causing a curl of hair to fall over my face. Jack steps forward to tuck it behind my ear, his calloused thumb sending a shiver down to my toes. A lump forms in my throat as I swallow, our gazes locked and burning with intensity.
“Ready?” he asks after a while, offering me his arm.
Ready to be near him?Absolutely. Ready to be told he’snot ready for a relationship?I’d rather let a toddler cut my bangs. But there’s no way around it.
I’ll make my case for seeing where this goes, then I’ll hear him out. But at the end of the day, the ball is in his court.
My pulse drums in my neck, and all I can do is nod as I wrap my hand around his arm, letting out a tiny sigh when I feel the warm swell of his bicep under my fingers.
Jack seems just as nervous as I do, fidgeting and clearing his throat as we walk to the same restaurant we both visited the night before the hike began. This time, I don’t avoid looking at the canyon. Instead, I regard her with a knowing smirk, like I’m exchanging glances with an old friend as she puts on her final display before the sun draws the curtains.
Jack runs a hand through his hair as we walk up the steps to the El Tovar Dining Room, and the same hostess as before greets us. He asks for a table for two, and she leads us farther into the restaurant.
“I’m assuming you want a table without a view again?” sheposes, looking at me as if I’m a Jack in the Box and she’s turning my handle.
“Oh! My doctor is actually recommending exposure therapy. A tablewitha view this time, if you have one, please.” I smile contentedly. One of her eyebrows arches skeptically before she shrugs and leads us toward an empty table near a window.
“Do I even wanna know?” Jack’s voice rumbles in my ear as we follow the hostess. The tingle of his lips so close to my neck elicits another shiver. The good kind. The “do that one more time” kind.
“You really don’t,” I tell him once I collect myself, appreciating the way his jet black hair picks up highlights from the rustic wall sconces punctuating the space between the animal heads on the walls. I’m hoping I don’t develop an associative aversion to this place after having my heart broken in a few minutes.
Am I going to be forever ruined for romantic dates in the future?
Jack pulls out my seat, a cruel static crackling between us when his hand brushes my back. The universe is teasing me, giving us a taste of our chemistry before ripping it away.
He sits across from me, fidgeting with his unbuttoned shirt collar before his hands move to the cloth napkin, bending and twisting it like a sad attempt at creating an origami animal.
He’s nervous. And it’s makingmenervous.
Our eyes meet, and I glance away, feigning more interest in the decor of the room. The man has seen me at my worst, for goodness’ sake. Why does this feel like an awkward blind date?
Crap. Yeah, I know why. He’s already feeling guilty for what he’s about to do.
