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Yes, ladies… a black… leather… jacket. I manage to squeak out something that sounds like hi.
Mitch scans me slowly, starting at my hair and moving down to my feet. I feel his gaze like a caress and have to hold back the urge to turn away. When his eyes meet mine, his are molten and heated. His voice is low when he says, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how pretty you are.”
I hold back a whimper. Before I’ve recovered from his sweet words, he leans in and kisses my cheek, allowing his talented lips to linger on my skin for a few seconds. He hums as he pulls back. “You smell really good. Not like bubble gum today. Although, I like the bubble gum scent too.”
“Of course you do,” I say, stepping out the front door then locking it behind me. “Because you love Captain Bubbles.”
He snickers and takes my hand, leading me down the front steps and to his shiny black whatever-it-is parked on the street in front of my house. (I know anatomy, not cars.)
Mitch opens the door for me and I slide inside the fanciest car I’ve ever been in. The shiny, leather seat squeaks when I slide in, and the lights shift when Mitch closes the door. As he’s walking around the car to the driver's side, I notice there’s a small screen and it’s displaying a crackling fireplace. When Mitch gets in on the driver’s side and closes his door, my mouth is still gaping.
“Why do you look like that?”
My eyes that are already wide open, grow even wider as I gawk at him. “Why does your futuristic car have a fireplace?”
“You’ve never seen a Tesla?” He asks, his eyebrows drawing together.
“No, Mitch. I’m not a quadrillionaire like you!”
He chuckles and starts to pull out of the parking spot, actually, the car might be doing it for him. He’s just sitting there for looks.
“Teslas are actually pretty affordable.”
I scoff. “Yeah, okay.” Looking around and into the backseat, I notice how clean it is and how nice it smells. “Wow, no hockey gear and random shoes scattered about. I’m impressed.”
“Oh, trust me, when I was Noah’s age, my granddad’s car was a mess of hockey gear and dirty socks.” He shakes his head with a smile, as if remembering something. “And the smells that came from that old Buick… worse than a locker room, no doubt.”
I smile, watching him intently. “Tell me more about your granddad, he sounds special.”
“He was.” He sighs, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “He had a temper, I came by it honestly. But the eight years I lived with him were the best years I can remember.” Mitch pauses, looking over at me and then back toward the busy road in front of him. I note that he’s a safe and cautious driver, something I’ve come to look for and appreciate about people. “He taught me to work hard, and to own up to my mistakes. But more than anything, he gave me an education about all things John Wayne related.” His mouth pulls up in a smile.
“John Wayne… like the cowboy actor guy?”
He reaches one giant hand over and squeezes my thigh gently. “Oh, Blondie. I’m so relieved you know who that is. I can forgive you for Wayne Gretzky, but not knowing John Wayne might’ve been a deal breaker.”
Laughing, I place my hand over the top of his. He stares at the road, his demeanor calm. “I want to tell you everything, about my past, my family. But it’s not easy, it’ll take time. It’ll be in bits and pieces, when I can get it out.”
“That’s okay. Whenever you feel like sharing, I'm here.” I rub the back of his hand with my thumb, but keep my gaze on the side of his face. On his sharp profile, a profile not even his soft beard can disguise.
“So, have you ever seen a John Wayne movie?”
He looks over at me as he comes to stop at a red light and I give him a hesitant smile. “I haven’t.”
He tsks. “Then I know what we’re doing today.”
Thirty minutes later, Mitch parallel parks outside a small, old-looking theater. One of those that plays movies that have already been out for years. The kind of place a couple goes just to make out and not actually watch a movie. The large sign above the ticket box at the front of the brick building reads: Stage Coach 11:00 & 2:00, Funny Face 4:00 & 7:00.
“Are we gonna sit in the back and kiss the whole time?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Your mind is always in the gutter.”
Mitch gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. We walk to the ticket box hand in hand. A giddiness builds inside of me at how date-y this feels. Like a normal boyfriend and girlfriend. No little brothers around to make fun of me, and no fans around to berate Mitch. Just the two of us at a practically empty theater.
We walk up to the ticket booth where a teenage boy with blond hair draped over his left eye ignores us. He’s reading a book and doesn’t seem to care that there are customers needing assistance. Mitch clears his throat and the boy looks up slowly. He heaves an annoyed sigh, places a bookmark in his book and mutters, “How can I help you.”
“Two tickets to Stagecoach, please.” Mitch says, extending cash for said tickets.
They make their exchange and as we walk away the boy mumbles something about John Wayne and toxic masculinity under his breath. Mitch stays calm, taking my hand again, and heading inside to the concession stand. We wait there, looking around for someone to help us, when the front door opens and the teenage boy steps inside and around behind the register of the concession stand.
