At the end of the friendly date, I walk her home again. I’m tempted to kiss her on the front steps of her apartment building, but I’m also keenly aware I’m on a mission to show her I listened. That we can be friends first.
The next weekend we see a new band, but I can’t say we stay completely in the friend zone at the club. There might be more touches than usual as the music thrums. She might put her arm around me as the band slides into a guitar riff that radiates in my bones. And when they’re done and we head to a nearby bar, I take her hand.
I glance down at our hands as we walk. “So how about this? Is this friendly?”
She chuckles. “I hold hands with my friends all the time.”
“You better not hold hands with any guy friends.”
Her expression shifts to serious. “Gavin, do you really think we’re acting like friends?”
I nod, maintaining a straight face. “I do. We’re acting like such good friends that I’ll let you buy me a beer.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “I’m not buying you a beer.”
“Hey! That’s what friends do. I’m just saying.”
“No, friends would go dutch.”
“Fine. We’ll go dutch.”
At the bar, the touchy, flirty vibe continues over beers, until she leans in close, a little breathy, a little frisky, and says, “If I have another one, I will probably grab your face and kiss you like crazy.”
A groan rumbles up my chest. I raise a hand as if talking to the bartender. “One more for the lady.”
She shakes her head, stands, and parks a hand on my shoulder. “I need to go or I’m going to do something I’ll regret.”
I want her to kiss me like crazy, but I don’t want her to regret a damn thing.
Once more, I walk her home. This time it’s even tougher to resist kissing her. To resist asking to go up. Instead, I ask a question. “Why would you regret what you might do?”
A deep sigh crosses her lips and her eyes flash with vulnerability. “I don’t want to be a rebound girl.”
Softly, I ask, “What do you want to be, Savannah?”
“I want to be more than a rebound.” She points her thumb at the door. “And on that note, I really need to go inside.”
As she heads inside and I go home, all I can think is she doesn’t feel like a rebound girl.
She feels like the complete opposite. The one that stays.
8
Savannah
One month later, Emerson’s back in town, so we meet up in Manhattan at Gin Joint. She orders Moscow mules for both of us, then gives me a pointed look when the server walks away. “Details. Now,” she demands.
I settle into the plush blue couch, feeling happy but nervous too. I was so adamant nothing would happen with Gavin, but we’ve been friending it hard. Getting to know each other. Talking, exploring, going out.
“Well, we’re hanging out,” I say diplomatically.
She growls. “Explain. And leave no detail unsaid.”
I laugh, and when the server returns with our drinks, I dive in. It feels a bit like a confessional as I tell my cousin everything. Maybe I needed to share. To sort out what’s going on in this “let’s kiss, then stop kissing, then get to know each other” phase.
“It’s not like any type of dating I’ve ever had. It’s sort of . . . un-dating,” I say.
Emerson lifts her glass, like she’s toasting to the word. “To being undateable.”
I clink back, take a drink, then gather up my courage. “I really like him.”
She smiles slyly. “I know you do, hon. And I’m not even going to tell you to be careful.”
Good. Because I’m not sure I can.
A few weeks later, Gavin and I are out testing some new burgers at a place that offers fifty different flavors of sauces, including at least a dozen in the “fiery” category. Translation: my kind of place.
We opt for a sampler of burger bites, showing off our “I can hold my spice better than you” chops. I bite into one with red-hot jalapeño and smile as I eat the inferno.
He takes a chance with a ghost pepper burger, and even as a bead of sweat breaks out on his forehead, he remains stoic.
It’s adorable.
I love how tough he is about something so pointless but so damn fun.
I opt for the spiciest possible burger—a red chili style—and take a bite.
Oh, holy mother of fiery food.
Smoke forms inside my head. My tongue goes up in five-alarm flames.
I wave my hand in front of my face. I cough, and Gavin thrusts me a glass of water. I down it quickly. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think I’ve hit my limit,” I choke.
“Will you live though?”
Another cough bursts from my throat. “It’s debatable.”
A few glasses of water and slices of bread later, I’m alive and mostly well.