As far as first dates go, it was really nice, my date with Connor. I haven’t spoken to Danielle in a while, and I know it’s all my fault, but he was just a passing fancy to her. She’ll get over it, I hope. Maybe Connor will be just a passing fancy for me and I've ruined a friendship over a nice smile. Time will tell I guess. I don’t put too much stock in my feelings for men anymore. I don’t trust myself. You hear that, self? I don’t trust you. I’m fickle and forgetful. I like the boys who are mean, throw away the boys who have kind hearts. I’m twenty-five; why am I not over this shit? Maybe it’s my dad. I don’t remember the last time he called. But I don’t call either. My mom is always on me about it. I wish she wouldn’t stick up for him. He doesn’t deserve it. He cheated on her. Lied to her. I don’t understand the loyalty but maybe that's the best kind of loyalty. Unconditional. Mine is completely conditional. Treat me like shit and I want to write you off. We don’t share blood, so why do I continue to call him Dad? He’s never been a decent one. I wonder if my brother feels the same way. I don't think they talk that much either. We never text and ask “have you talked to Dad this week?” It’s normally “yeah, I haven’t heard from him in ages either”. The hurt he does to others hurts me more than the hurt he does to me. I can guard my heart. I guard it by not speaking to him. I could tell on our date that Connor would be a good dad. It was the way he talked about his niece. I know it’s a stupid thing to think about on the first date with a guy you may not end up involved with, but that's what women do. We analyze everything. We ask ourselves, “would I marry this guy?” We draw hearts around their names and fantasize. We would make beautiful children. I wanted some with Avery. But he has his own on the way now. I promised myself his name wouldn’t make its way into this journal again. I think his memory is slowly killing me. I wish he would go away. Get deployed. Just move away or something.

It’s been a few days since I've seen him. Connor and I have been texting more. Little good mornings and goodnights. When his name flashes on my phone, I’m at ease. He wants to see me again, and I feel the same. We sat in front of my work for twenty minutes talking when he brought me there last weekend. I rambled on about my favorite TV show until half past 1 a.m. I remember the look on his face. I think about it sometimes when his name pops up on my phone. It’s a nice face. His jawline is beautiful. When I think of his eyes, and the way they looked at me, I can convince myself that my heart isn’t still mangled. I can convince myself I am a little bit whole.

I didn’t want Connor to pick me up at my place. The guys knew where I lived now, and that was fine. We had established a trust. There was no intimidation, and no desire to impress them. The knowledge that Connor came from money, something I now knew, was a tally mark for him. Some women chased money, found it to be a desirable trait in a man. I did not. It made me uneasy. Traditionally, those with money treated me like dirt. Avery didn’t come from money, but his family had more than mine, and he was skilled at reminding me just how beneath him he thought I was.

I texted Connor early in the day to let him know I would meet him for our date. I picked a gas station far enough from my trailer that the scent would be thrown off. I told him my place was confusing to get to. But he didn’t text back until a half hour before our date. And it was to say he would pick me up, that he knew where I lived.

I briefly considered canceling since it had taken him hours to respond. It wouldn’t be the first time I canceled a date last minute. I always felt nauseous before one. I preferred to meet someone at a bar. Not this whole dance. I didn’t like being picked up, being dropped off. I was already anxious about the goodnight kiss.

If I liked the guy, I kissed him. I didn’t make him wait. And when I didn’t like the guy, it was very obvious. I’d never been one to hide my feelings from my face. I would rather be tortured than put myself through this business. I’d rather hook up.

I thought of my front porch. The wind had blown one of my potted plants over when it was sprinkling. The wood was covered in black potting soil and tracks from the stray I fed on occasion. There was no time to run out, to clean it up, but I couldn’t risk it.

Connor showed up for our date in his old muscle car. I still had no idea what it was. Classic cars were beautiful, but my knowledge of them was minimal.

I heard him coming as soon as he entered the park. My stomach lurched at the sound and the hairs on my arms stood on end. He was bringing a beautiful car into the wreck I called home. I briefly considered not answering the door. I caught my eyes in the mirror as the silly thought flashed through my mind. I needed to woman up.

I didn’t let Connor come inside. I rushed out, and was halfway down my rickety steps as he opened his door. He stilled at the sight of me.

There’s something thrilling about the power a woman can have over a man. I blushed at his eyes on me. His face spread into a grin and I returned one in kind. Those beautiful teeth, those large dark eyes. I loved the fact that his arms didn’t have a lot of hair on them. I noticed these little things.

It was a warm spring day. His skin was pearl, glowing against his dark hair.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

I liked that he was open, unafraid to give the simple compliment. “Shut up,” I replied, laughing a little. I dodged him and walked to the passenger door, but he followed, beating me to it, opening it for me. I rolled my eyes but still had a smile on my face. He was too good at the nice-guy thing. It was turning me off, and I hated myself for it then. I still hate myself for it now.

My shoulders made an awkward sound against the leather of the passenger seat when I moved to buckle myself in. Connor was walking around the hood of the car, away from the sound, thankfully. I flipped the visor down to check my makeup up but found no mirror. Damn old cars.

Connor opened his door and the old frame rocked as he sat down. He turned to me before buckling in. “So what would you like to do? I had a few ideas in mind.”

I stared ahead. Direct eye contact was something I avoided until I had a few drinks in me. “I don’t know,” I said, fiddling with the hole in my favorite jeans. “What were your ideas?”

“I was thinking dinner and then we could go ice skating.”

I turned to him, eyes wide. “Ice skating?” I knew Connor was a hockey player in college. The guys had brought it up in conversation recently, and my eyes turned at any mention of him now. I had skated once in my life. I was twelve and I spent most of that miserable hour busting my ass on the ice or gripping the railing of the rink. I never again had a desire to get back on the ice. Especially in front of a hockey player.

The corner of Connor’s mouth turned up as he took in my panicked expression. I felt sick to my stomach. We were still in my driveway. Still in front of my trashy trailer. I wanted to be on the way to a bar. On the way to somewhere that offered me a weapon. Alcohol was the blade that I could use to cut into this tension. A cold ice rink would leave me vulnerable, awkward.

“We can just go get a drink if you want,” he offered.

We barely knew each other, but he wasn’t a fool. I wondered what the guys had told him about me. I turned forward, my eyes locking on the black soil spilling out of the overturned pot on my porch. I never ran out to pick it up. “Just surprise me.” My smile was less real, a little awkward. Similar to the way I would be if I didn’t take a shot to shoo away these nerves.

I ended up getting my liquid courage. Connor could sense my uneasiness.

We quizzed each other on the drive to a restaurant in The Hill, St. Louis’s Italian restaurant neighborhood. I remember the moment I let my armor down. He asked me what my favorite movie was, and I answered with The Shawshank Redemption. I had barely answered when he hit the brakes of his old Chevelle. I now knew what his car was, thanks to our twenty questions round.

“You’ve gotta be shittin' me. That’s my favorite movie, too.” He laughed; it was quiet, mostly the shaking of his shoulders, and I liked the way his skin wrinkled around his eyes.

Historically, he was the opposite of my type. If you lined up all the men I had slept with or dated, it would pull a laugh from you. They were all so similar. Tall slender blondes, with blue or green eyes. Connor was tall too, but the similarities stopped there. His hair was as dark as mine, his eyes as dark. His arms were solid, his ass in his jeans was something any warm-blooded woman could appreciate. I wondered what his legs looked like. All that time on the ice had to have made him hard and beautiful in all the best places.

At dinner, I ordered two drinks. My tongue felt loose in my mouth and my cheeks were hot, warmed by liquor and his attention. He looked me in the eye when he spoke, and I was finally finding the courage to do the same, fluent glances, but still I was getting better at it.

Under the table, as we ate dessert, he tapped his shoe against my tan wedges. It was a tiny touch, no skin involved, but I liked it. The tipsier I got, and I was a lightweight, the more I liked him. My judgment wasn’t the easiest to trust, but it felt different. I had hooked up with a few guys since Avery. Nothing stuck, because I pushed it away. Connor was someone I saw myself wanting to keep around.

After Connor paid our dinner tab he reached for me, helping me out of my chair. When we exited the restaurant, my hand was still in his. It felt intimate and my mind was frantically searching for reasons to pull free. The liquor in my veins was battling my flight instincts. When we reached Connor’s car he let go of my hand, oblivious to the ridiculous war inside of my skin. He opened my door for me again and I didn’t roll my eyes or act like an asshole this time. I thanked him and smiled as I sat down.

When Connor got back into the car, he started it without a word. I had left it up to him to decide our next move. We drove in silence to our next destination, which thankfully, was not an ice rink. I had spied two sets of ice skates in his backseat when I got out at the restaurant earlier.

Our destination was a bar. I breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled up to neon lights. He gave in, didn’t push me out of my comfort zone. Something, deep down, I wish he had been brave enough to do.

It only took one more drink for me to feel completely at ease. He leaned back, his body angled to me as I talked. When his mouth wasn’t smiling, his eyes were. It had been a while since I had seen that look in a man’s eyes. It was a desire beyond physical.

He wasn’t into art the way I was, but hearing me ramble on and on about it engaged him.

“I can’t get enough of Sylvia Plath. I love being inside of her mind.” It was dark, scary, an untamed forest of sadness. I was becoming more and more unbalanced in my manic mind.

“Didn’t she stick her head in an oven?” He ran his thumb over his stubble, his mouth was a straight line. I was impressed that he even knew who she was. Not many men I talked to knew a damn thing about the great poets of the past.

“Yes. Over a man.” Too often they pushed us to extremes, with their infidelity, lies, and their lack of empathy to our sadness, our dark holes.

I stared off, past Connor’s shoulder, then shivered. My skin was on fire as he ran his fingertips over my knuckles. I pretended I couldn’t feel his touch there; giving in was not on my to-do list for the night.

If I hadn’t liked Connor, I would have invited him in. I would have used him. But because I wanted to see him again, the plan was to go slow. I knew I had it all backward, but that’s the way I operated. If I liked a guy, I wanted to wait to have sex.

I was sure he was feeling the same; he made no move to kiss me until my left leg lifted from the passenger seat. I felt a tug then. His fingers pressed into the palm of my hand. I dropped back into the black leather seat and turned to him

His lips were soft and my fingertips grazed his jawline, so many sharp angles there. I had thin lips and his were full, the kind women paid money to have. I liked the way they felt against mine.

His hand traveled up my arm, into my hair.

We broke away. The contact brief.

As far as kisses go, it was tame, but I liked it that way. I wanted more time to explore him, down the road. I wanted to savor him.

He texted me before he left the trailer park. I was splashing cold water on my face when my phone lit up.

I smiled at my reflection. I had him. I had the power.

I saw him again five days later. He walked into Paul's after 9 p.m. Blane was whispering some stupid joke into my hair. I saw something flash in Connor’s eyes but he recovered quickly. I didn’t want a guy I had to hide myself from. He knew who I had been with and I was tired of explaining away my desires. I didn’t want Blane anymore. My attention was fully on Connor now, but the dynamics between my friend and I couldn’t completely change. I would not be cold to him. Not for some guy I had been on one date with.

Still, I pushed myself from my chair and walked to Connor after a quick laugh at Blane’s shitty joke.

“You came,” I said, raising my margarita glass to him, motioning to the bar. “What’s your poison gonna be?”

“Beer, I think. I don’t know how you can drink those. The mix kills my stomach.”

I usually felt like I had been run over by a train on Thursdays because of the drink, but they were effective.

Connor had a camera with him. He set it on the table and went to the bar to get a drink. I picked up the heavy piece of machinery and fiddled with the knob at the top. When he returned, I put it back on the table. “Trying to capture the world, eh?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He let out a half laugh. “I don’t know what I’m doing with that thing. I don’t have the same skills my mother has." He told me on our date that his mother loved taking pictures.

“Maybe she could teach you?” I had always wanted to get a nice camera, to learn about photography, but I didn't have the money to spare. I wanted a nice DSLR, but Connor’s old camera drew me in. I liked that the pictures that were taken with it were captured moments. Un-posed.

The world was moving so fast and would only begin to move faster. I downed my drink and glanced at his fingers, lightly tracing the side of the camera as he talked to one of the guys at the table. He always had his hands moving. I noticed that about him on our first date.

He had a low-frequency nervous energy. It was unlike mine, often loud in my ears.