I feel…unwell. Kind of sick. And antsy.

It’s like anxiety, but not exactly.

Oh shit, I’m nervous.

Jittery.

Maybe even psyched out.

I never feel this way—not because I’m super chill, but because I just don’t give a fuck.

This feeling in my stomach, though—it’s definitely butterflies. I remember it from waaaaaaay back in the day. When I first started surfing. It doesn’t matter how I move, or twist, or bend, they’ve set up shop in my stomach.

What do you call a group of butterflies? Is that even a thing? A flock, maybe? A herd?

This is going to drive me crazy. I’m Googling it…

Wow—a kaleidoscope. That’s actually cool.

Except I read that all the butterflies are going to die out in the next three decades, so I guess it’s not so much cool as a reminder that humanity is headed toward extinction and taking a lot of other animals with us…

But I’ve got enough to worry about without dwelling on that shit. Like what the fuck am I going to wear?

I stand in my closet, stare at my clothes, and…I don’t know.

The Downtown Spaghetti Shoppe, despite its uninspiring name, is the nicest place in town. It has a dress code—coat, tie optional—and I have way too many coats. About a dozen, all various shades of dark, except for the seersucker.

Can I get away with seersucker? It’s spring, so that’s fine. The pattern is pretty traditional, and white and blue, so it should work with almost anything Bobby might wear.

What will she wear, I wonder? A dress, definitely. Black, maybe? Hmmmm…

I really don’t know much about Bobby’s style. I know she looks good in whatever she wears; it’s just that she hasn’t been wearing much the times I’ve been around her—mostly a bathing suit or nothing at all.

Better to go with one of the darker suits. For our date. An official one. A date of consequence.

Normally, after we’ve fucked a few times, women start to pile the pressure on; they almost never want to just fuck. I don’t know why Bobby doesn’t seem to mind. It’s having the opposite effect on me, I think.

If I was going to define what we’re doing, I’d call it…what’s that word I heard the girls say in the lifeguard tower last month? A situationship. What we’re doing is pretty much hanging out and fucking—but also more than that. We’ve talked about a lot of things. I feel like we know each other. And I, at least, am liking what I find.

Technically this will be our second date, since the night at Salty’s was obviously our first. So should I just say we’re dating?

“Yeah, I’d say, we’re, what, dating, right?” I ask the mirror.

Seems pretty convincing to me.

But what if she wants to know…I don’t know. She’s thirty-three. Maybe she’ll decide she wants more than I can offer. Like kids and shit. Oh, fuck, what if her biological clock is ticking? Is that real? I don’t know. People always talk about it like it’s real. Not that that means anything. In fact, it probably means the opposite.

I choose a suit—pinstripe—and hang it on the hook behind my bedroom door.

What does Bobby want from me?

What do I want from her?

I don’t know. I’m terrible at thinking about this shit. Anything related to the future. It makes me anxious. Hopeless. I know it’s a combination of growing up with manager parents and watching my career die at its height. But I still spend a significant amount of my time trying not to think about anything future-related, or about “life,” or, really, anything. I get too nihilistic when I do. Best to keep it light. Breezy.

I want to spend more time with Bobby. I want to get to know her better. I want to keep fucking her. I also want her to be okay with things.

I turn on my shower, stand under the steaming hot stream, and try to empty my head. But I can’t. And it’s not just Bobby I’m thinking about more. It’s Tripp Anders.

Fuck.

I wash quickly, storm out of the shower, dress.

I check my reflection in the mirror; I look good, but I don’t care.

When I look at my life, take real stock of it, I feel so fucking depressed I want to jump off my fucking balcony. I’m a fucking loser. A washed-up nobody coasting on success I had when I was a fucking kid. And what was that success, by the way? Surfing. The most useless, stupid, pointless—I mean, it’s surfing. Fucking surfing.

Bobby wasn’t impressed, when we met; she doesn’t give a shit about that, and why should she? She’s got degrees and shit. She’s beautiful. She cares about things.

What the fuck is she even doing with a has-been like me?

That’s what I’m having trouble with, I think, and it’s an entirely new experience for me. What do I have to offer her? Good weed and good dick, but is that enough? Also, I look stupid in this suit.

Fuck. Thinking about shit is ruinous.

* * * *

I knock on Bobby’s door, and I wish I didn’t have these flowers. I stopped at Longview Flowers and Ornamental Shells and bought some tulips, and I don’t know, maybe I was overthinking it. I’ve never bought flowers before, and it seemed like the thing to do, but that was probably just me overthinking things. Maybe I should toss them. But where? I don’t see a trash can. Maybe behind that— oh shit, I can see Bobby’s shadow through the frosted glass window on the front door.

I brush off my coat, switch the flowers to my left hand—no both hands—no right hand—just as the door opens.

I forget about the flowers.

Bobby looks amazing. Stunning. She’s wearing a little red dress that shows off so much leg I’m having trouble pulling my eyes up. When I finally do, I’m rewarded with the rest of her, which is just as stunning. Her hair is pulled into a messy…bun thing. Two diamond studs sparkle in her ears. And the rest of her—well, she’s perfect. Her big, brown eyes. Her lips—she’s got lipstick on. A shade of red that looks amazing with her dress.

“You look incredible,” I say.

Bobby smiles. “You, too. I didn’t know you cleaned up so well.”

“This old me?” I shrug. “I’m nothing, really.”

Bobby’s smile is radiant. “Did someone give you flowers?”

“Yeah, you know, one of those hos that keeping coming around. But here.”

I hand the bouquet to Bobby. “I love tulips,” she says. “Your ho did good.”

“Confession: I got them. For you. From me.”

“So you’re the ho.” She giggles.

I hold up my hands. “Guilty as charged.”

“Do you want to step inside while I put them in water?”

“Sure.” I follow Bobby inside, unnerved by the strange formality of everything. I brought her flowers. She invited me inside…

I dunno. Maybe I’m making a molehill out of an anthill.

Bobby pulls a glass vase thing from a closet in her hallway, fills it with water, and places it just off center on her breakfast bar. “This should work.” She arranges the flowers. “That looks good. Ready to go?”

“Absolutely.”

I open Bobby’s car door for her. She thanks me in a kind of formal way, but as a joke. My stilted reply—“No problemo”—is effortless.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The drive is quiet, which, after my “No problemo” isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But it probably is. Especially from Bobby. Why is she so quiet? Like, she’s literally not saying anything. Just staring straight ahead. And she keeps fiddling with the hem of her dress.

“Did you decide on a movie?” I ask.

“No. I can look now.”

She pulls her phone out of her red clutch. While Bobby searches for the movie listings, I mentally calculate the fastest route to the Spaghetti Shoppe. She lives on the north side of town. I was going to take Beach Boulevard south, past the state beaches, Three Mile Beach, and the resorts, to Big Street, and take that downtown, but the Beach Boulevard route will add another three minutes to our drive.

But aren’t I supposed to take the scenic route on a date?

I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Okay, here we go,” she says. “I’ve got the listings. What are you interested in?”

“Like I said, I like everything. Really.” That is a lie. “I’ll like anything you pick.”

“I don’t know.” She rubs her lips together. “Ever since I got Netflix, I never know what’s playing.”

“Me too. No trailers.”

“Yeah.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I’ll just read each movie’s description.”

“Sounds good.”

Bobby reads, and I decide to stick with the scenic route. It passes a few miles of protected beach, and it’s about as scenic as Longview gets.

“Hot Hands 2: The Devil’s Bakery—I’ll skip that description, if you don’t care.”

“Aw, but Hot Hands 1 was so good!”

Bobby snickers. “There are a lot of movies. Maybe we should narrow our search by genre?”

“Yeah. What about romantic comedies?” I manage. “That’s pretty normal date stuff, right?”

“Sure. Let’s see… There’s a movie out called Romantic Comedy.”

“That’s the actual title?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it a spoof?”

“I can’t tell. Let me find the summary. Okay: ‘Mac Watson was always unlucky in love, but he thought his fortunes were changing when he proposed to the girl of his dreams. Then she said no. Crushed, Mac goes on a bender and meets Marcy Manson, a spunky ex-ballerina who was just left at the altar. After their hangovers clear, the two concoct a plan to get their exes back: fake an engagement! But when the pretend romance starts to turn real steamy, Mac and Marcy have to decide what’s a game and what’s true love.”

I try not to curl my lip. “That sounds great.”

“That sounds terrible!”

I laugh. “Maybe we should hate-watch it.”

“I’ve never hate-watched anything before.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I don’t know why.”

“Well you’re going to hate it.”

Bobby laughs. “Good.”

I’m feeling better about things, until I realize that Bobby’s not saying anything, and neither am I.

Shit.

Is telling a joke too obvious? Like, a dumb knock-knock joke or something?

Fuck, probably. But I’ve got to say something

“When was the last time you—”

“What did you get—”

Bobby and I look at each other, both wide-eyed, and we laugh. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to happen in a movie like Romantic Comedy.

“This is…” I don’t know what. I don’t know why I even just said that.

“I’m nervous,” Bobby confesses.

“You are?”

“This is my first date since the divorce.”

I nod. “This is my first date since…I don’t know. I’m nervous, too.”

Bobby turns in her seat so she’s almost facing me. “We should totally not be nervous.”

“See, that’s what I think.”

“So let’s stop being nervous.” She smiles.

I nod. “Yeah. No more nervousness.”

“Not even a tiny bit.”

“None whatsoever,” I say.

“Not any nerves anywhere around here.”

“You’ve already nailed the dress.”

“Thanks. It probably accounts for sixty percent of my anxiety.”

“Then you should feel a lot better,” I tell her.

“You too. You look dapper in your suit.”

“Thanks. I hate wearing coats.”

“Well, you look great.”

“Says the girl in the killer dress.”

“I never dressed up in Seattle. Like, ever. It’s one of the things I miss most about living there.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Around here, people even wear their Sunday best to Salty’s.”

Longview’s downtown has been “revitalized.” That means the city cleaned up Endmonton Park, put up some new, antique-looking street lights, lined the streets with palms, and seized a bunch of dilapidated properties where the poors were living. The result is new façades, shops, and restaurants, and a general improvement of the downtown aesthetic in the minds of a certain type of resident.

I’ll give the city this—they improved the parking. Main Street used to be all parallel parking. Now there’s twice as many diagonal spots, meaning I’m able to pull up just to the left of the restaurant.

Downtown Longview isn’t very big. Just four-ish square blocks, with the old courthouse at the top and a nice little park in the middle. Up near the courthouse there’s City Hall, the Longview Light and Gas Commission, and other boring shit. There are a few nice shops and restaurants here on the park end.

I appreciate that the city didn’t mandate some sort of uniform, cutesy shit for the downtown façades. Most the buildings are brick, but the storefronts have a variety of textures and colors. The Downtown Spaghetti Shoppe stuck with brick, but they made it look aged and crumbly.

I get out of the car and step around to Bobby’s side just as she’s opening the door. She laughs and calls me a gentleman. I do a half-assed bow that I immediately regret.

“My lady.” I offer her my arm, and we cross the street together.

“I think we’re both still uptight,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“We totally shouldn’t be.” She grins. “We’ve seen each other naked.”

“That’s true. I’ve eaten your ass.”

Bobby hits me. “Don’t talk about that,” she hisses. “We’re almost to the door.”

“If you’re good tonight I might finally fuck it.”

“Tripp!” Bobby pulls me to a stop right outside the door. She’s smiling but trying to look disapproving. “If you’re not careful it’s going to be your ass getting fucked,” she mutters.

Yikes. I widen my eyes and press my lips together, and Bobby giggles. “Scared?”

“I think I agree with you; we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

She cackles as I hold the door. She wiggles her right index finger up and down—presumably to mime fucking me with it. I want to laugh, but I don’t want to encourage her, so I settle for grabbing her ass and holding it as we approach the hostess. Bobby leans back to me to hide what I’m doing, but she doesn’t try to move my hand.

“Reservation for two. Anders.”

The hostess seats us promptly. I try to take the pulse of the room the way Bobby might, but I don’t feel like I’m getting a ton of attention. Really, I think most of the looks directed our way are landing on her.

“All these olds are looking at you,” I say.

“Don’t call them olds.”

“They want your supple, young flesh.”

Bobby rolls her eyes.

“I’m serious. You’re dangerous in that dress.”

“You might find out how dangerous,” she says, and she holds up her ass-fucking finger again.

“You know, that’s probably more obvious than you think it is.”

Bobby increases her efforts, grinning like a kid who took too many cookies from the jar. “Are you worried your adoring fans might catch on?”

I shake my head. “You’re the only one with fans here.”

“Please.”

“They’re all looking at you.”

“At you,” she says. “And who’s ‘all’?”

“At you,” I argue. “I don’t know.” I glance around. The Spaghetti Shoppe is kind of small—there are twelve tables; some, like the one at which Bobby and I are sitting, only seat two. There’s at least one big table that seats up to eight—it’s the only table unoccupied. I scan the other tables, but I don’t recognize—oh, I know that guy. I continue my sweep before leaning toward Bobby. “Don’t look, but to your right, and a little bit behind, there’s a dude in a nice suit, dark hair, goatee. He’s with an Instagram ass model.”

Bobby sort of turns to her right and pretends to look in her clutch. “His date is in that sliver dress?”

“Yeah.” She’s spilling out of it.

“Who is he?”

“Oscar. He’s Longview’s Cartel man.”

“What?” Bobby hisses. “Like, drug cartel?”

“No, Bobby, the puppy cartel.”

“What does he do?”

I shrug. “He supplies the local dealers.”

“So he’s like Longview’s drug lord.”

“Calling him a ‘lord’ is a stretch. He actually lives on your side of town, in Whispering Pines.”

“But he supplies the drug dealers?” she asks. “Meaning he’s the top drug dealer?”

“Yeah.” I snort. “All six of them.”

Bobby looks concerned. Her lips are drawn into a thin line, and her eyebrows jut up toward her hair.

“It’s no big deal,” I laugh.

“How do you know him?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I think I met him a few years ago at a party.”

“Do you ever buy drugs from him?”

I can tell this thought is alarming to Bobby, but I can’t figure out why. “Uh, yeah. I buy a few ounces from him every month.”

“From him specifically?”

I laugh. “From him specifically.”

“Ounces of weed?”

“Well, yeah.”

Bobby leans in. “The weed we’ve been smoking comes from a cartel?” she hisses.

“Where did you think it came from? The Weed Fairy?”

“No.”

“The Weedster Bunny?”

“I guess I got used to legal weed,” she says softly.

“Old Man Weedmas?”

“I forgot that there are still, like, drug dealers and stuff.”

“Down here in the uncivilized parts of the world.”

“I know, right? It’s so weird.” She still looks troubled. Like she’s worried Oscar will pull out a gun and start shooting.

“You know, I read that the largest drug dealers in the world are people from legal states moving it to their friends and family and whoever in states where it’s illegal.”

She smirks. “I definitely did that a few times.”

“Bobby, you badass.”

“You can call me Scarface now.”

“Okay. I won’t though.”

Bobby laughs, and our waiter arrives.

I order a Bloody Mary, and after I assure her they’re good, Bobby orders one, too.

“You don’t have a lot of faith in the quality of the drinks here in Longview,” I observe.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah. I don’t blame you. But I assure you that The Downtown Spaghetti Shoppe makes a good Bloody Mary.”

Bobby shakes her head. “Such a terrible name.”

“The Downtown Spaghetti Shoppe?”

“Yeah. It’s just a mouthful. Why didn’t they go with just The Spaghetti Shoppe—if they were going to be so uncreative.”

I’m still stuck on thinking about Bobby with a mouthful, so I takes me a second to nod and say, “That’s a lot better.”

“It’s weird how no one around here ever comes up with names that are clever or creative or that even sound good. Think about ‘Seaside Sings.’ That just sounds terrible. Seaside Sings.”

I grin. “I live in Seaside Seascapes.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s also terrible. Objectively terrible.”

“I agree with you.”

Bobby reaches for her menu. “So what’s good?”

I open mine. “Last time I was here I had the salt-roasted shrimp. It was good. I had the swordfish piccata opening weekend, and it was also good.”

“Hmmm….” I watch her brown eyes travel down the menu. “The crab toast with lemon aioli looks delish.”

“It does. I’m eyeing the carbonara.”

“Everything looks so good,” she says.

“I’m definitely going with that.”

“And I’m going to order the crab toast,” Bobby says.

“Should we get an appetizer?”

She runs a hand over her updo. “If you want.”

“What do you like?”

“I don’t know.” She peers down at the menu.

I grin. “This is the most original date conversation ever.”

“I know, right?”

“Okay, how about this: the porchetta, and the avocado bruschette, and the olive fritte all look good to me. You choose.”

She rubs her lips together. “Hmm. The…olive fritte?”

“Absolutely not.”

Bobby’s mouth makes an “o” before curving up into a smile. “So funny.”

“Looking.”

She nods, smiling. “That’s what I meant.”

I close my menu and set it on the table as our waiter arrives, two Bloody Marys in hand.

Bobby takes a long sip of her drink. “Mmmmm, this is good.”

“I’m glad you think so.” I take a drink. “I love how spicy they make them.”

“Mmhmmmm.” Bobby is in the middle of another long drink. She sighs when she sets her glass down. “I’m glad you recommended this.”

“What are you like when you’re drunk?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I know. But what are you like when you are?”

“You’ve been around me when I’m drunk,” she says.

“I don’t think so.”

“The other night at Marco’s party. I wouldn’t have had sex in some random bedroom if I’d been sober.”

“Yeah, but that was party drunk. I want to know what you’re going to be like tonight.”

“What makes you think I’m going to get drunk?”

“I can tell.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “I’m a fun drunk.”

“I bet.”

“I am. It’s always a good time.”

“Oh, I know.”

Bobby takes another drink, grinning, and then holds up her butt finger, wiggling it. “Very good.”

I shake my head, smiling. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“The kind who gives it up on the first date.”

“If you want this,” I lift my right cheek up so I can slap it, “you’ve got to give me one of these.” I hold out my left hand and draw a diamond above my ring finger.

“So you’re old-fashioned.”

“Yeah. But I do a lot of hand stuff, so that’s cool, right?”

Bobby snorts.

The appetizers arrive. We chat as we eat, and in our conversation Bobby shares one pertinent detail: her parents are coming home in five days.

Maybe that’s why she was acting weird last night. Her parents are coming home, and assuming Bobby and I keep doing what we’re doing—and I very much hope that we do—they’re going to have questions.

Questions we have yet to address this evening.

She hasn’t brought it up, and I have no idea how. Not that I want to, necessarily, but I’m not about to fall into the trap of thinking everything’s okay between the two of us. I’m officially waiting for an opening—a chance to say, “In a way, this is our second date, so I’d say we’re dating?” And if she asks where this is going, I’ll say, “I’m enthusiastic about finding out.”

No, not “enthusiastic.” Shit. I had the perfect phrasing earlier…

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t come up, and when our entrees arrive, Bobby digs in.

“This is good,” she sighs. “Like, really good.”

“Mine too.”

I’m chewing when Oscar and his date stop by our table.

“Tripp, good to see you.”

I stand and shake his hand. I also extend my hand to his date. “This is Lexes,” Oscar says. “Lexes, this is Tripp Anders.”

“And Bobby Smith,” I say, nodding to her.

“So nice to meet you,” Lexes simpers.

“Nice to meet you both,” Bobby says.

“How is your dinner?” asks Oscar.

“Very good. Yours?”

“I had the penne arrabbiata with shrimp, and it was perfect,” he says in his baritone voice. “What do you two have planned for after dinner?”

“Movie. We’re going to see Romantic Comedy.”

“Oh, I loved that,” Lexes says.

“That was a good one,” he agrees. “Listen, stop by the house after, if you have the time. We’re having people over. Bring your bathing suits.”

“Do,” Lexes agrees. “It’s going to be so on fleek.”

“Good to see you,” Oscar says. He claps me on the back.

As soon as he and Lexes are out of the restaurant, Bobby leans over the table. “I just met a real-life cartel guy.”

I nod. “And his Instagram ass model.”

“Is she really?”

I shrug. “That’s what people say. She does give off that vibe.”

“What vibe is that?”

“It’s just something I can sense.”

“After knowing so many, I’m sure.” She laughs.

“Never in a Biblical sense.” Okay—occasionally in a Biblical sense, but Bobby doesn’t need to know that.

She finishes her Bloody Mary in one long swallow.

“Do you consider yourself good at reading people?” she asks, with her chin in her hand.

“Maybe.”

“I think so.”

“Is this your way of saying you’re drunk?” I grin.

“No. Well, I’m halfway there, sure. But I just noticed that you have decent observations. About people.”

“It’s one of those things you have to get good at if you grow up with any sort of notoriety. Everyone you meet wants something from you. You need to be able to figure out what.”

“Hmmmm.”

“What?” She’s moving her food around her plate and staring at me speculatively.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously, what?”

“It’s nothing, except—you’re not at all what I thought you’d be like.”

“Is this your way of saying you’re drunk?”

She gives me a big, a-little-drunk smile. “No, I’m serious.”

“I hope in a good way.”

“In a good way for sure.”

“You’re exactly like I thought you’d be.” I wink.

“Really?”

I shrug. “I’m just that good.”

“What did you think I’d be like?”

Oh, snap. It’s go time. Gotta bring the A game. “Smart.” Yes. “Funny.” Yes. “Super hot in a red dress.” Never say hot first. She’s smiling now. If I had led with that, she’d be frowning. “You’re so perfect in so many ways, I feel like it’s impossible to narrow anything down about you.”

“Nice answer.” She grins.

“It’s a hundred percent true.”

Bobby smiles cheekily. “Do you want to know what I like about you?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

“I want to tell you.”

I’ve got that fucking feeling again—the kaleidoscope—as I say, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m going to tell you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Your ripped bod.”

I shake my head.

“And your connections. Am I weird that that cartel thing kind of turned me on? The you part of it. Your casual association with criminals.”

“I don’t know… I’ve never before in my life heard anything about women liking men who flaunt the rules—bad-boy types, you might call them—so, yeah, I guess you are weird for that.” I grin.

“You’re more a smartass type than bad boy.”

I wince. “The insults keep coming.”

“Oh, shut up, that didn’t bother you.” She takes a big bite, closes her eyes while she chews, swallows, and says, “This food is good. So good. I kind of want dessert.”

“We should order something.”

“First, we need to finish this stuff.” Bobby looks at her plate, then mine. “I’ll race you.”

She’s got less on her plate. But her meal’s got bread. And I’ve got a bigger mouth. “Ready, set, go!”

I’m swallowing my first bite while Bobby races to catch up. I’m out to an early lead—but fuck! Bobby’s gaining. How is she—I didn’t think about how good she is at giving head. She has no gag reflex. And now she’s winning!

I double up on my effort, but she beats me by a bite and a half.

“I’m the greatest of all time,” she cheers.

“Drinking contest?” Our glasses are about even.

“Tripp Anders!” Bobby puts her hand over her heart. “Why are you always trying to get me drunk?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You know why. And I’ll have you know that no matter how much alcohol I consume, I’d never put out on the first date.”

“Well, Misssss Smith, I happen to know that’s not true, because this is our second date.”

“Mr. Anders. You—you have me there, I suppose.”

I grin. “I think you’re scared.”

“Of you?” Bobby scoffs. “Never.”

“Then let’s do this.” I pick up my glass. Bobby grabs hers and provides the countdown. “Three. Two. One. Go!”

I beat her handily. “You are defeated.”

She shakes her head. “Just like a man.”

“What?”

“Instead of celebrating your victory, you celebrate my defeat.”

“Just like a woman to moralize.”

She gives me a deadpan glare.

“Next you’re going to call me a mansplainer.”

“Do you?”

“Mansplain? Well, first, let me explain what mansplaining really is.”

Bobby laughs. “The jokes keep coming.”

“They aren’t the only ones.”

She groans. “I guess I walked right into that one.”

Our waiter returns with our dessert menus.

Bobby looks at hers. “So are we sharing or getting our own?”

“I don’t know. How healthy is your appetite?”

“Well, I’m kind of full, so maybe we should share.”

“Choose anything. I like everything.” This is not true, because I’m not much of a dessert guy. Or a restaurant dessert guy. I’d take homemade chocolate chip cookies over most of what’s on The Downtown Spaghetti Shoppe’s menu.

“Okay. Do you like pie?”

“Absolutely.” This is the biggest lie I’ve told tonight.

“What about the creamy double chocolate?”

“Looks great.”

Bobby continues to peruse the dessert menu, which is humorously large, and I wonder how to best bring up the…stuff. I don’t even know how to refer to it in my head. The relationship question?

Maybe I should just bring it up. That’s how I like to do shit normally: straight-forward and to the point. All this waiting and wondering—I’m not good at this shit.

“This menu is insane,” she says.

“It’s really long.”

“I wonder why. Is the chef a former pastry chef or something?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I need to say something. Anything. I open my mouth—

“I haven’t even heard of half of these things. But they look delicious.”

I nod.

“We’ve got to come back.”

“We should.”

Bobby is still looking at the menu. She doesn’t seem to have noticed anything interesting about our exchange, but I’m trying to read all kinds of importance into it.

She said, “We’ve got to come back.” I said, “We should.” Those definitely count as declarations of intent, right?

Maybe it was never a big thing to her to begin with. I mean, I play dumb sometimes, but it’s true I’m not the most emotionally in touch person. Maybe I just misread the whole thing. Or maybe this date was enough for her?

“I feel like I’m in Harry Potter,” Bobby says.

“I wish I was.”

“Have you been to the place in Orlando? The Harry Potter world or whatever?”

“Only like five times.” I grin, and she looks skeptical. “No—really.”

“Ahhh, I’m so freaking jealous! I’ve never been, and I want to go so bad.”

“We should go this weekend,” I say.

“Oh my God, are you serious?”

“Yeah. Sunday. Let’s do it. We can wake up early and try to beat the crowd.”

“We’d have to wake up really early!”

“Good point. We’ll endure the crowd,” I say.

Bobby bounces in her seat. “I’m so excited. I can’t believe I didn’t know you were into Harry Potter.”

“I think it’d be more notable if I wasn’t. I love them. The books,” I add quickly, and Bobby nods.

“Oh yeah, for sure. I like the movies, but it’s really about the books for me.”

“Me, too. They’re almost perfect.”

“You mean they are perfect?”

“Almost.”

Bobby shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Is this more of your unimpressed stuff?”

“‘Unimpressed stuff’?”

“Yeah. You’re going to tell me that nothing is perfect.”

“Hmmmm. Most things aren’t,” I say. “Other than you.”

Bobby bats her lashes. “How nice of you to notice.”

“But I’m not talking about grammatical errors or, I don’t know, minor shit. There’s obviously going to be missteps across seven big books. I don’t fault her for that.”

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know you’re cutting her some slack.”

I grin. “Oh, but she won’t be once she hears my very legitimate criticism.”

“What—not enough sex?”

“Bobby! Those are teenagers.”

She laughs, and I continue shaking my head. “You’re worse than those people creeping on the Stranger Things kids.”

“Yeah except those kids are actually real.”

“Not as real to me as Harry and Hermione,” I say.

“And Ron,” she says.

“Fuck Ron.”

“Fuck Ron?” she asks.

I nod. “In the nose.”

“That’s…a really violent reaction for someone who claims to be a Harry Potter fan.”

“That’s the problem I have with Harry Potter: Ron. He ended up with Hermione and Harry didn’t.”

“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “You’re one of those Harmonies.”

“I do sail on the H.M.S. Pumpkin Pie, yes.”

“That’s what they used to call that ‘ship’ on the internet,” Bobby laughs. “How do you remember that?”

I shrug. “I guess I’m realer than you.”

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t even want to go there.”

She seems serious.

“Ron was a fucking dud and a loser,” I say. “He was a terrible friend. He didn’t deserve Harry, much less Hermione.”

Bobby shakes her head. “This is the exact kind of bitter—”

“Damn right.”

“—slander—”

“Slander?”

“—I’d expect from someone still sailing on that sunken ship.”

I shouldn’t have gotten into it. Harry Potter. Harry and Hermione. Ron and his right hand. I shouldn’t have. It’s one of the only things I still feel passionate about.

Not good for a first date—or a second—if you and your date do not see eye-to-eye on the subject.

But I can’t stop myself. I hold up a hand and tick off all the way Ron sucks. “He’s dumb. He’s lazy. He whines all the damn time. He abandons Harry and Hermione when they need him most. He—”

“He never did that. He didn’t abandon them.”

“I think you need to reread the books. Goblet of Fire: Ron gets all butthurt that Harry got chosen for the Tri-Wizard tournament—via Voldemort’s fuckery, by the way, which was obvious to everyone. And then in Deathly Hallows dude bails on both Harry and Hermione.”

“Because he was worried about his family.”

“They were supposed to be his family.”

“Didn’t his brother just die before that happened?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I can’t remember. When did Fred die? Or was it George?

“I’m pretty sure there were extenuating circumstances.”

“The only thing extenuating is that Ron Weasley’s a bitch. He doesn’t deserve Hermione.”

“Well, JK seemed to think he did.”

That’s the best point Bobby’s going to make all night, and the one I can’t argue with. JK did write them together. She always intended them to be together.

I counter with, “Yeah, but she said in an interview that she should have put Ron and Hermione together.”

Bobby shakes her head. “I am not aware of this interview.”

I glare at her. She smiles sweetly.

“When we get home, after the movie, you’re getting angry fucked.”

Bobby grins. “You mean you are getting angry fucked.” She holds up the finger again.

I shake my head. “You’re not going to like it, either.”

Bobby cackles. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

And a lie.

We skip the movie, and she does like it.