Besides, it’s just lunch.
Lena pads down the hall, wearing her black and orange San Francisco Giants pajamas, and holding Green Eggs and Ham, still her favorite book. “Mom, I can’t fall asleep. Can you read one more book to me?”
“I’ll read to you,” I offer. “These emails are making my eyes glaze over.”
“Can I see?” Lena leans over the couch to see the pile of emails stacked up, virtually, in my inbox. “What are all those emails, McKenna?”
“She’s just trying to sort through some boys for potential dates,” her mom says, since Hayden tends to be pretty open with her kid. Ergo, so am I with Lena.
“Yeah, cause the Fedex guy was a dud,” Lena says, repeating back what I told her a week ago when she asked.
“Total dud.”
“So do you like any of these boys?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find a nice boy. I want you to be happy. My mom wants you to be happy. We both want you to find your sailboat in the moonlight.”
I tear up again. My friend and her kid know my favorite songs. They know what my heart wants, even though my brain rarely listens to my heart.
* * *
“You can never go wrong with fries.”
“Or with forty-seven varieties of dipping sauces for fries,” I add as I survey the list of ketchup substitutes that Fritz’s offers. Fritz Gourmet Fries is on one of my favorite streets in the city. Union Street happens to boast some of the best shopping in the city, with arty boutiques and funky little shops where I often find purchases to show my viewers. But honestly, the only reason I am thinking of my second favorite pasttime – shopping – is that if I don’t I might be eaten alive by the butterflies in my belly.
Chris is so cute. So handsome. So delectable. And I am sure I am going to do something to mess up this sorta date because I haven’t a clue how to date. I’ve been with one guy since I was twenty-one, and I don’t even know if this is a date with Chris, but I want it to be one. Because he thinks I’m a hot chick, and I think he’s a total babe, and I’ve already imagined the passion with which he kisses and the sparks his fingers send through me…
I focus on the menu because if I don’t I will surely do something incredibly inept.
I scan the list of forty-seven dipping sauces – pesto mayo, spicy yogurt peanut, creamy wasabi tapenade, spicy lime, roasted red pepper. They all sound delicious.
“If I told you my favorite French fry dip was ketchup would you think less of me?” Chris leans in as he asks the question, the menu spread out in front of him on the table, his light brown hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing jeans and a green tee-shirt with a picture of a cartoon squid on it. The squid’s cool, but I mostly like the shirt because it shows off his arms, toned and strong. I’m wearing a flouncy skirt, a purple scoop neck top, a matching necklace with small purple plastic squares strung together, and my Mary Janes.
“Dude, you drove my views up by fifty-five percent in one day,” I say, referring to the viewership stats from yesterday when he first mentioned me, because if I say what I want to say – How could I think less of you, you beautiful man – he’d run. “So as for how you like your French fries, well I say you could eat them in a boat, you could eat them in a box, you could eat them with a fox –” I cover my face with my hands. “I can’t believe what I just said.”
Chris laughs. “You’re reciting Green Eggs and Ham!”
“I know.” I look up, a little embarrassed. “Well, Chris. The cat’s out of the bag. I’m kind of a dork.”
“Nah, that’s just a good book.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe I said that, like it was a punchline or something. I think it was because I was reading it to my friend’s kid last night. She’s eight and she still loves it.” Chris looks at me, listening, but I feel kind of silly again. Why does he bring out the awkward in me? Oh right. Because I want to run my hands through his hair, and I want to find a million reasons to touch him, his hands, his arm, his legs. Because, yeah, that’s awkward.
Chris’ green eyes sparkle. “But would you eat them in a house? Would you eat them with a mouse?”
“Not in a box, not with a fox, not in a house, not with a mouse,” I fire back, and I could kiss him for the way he now makes me feel un-awkward.
“I would not eat them here or there. I would not eat them anywhere.”
“Okay, Mr. McCormick. Pretty damn impressive.”
A waiter pops by our table, fresh-faced and smiling, with a face so smooth he looks he hasn’t even started shaving yet. “And what can I get you fine folks today?” he asks, rather jollily.
“I’m gonna go a little wild and order some French fries,” I begin.
“Yeah, go nuts!” the waiter replies cheerily. “What kind of sauce would you like with that?”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you surprise me? Just pick your three best, any three, and bring them back to me.”
The waiter’s eyes light up. He’s thrilled to have been entrusted with such an important task. “It will be my pleasure.”
“And I’ll have the Mediterranean salad with that,” I add.
“And for you?” The chipper boy asks my lunch companion. Chris orders a chicken sandwich, French fries, and extra ketchup. The waiter returns to the kitchen. I launch right back into conversation.