Pretend like I do this all the time (maybe if I can forget I’m inexperienced, he’ll forget it, too).
Jude returns from the bathroom but doesn’t sit down. Instead, he tosses some bills on the table and says, “Are you ready?”
What a loaded question! But I answer confidently, “Yes.” Then, beating back the butterflies, I propose, “Would you like to go back to my place for a while?” I would bolster my suggestion with, “It’s still early,” although it’s really not.
It doesn’t matter, though, because he casually accepts, as if that’s what he expected all along.
When we get to my apartment, I use my body to shield his view from my shaking hand as I unlock the door. After we step inside, I busy myself with hanging up my purse and petting Sandberg so that Jude can look around without my staring at him and waiting for a reaction.
My bed suddenly seems ten times bigger than it usually does. And under a spotlight.
He sits down on the couch.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I open the fridge. “I have beer—but not the kind you normally drink, sorry—wine, water—”
“Water’s fine,” he answers easily. He leans forward and looks at the magazines on my coffee table. While I open his bottle of water and pour myself a (large) glass of wine, he flips through the Entertainment Weekly, laughing at the “Bullseye” in the back and declaring it, “Very clever.”
I down half my glass of wine and top it off before joining him. I have another thing to add to my strategy:
Don’t puke on him (I’m so nervous that I think it could be a possibility).
When I sit down next to him and hand him his water, he smiles and says, “Thank you.” After drinking half the bottle at once, he sets it down on a coaster on the table and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “You have a nice place.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “It’s small.”
“Suits you perfectly,” he insists.
Pointing out what I perceive to be the elephant in the room, I joke nervously, “You expected my apartment to be all bed?”
He turns around and glances at it. “Oh. Until you said something, I hadn’t even noticed it. It’s so tidy and tucked into its own little corner.”
“It seems like it’s always in the way,” I mutter, trying to cover for my awkwardness. I take a huge drink.
He watches me, then when I pull the glass away from my lips, he takes it from my hand and sets it on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the amused glint in his eyes that he knows I’m nervous.
“I was just thinking,” he says after grabbing my hand, “that maybe you and I…”
“Yes?” I scoot closer to him, trying to send him plenty of signals as I lick my lips and look at his mouth.
“…might reconsider our plans to go to that outdoor art festival tomorrow. It’s supposed to rain.” His lips move closer to me. I can’t stop staring at them. “Libby?”
“Huh?” I ask distractedly.
“May I just…” He leans in, but instead of kissing me when I close my eyes, he rubs his thumb against the side of my nose, where it meets my cheek.
My eyes snap open. I pull my head back.
He grins and holds up his thumb, which has a tiny piece of glitter stuck to it. “This was on your face.”
“Oh. I wonder how that got there.”
But he’s leaning closer to me again, peering into my eyes. “Your eyes…”
I hold my breath, waiting for the compliment that precedes the kiss.
“…are the oddest color. I’ve never seen anything like them. I suppose you’d call them green, but there’s some gray and blue in there, too.”
Frustrated and disgusted, I back away from him. “What’s it going to take to get you to kiss me?”
Looking genuinely surprised by my outburst, he says, “Did you want me to kiss you? I thought we were talking about other things.”
“Who cares? Do you need a written invitation?”
His face clouds over slightly. “No. I don’t suppose I do. But if I kiss you now, it will seem like I’m merely doing it because you asked me to, not because I want to.”
I sigh. “Just forget it. I’ve waited twenty-eight years; I guess I can wait another decade or two.”
He laughs, then stops abruptly. “Wait a minute. You’ve never kissed a man?”
“Or a woman, for that matter,” I clarify. Might as well get that annoying question out of the way.
“Blimey,” he breathes. “That’s… sort of… incredible.”
“Yeah, I’m a living relic,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.
He looks at me long enough that it starts to make me squirm. I reach for my wineglass again. “Stop staring at me like I’m a sideshow oddity.”
Blinking and shaking his head slightly, he says, “Sorry. I’m merely trying to sort something out in my head.”
“Can I help?” I ask fake-solicitously. I might as well be of some use.
“I’m sorry if this is rude or forward, but what, exactly, have you experienced and… not experienced… when it comes to, erm, romantic endeavors?” he queries. When I fidget even more, he says, “I’m not trying to make you feel self-conscious; I really want to know.”
“This is going to require more wine,” I declare, getting up and filling my glass almost to the point of overflowing. For good measure, I take a swig straight from the bottle. His laughter at my behavior loosens me up a little. It suddenly seems silly for me to be shy talking about sexual matters with a guy I’d really like to have sex with.
I sit down again, this time very close to him. He’s turned sideways, so his arm is resting on the back of the couch. His hand moves up, his finger wandering up to play with a strand of my hair near my ear.
“Please don’t make me explain in detail to you how this is possible (I know you’re a smart guy
