Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(76)

“Okay.” I nod. “I hear you. I will do my best to make sure nothing comes near your eyes on my watch.”

“Thank you.”

“But selfishly, I’m kind of glad you can’t put contacts in,” I admit. “I love your glasses. A lot.”

He reaches up to touch them reflexively, and I notice that the apples of his cheeks have turned a light shade of pink. “I’m glad,” he says quietly.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Of course.” He lifts up his hand, wiggling the finger with the silver ring on it that I find so inexplicably hot. “See this?”

“I see it.”

“It’s been stuck on my finger for a year.”

My mouth falls open as my hand darts out to grab his. I give the ring a light tug, but it doesn’t budge. “A year?”

He nods. “I tried it on for fun at some stupidly expensive thrift store. And then it never came off. Apparently it was some long-dead celebrity’s wedding band.”

“How much did that cost you?” I ask.

“I don’t even want to say.”

“Please.”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“No,” I gasp. “Can’t you get it sawed off or something?” I continue fiddling with it, twisting and pulling the ring like it’s my old Bop It! toy.

“I could,” he says. “But the thought of someone taking a saw to my finger…I’d almost rather they pin me down and squirt eye drops into my eyes.” He shudders.

“That bad, huh?”

He bobs his head in agreement.

“Your turn,” he says.

“My turn for what?”

“I told you what’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?”

“You already know what’s wrong with me!” Or at least, what I used to think was wrong with me. Now I’m not so sure. All I know is that sitting across from Matthew, I feel, for the first time in forever…normal. Not average, or ordinary, but normal.

“I know that you get anxious,” he responds. “And that you can be a terrible texter because of it.” He smirks.

“I really am so sorry I didn’t answer you.” I sigh. “I was so embarrassed. And I really did think you were going to tell me you didn’t want anything to do with me. I couldn’t stomach that.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Like I said, you’re starting to make sense to me.”

I frown. “I think I’d feel better if you were less understanding.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” he insists.

Okay, Sandy.

“You’d be hard on yourself, too, if you were me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I can tell you everything,” I say. “But you need to know there’s no coming back from it.” He squeezes my palm, which is when I realize I’m still playing with the ring on his finger. “Do you still want to know?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he responds. “I want to know everything about you.” My face burns, and I look down at the table, taking a deep breath and relishing the last moment before he knows everything.

“Okay.” I nod.

I start with what happened in the auditorium with Lucas Johnson; how nothing was ever the same after that; how I haven’t been able to date; how I didn’t actually have food poisoning that first time we were supposed to meet up; how badly I wanted to go out with him last weekend before I panicked; how nervous he made me.

And then I confess to being an almost-thirty-year-old virgin.

When he doesn’t flinch at that, I go on to tell him how I went a little crazy this past month; about the list; about how Go on a date with Matthew was the last task, because it was the hardest. Because there was the most to lose. Or rather, the most to gain.

“But I threw that list away,” I tell him quickly. “The only reason I’m here is because I want to be.”

Matthew hasn’t said a word since I began talking. In fact, he’s hardly reacted at all. I even paused after the virgin confession, searching him for any sign that he was about to take off running. But he just sat there, listening intently.

“That was a lot. I’m sorry,” I say. “And I understand completely if after hearing all that, you just want to be friends. I’d happily do nothing but exchange crossword scores with you forever. I’d even understand if you want to leave.” I gesture toward the doorway. He stays put. “But in the spirit of telling you everything, you should also know that I do not just want to be friends.”

There’s a faint ringing in my ears that I notice only now that I’ve stopped talking.

Matthew clears his throat and gently traces a circle along the base of my thumb. It’s a small gesture, but I feel it rippling through my whole body. “I don’t want to be just friends with you, either,” he says. “Let’s just hang out and see what happens.”

“That sounds great.”

“We can take it slow.”

“Yeah,” I agree, but I don’t think I want to take it slow. I want to jump across the booth and press my mouth against his. But instead of doing that, I nod slowly.

He smiles at me as he slides out of the booth.