That this isn’t going to be a sad story.
I plate the hot dogs and the fries, making sure they aren’t touching, just in time for the doorbell to ring.
I head out of the kitchen, trying to calm my nerves. Why am I so nervous? We’re always so comfortable around each other.
I open the door to see Marley standing on our welcome mat, wearing a pair of jeans and her yellow cardigan, her hair pulled back into a bun.
“Hi,” she says softly. She holds out a bundle of flowers. I do a quick scan, trying to guess what she’s telling me with these.
I peer at the clusters of tiny white petals, but I’m out of luck when it comes to a name. All I know is that they’re the poofy ones planted outside of granny houses.
“What’s this one mean?” I ask her.
“They’re hydrangeas,” she says, clutching the strap of her bag with one hand, the other reaching out to touch one of the enormous floral puffballs. “It means… gratitude.”
“Well, I am filled with gratitude for the flowers,” I say, cringing hard at myself. Could I be any lamer?
Luckily, she laughs and comes inside, sliding her shoes off.
“You hungry?” I ask.
She nods and turns her face toward the kitchen, sniffing. “Smells good.”
There’s something suspiciously like relief on her face.
“Hopefully it actually tastes good,” I say as we follow the warm smell of the food out of the entryway and down the hall.
As we step into the kitchen, she takes in the carefully laid out table, the folded napkins, the candles I pulled from the top shelf of the hallway closet. Her hand reaches out to touch the flower-condiment plate, a smile finally appearing on her lips.
“Because each deserves its own space,” I say, and she blushes as we sit down.
There’s an awkward pause, a new tension between us. A warm electricity. Does she feel it too? I try to shake it off, keeping my voice light as I suggest we dig in.
I grab my hot dog and take a huge bite. That eases the tension a bit more, and soon Marley’s laughing and trying out all the different condiments in little bites.
Somehow her favorite, though, isn’t even a condiment at all.
“Just popcorn?” I ask, incredulous, as she carefully puts another piece on top of her hot dog and takes a bite. “Of all of these toppings, popcorn is your favorite?”
She shrugs playfully. “I must be part duck.”
I can’t help but smile at that. I spend the rest of dinner grossing her out with different condiment combinations, though my bacon, barbecue sauce, and shredded cheese is literal genius.
As our meal disappears, the conversation stalls. I pop my last fry into my mouth. Marley puts the last few bites of her hot dog aside. Both of us fall silent as the nervous energy we’ve been fighting off fills the room. I know Marley hasn’t shared her stories before, and I’ve sure as hell never shared my articles with anyone before.
Well, not in person.
But… I don’t think this is about the writing.
I clear my throat and stand to take the plates to the sink. From the corner of my eye, I see her fidget with her napkin, folding it and unfolding it.
I turn to watch her fingers twist the material.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
She looks up in a way that says, Abso-freaking-lutely.
“Good. Because I’m nervous,” I admit.
She seems surprised. “You are?”
“I am crazy nervous,” I say, studying her face, from the freckles on her nose to the fullness of her lips. Every feature somehow looks different in this new setting, sending my heart beating faster. “I mean, you’re here.”
“I make you nervous?” she asks as she looks down at her napkin. “I… really?”
I hesitate, knowing that I’m balancing on a ledge, one side the past, one side the future. I have to choose. “You make me…，” I start to say, and as I take a step closer to her, I decide to just say it. “You make me want more, and that makes me nervous.”
She looks up, her eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight, but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut and let her enjoy her dinner.
“So, um,” I say, changing the subject. “How ’bout dessert?”
I get the ice cream out of the freezer, relieved to see Marley light up even more when she catches sight of the strawberry. Guessing people’s favorite ice cream flavors is a talent of mine, and Marley is definitely a strawberry lover.
We each fill a bowl, Marley laughing when I pile most of the gallon of chocolate into mine and steal a scoop of her strawberry to top it off. Then I lead us into the basement, the both of us sitting on opposite sides of the worn couch.