She cocked her head curiously, but didn’t seem surprised. “Really?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Honestly, I’ve never really even had a girlfriend, so …”
This time, she was surprised. “Wait. That night, um … at The Pit … I saw you with a girl. So, I thought …”
I shook my head, both to respond and to remove the image of Tammi from my mind. “It wasn’t like that. She, um …” I glanced around me, making sure none of the other shoppers were within listening distance. “She wasn’t a real girlfriend. I didn’t like her much, and I’m pretty sure she only liked me for … what I did, and, um …”
Shame coiled up from the collar of my long-sleeved shirt and wrapped tightly around my neck. Thoughts of the things Tammi would do to me while stoned out of her mind off the pills I had given her filled my head. Memories of the things I’d do to her in exchange as thanks. It all felt like so long ago—a lifetime even—but the beads of sweat dotting my forehead made it all seem like yesterday.
How could I have ever been like that? That wasn’t me. It was never who I wanted to be, so why the hell had I done it?
“It’s okay. The past doesn’t matter anymore,” Ray said, as if reading my mind. “We’ll go out on a proper date, and I’ll show you how nice it is.”
She said it with so much confidence and determination, and I wondered if it was for my benefit or hers.
***
Three days later, that Friday, Noah stayed at his grandparents’ house, and I walked the thirteen steps it took to get from my stoop to Ray’s porch. I held in my hand a bouquet of sunflowers I’d bought from the florist in town and knocked on her door. When she answered, wearing the prettiest white dress I had ever seen, I was glad I’d decided at the last minute to wear the shirt and pants I’d worn on Christmas with Harry’s family.
“Look at you,” she said softly, leaning against the door and smiling as she let her eyes wander from the top of my head all the way down to my feet.
“I could, but I think I’d rather look at you instead.” I held out the flowers. “These are for you.”
Her smile grew as she accepted them. “This might be your first date, but you’re the first man to bring me flowers.”
I chuffed and rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, come on.”
She left the doorway to head into the kitchen, and I followed, closing the door behind me.
“I’m serious,” she said, standing on her toes and stretching her arm to try and reach for a dusty vase on the top of her refrigerator.
I handed it to her before she could pull a muscle.
“Show-off.” Her eyes teased while that smile never left her face.
She took the vase from me and laid the flowers on the counter before washing the murky blue glass and filling it with water. I waited patiently, standing by the fridge and watching her in that white dress with hundreds of flowers scattered all over. It held her curves in a way that made me jealous, and I had to will my dick to hold on to some self-control.
He had none. But if Ray noticed, she didn’t let on as she put the flowers into the vase and turned to place them on the table.
“I have only ever dated one guy,” she admitted, allowing her smile to droop a little as she arranged the big yellow blooms. “And he was never really romantic.”
She was implying that I was, and I snorted. “I’m not sure I’d say I’m romantic either.”
Ray’s smile returned as she looked at the flowers, then at me, a new and different twinkle in her eyes. “You might not see it,” she said, turning to head for the open door. “But I do.”
I followed.
I thought I would follow her anywhere.
***
We could have taken her car to the restaurant, but we decided to walk instead.
I knew Ray was only a nickname, but strolling beside her, with the sun bringing light to the golden streaks in her golden-brown hair, an old, familiar tune rang through my head.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine …
It reminded me of my mother, but more than that, it reminded me of her. Of Ray. Of the streaks in her hair, as bright as the rays of sunlight casting shadows over the world around us.
Everyone waved to her as we passed. Everyone smiled. They looked at us with fondness, and I tried to imagine what they must’ve thought, seeing us together.
What does she see in him? She could do so much better. Why would she stoop so low?
But … no, maybe not. Their smiles were too genuine, too adoring.
Look at them. Our little misfits, brought together by a kinder fate than what they’d been shown before. They’ll make each other better; they already have.
Then, with a burst of confidence, I reached down and grabbed her hand in mine. Our difference in height made it a little awkward, but that quickly settled into something nicer as I interlaced our fingers and held tight while we continued to walk toward the restaurant.
I had never held a girl’s hand like this before, and with a heart beating too loudly to notice if any of the onlookers gasped or snickered, I hoped she wouldn’t let go. Her fingers felt nice between mine; her palm, soft and small, felt good against mine. Walking alongside her, like we were a real couple in a world that had somehow given me a second chance, felt comfortable and as warm as the sunlight. And, God, I prayed she wouldn’t be bothered by my bravery and let go.
And I was happy to say, she never did.
***
When we got to the restaurant, we were seated toward the back. Momentarily, I questioned the hostess’s motives with a narrowed glare. Was she trying to relax the other diners by secluding the felon? Did she herself not want a clear shot of me wielding my steak knife? But as she laid out menus on the table, she winked at Ray and told her it was the nicest table in the place.
“Way quieter and more romantic than over there,” she said, bumping her shoulder against my date’s. Then, she looked up at me, her smile beaming brighter than any light in the place. “Enjoy your dinner, guys.”
Maybe it was time I stopped assuming everyone thought the worst of me.
“You’re friends?” I asked as I pulled out Ray’s chair—that was what guys on dates did, right?
She sat as she nodded. “She comes into the library a lot. She’s studying to be a teacher.”
I took my seat across from her and opened the menu. “What kind of teacher?”
“English, I think.”
An image of Mrs. Henderson came to mind, clouding my view of the list of appetizers and drinks. She had been the only teacher I could remember liking, the only one I could recall caring. There might’ve been more in my youth, but that wasn’t the time of my life when it mattered. I needed kindness then, I needed compassion, and she had given it to me—even if it had, at the time, fallen on deaf ears.
Then, I remembered that Ray had gone to the same school, so I asked, “Did you ever have Mrs. Henderson in high school?”
She smiled with instant recollection. “Oh my God, yes! Wow. Yeah … I haven’t thought of her in forever. She was so sweet.”
“She was,” I agreed. “I had the dumbest crush on her. But I think part of that was because she was so nice to me when nobody else was.”