really thinking about what he
was saying. He held his hand out for her so she could lift herself up.
Gretchen laughed; God, she had so many different kinds of cute
laughs. “Wow, I wasn’t even sure this was a date, but now that you’ve
complimented my butt I think it might be.” She took his hand and
lifted herself up.
Dave felt himself blush. Her hand was still cupped in his as they
walked across the harbor toward the aquarium. He could feel her
turquoise ring pressing against his fingers, the cool touch of metal
standing out against the warmth of their palms. It was hard to
think of anything to say, and Dave worried that he might just stare
at their hands the rest of the walk, so he unclasped his fingers from
hers and pointed out the bubble tea stand. “If you go there, never get
the blackberry flavor. It tastes like licorice that’s been sitting in dirty laundry for a week.”
“You’ve tasted laundry-marinated licorice?”
“My dad likes to experiment in the kitchen,” Dave said, his eyes
still on the bubble tea stand. Even as the feel of Gretchen’s hand
lingered on his, Julia was in the back of his mind, all those times he’d 118 NEVER ALWAYS SOMETIMES
shared bubble tea with her, the ease with which they reached for each
other’s drinks, so comfortable in each other’s presence that they didn’t even have to acknowledge it was happening. He wondered if he’d ever
reach that level of comfort with Gretchen, or with anyone else at all.
The aquarium was nearly empty. There was a young dad showing
his daughter around, lifting her in his arms so she could press her
nose against the glass and watch the sharks swim in their elegant
way. A couple in their sixties sat on a bench eating sandwiches by the
jellyfish. The bare lighting inside the aquarium made it seem like it
was much later in the evening than it was, and in most of the rooms it
was just Dave and Gretchen on their own, free to talk.
They talked about things that Dave imagined people on first
(maybe?) dates always talked about, favorite this or that, a story here
or there, following the conversations down their natural tangents. As
they watched the fish and the sea otters, making jokes and interviewing
each other, Dave learned the following: that she volunteered at a
hospice one weekend a month solely because she wanted to live by
the words she’d tattooed on her neck. That she always had to joke
about death for weeks after she left or she wouldn’t have the heart
to return. That she had an eight-year-old brother with Asperger’s.
That she smelled like honey. That she had no idea what she wanted
to study at school, and hadn’t even made a decision on where she was
going yet. That she didn’t like apples, and didn’t understand why she’d
never met anyone else that shared her distaste for them in all their
varieties. That she made soft little moans of appreciation when faced
DAVE 119
with brightly colored fish, and that her eyes would never stray from
one she found particularly appealing, not until the fish disappeared
into a little cove in the coral or until Dave put a hand on her back
and gently moved them along to the next room. That she loved
driving, and sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she’d drive around
neighborhoods late at night, counting how many lights were left on,
how many TVs still flashed bright and blue, how many other cars
were on the road. That sometimes she did this without even listening
to music, because she liked how the silence calmed her thoughts.
When Dave told her that he’d never learned to drive, she decided
that it was the end of their aquarium tour. She grabbed his hand,
effortlessly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and led him
toward the exit.
They got into her car and drove to the mall’s parking lot, which was
the largest one around. The stores were all closing by then, the last of the shoppers straggling to their cars holding their bags wearily, keys
in hand reflecting the orange glow of parking-lot lights. Gretchen
parked the car at the edge of the lot and they switched spots.
“Are you sure about this? I don’t want to wreck your car.”
In the passenger seat, Gretchen buckled her seat belt. “That should
answer your question.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“I happen to be a pretty good teacher. Just don’t kill us.”
Dave tensed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Okay, aiming
for no deaths. Got it. What do I do now?”
120 NEVER ALWAYS SOMETIMES
“Shift into drive.”
“You’re losing me.”
“The stick on your right,” Gretchen said, “move it next to the
letter D.”
“Which one is D? Did I