“I don’t want things to be awkward between us. I misread the situation. I overstepped a boundary. And you—”
“I wasn’t ready!” I turn toward him, balling my fists with so much pent up energy and anxiety. After a twelve-hour day, that’s pretty much my norm. But the anxiety doubled as soon as he said my name.
He has on blue pants and a white button-down with gray canvas shoes and a look of total confusion as he stands at the back of my car. “What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t ready for the pasta to taste good. Or to discover you live off Skyline Drive, where I’ve wanted to live my whole life—but my dad’s knees are not great, so I chose a flatter location. And I wasn’t ready to flirt. And I definitely wasn’t ready for you to kiss me. I just …” My fingernails dig into my palms. “I wasn’t ready.”
I remain quiet, just long enough to make my rambling as awkward as my corpse kiss.
“Wasn’t ready or didn’t want it?”
I force myself to make eye contact with him. “Wasn’t ready.”
“Do you plan everything?”
“No. I just like to be prepared.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Uh …” I jerk my head back. “Yes. I don’t plan on there being leftovers in the fridge when I get home, but I’m always prepared to eat them. I don’t plan on getting a flat tire, but I’m prepared with my roadside assistance membership in case it does happen.”
He rubs his lips together, nodding slowly. “You’re just not prepared for men to kiss you.”
“If I’m on a date, then I would be prepared. Lip balm, mint gum, sizing up the height difference, calculating the probability of it going past a kiss. I wouldn’t plan on it, but I would definitely be prepared for it.”
He tries to hide his grin, but I see it. And it makes me nervous because it feels mischievous. I don’t do well with mischief. It’s immune to all planning and preparation.
“Well, maybe you should prepare to be kissed.”
“When? Where? By whom?”
He turns, pulling his key fob from his pocket as he struts toward his sleek, blue Tesla. “Soon. Could be anywhere. And I sure as hell hope it’s me. Goodnight, Dorothy.”
Oh the anxiety …
* * *
“Mac and cheese in the fridge.” Mom smiles when I come in the door after my ninety-minute walk with Gemma, Orville, and Wilbur.
“Happy hour special?” I slip off my shoes.
“Yep.” She scoops up ice cream for her and Dad. “How was work?”
“Dr. Hawkins kissed … or tried to kiss me the other night. Like … out of nowhere. Not creepy rapist out of nowhere. He just planned a date and failed to mention it was a date date and not a playdate, and then BOOM! I get in my car, he ducks his head in, and kisses me! Can you believe that?”
Mom halts mid scoop, unblinking.
“But I wasn’t ready. And I was so mad that he did it when I wasn’t ready. It made me look like the world’s worst kisser because I just froze, completely unmoving. The one doctor who is not only very hot but wears normal shoes tried to kiss me. So I told him. Tonight after work, I told him I wasn’t ready. And you know what he said?”
Mom blinks once. No nod. Just a single blink.
“He told me to prepare to be kissed. How am I supposed to do that if he doesn’t tell me when and where? Am I just supposed to walk around the hospital all day doing my job and have myself ready to be kissed by him? Why? Why would he do that to me?”
“Are you done?” Mom gives me a tiny smirk.
“Yes …” I sigh.
“I know you don’t like to hear this, but you’re overreacting. You didn’t screw up. Clearly, if he told you to prepare to be kissed, then he wants to give it another shot. And a lot of people, women in particular, like spontaneity. I do, but your dad doesn’t know what that means. He asks me at three-thirty in the afternoon if I want to have sex that night. Maybe that’s great for you. Maybe you need that, but most women don’t. So a guy just kissing you is a really great thing … as long as it’s not the creepy rapist thing you mentioned.”
I don’t need a 3:30 p.m. warning that a kiss will happen later that night, nor do I need to know more about my parents’ sex life.