“He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.” —HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 3
I can’t believe how easy it is to talk to Mick. Easier, even, than talking to Katie. Katie’s fun and we’ve been friends since kindergarten, but we’re really different. She thinks I put too much energy into school and Theater Workshop when I could be out at the clubs with her. I think she likes making me feel she’s cooler and more mature than I am.
Mick stays next to me on the banquette. I love how he watches my face. He’s interested in everything I say and think. When I tell him I can barely remember my dad and how my mom won’t talk about him, Mick squeezes my hand. “That must’ve been rough—growing up without a dad. Especially for a little joey.”
“A joey?” The word makes me laugh.
“I keep forgetting you’re not an Aussie,” Mick says. “A joey is a baby kangaroo.”
“I’ve never heard that word before.”
“How do you like it?” I know he means the word joey, but it also feels like a bigger question—like he wants to know if I like being here with him.
“I like it. A lot.”
Mick takes off his fedora and rubs his forehead. When he catches me watching him, he puts the fedora back on.
I think it’s cute that he’s self-conscious about his hairline.
Mick says he understands what things must have been like for me. He was seventeen when his father died of a heart attack. Mick says that before he got into directing, when he was in acting school in Melbourne, he used to summon up the grief he felt after his father’s death.
“I used that grief—that sense I’d been abandoned. I found a way to transform it into something else. You’ll do that too, Iris. You’ve already begun doing it.”
When Mick says that, it’s as if something buried inside me starts to come to life again. There’s a stirring in my chest. I’ve felt the same way as Mick—abandoned. Why hasn’t my father tried to stay in touch with me all these years? Can he have forgotten his own daughter’s existence?
I want Mick to know how much what he’s just said matters to me, so I say, “I guess I always felt kind of sorry for myself. For not knowing my father the way other k— ” I stop myself from saying kids. I don’t want Mick to think of me that way. “The way other people do. What you just said…it really means a lot. It makes me think that, in a way, the stuff I’ve gone through has had a purpose. Maybe I can summon that grief…that sense of being abandoned…and transform it into something else.” It’s only after I say those words that I realize they’re the very same ones Mick just used. He doesn’t seem to think that’s a bad thing. He just nods and smiles, as if I’ve said something really deep.
“You know what, Iris?” he says when we finally get up to leave the café. “Being with you makes me feel everything is possible.” He takes my hand, then lets it go, as if he’s changed his mind and decided that holding my hand isn’t the best idea. “You make me feel like a kid again.” I can still feel the cool dry touch of his fingers. I want him to hold my hand and not let go this time.
“You’re not old, Mick,” I say, dropping my voice.
“I feel old. Compared to you.”
Except for two worry lines—small train tracks—over the bridge of his nose, Mick’s face is smooth. Only his hairline and his eyes hint that he’s a lot older than me. When I look into his eyes, I can feel he’s been through a lot. Felt a lot. Seeing that makes me feel closer to him. Is this what falling in love feels like? I know I’ve never felt this way around Tommy.
“How old do you think I am?” Now Mick’s tone is playful, teasing.
I’ve never been good at guessing anyone’s age. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. “Well, you’ve got a kid. So you must be at least…I don’t know…” I do the math in my head. “Twenty-two.”
My guess makes Mick laugh. “Twenty-two? That would be sweet.” But he doesn’t say how old he is.
“I could take the metro,” I tell Mick when he offers again to drive me home.
Mick insists. He’s staying in a furnished loft in an apartment building a few blocks from where Mom and I live. He’s also rented a Jeep with a camo paint job. He comes over to my side to help me step up into it. Again, he takes my hand, but only for a few seconds.
Maybe driving super slow is another Aussie thing. The closer he gets to my street, the more slowly Mick goes. The Jeep has a stick shift, so he needs both hands to drive. “Do you drive a Jeep in Melbourne too?”
“Yup. And always a stick. You get more control with a stick. Which I happen to enjoy. A lot.”
“You don’t have to take me to the door,” I say when he’s turning the corner to our street. It’s not just that I don’t want him going out of his way. It’s also that I’m not sure how my mom would feel if she happened to be looking out the window and saw Mick and me together.
Mick doesn’t ask me to explain. He pulls the Jeep over to the side of the road. When he puts his hand on mine, I swear I can feel his pulse in his fingers. It’s like I’m holding his heart. “I know this might sound crazy,” he says, “but I really want to get to know you better, Iris.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy,” I manage to say.
“Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”
“That’d be—” Something catches in my throat. Me, having dinner with this totally cool, totally hot guy? “—awesome.”
I notice more crinkly lines around Mick’s eyes when he smiles. They suit him.
“This Friday, then. Eight PM. I’ll meet you here,” he says, looking up at the house where he’s stopped. Mick’s not asking me; he’s telling me. I like the way he takes charge, the way he wants to look after me.
“Okay.” I don’t want to move my hand away. Ever.
That’s when I realize I want Mick to kiss me. Really kiss me. I wonder if he can tell that too. If he does, he doesn’t do anything about it.
He’s the one to take his hand away first. “One more thing,” he calls out as I step out of the car. His voice has turned a little gruff, making it even sexier. “Let’s not tell anyone about this, Joey. Got that?” Again, it’s not a question.
“Got it. And thanks so much for the dress. Really, Mick, you shouldn’t have.”
What is it about Mick’s telling me—warning me, really—not to tell anyone about us that bothers me? It doesn’t make any sense. I’m the one who didn’t want him dropping me off in front of my house. Besides, who would I tell? Katie would never believe me.
I don’t want to think about that. I want to think about how amazing Mick’s hand felt on mine. And I want to imagine what it would be like to kiss him. The thought is so delicious and distracting that for a second I lose my footing and nearly fall off the sidewalk.