I should be nervous. I mean, I am nervous, but I should be more nervous.
I’m on a date with Alex. A date with Alex. Old Jane would have been freaking out, frozen, stuttering, possibly sweating all over the place, gassy, you know, the attractive stuff.
Now I’m new Jane. New Jane has made out with Alex more times than she can count on her fingers and toes. New Jane is more concerned with getting into Alex’s pants than any conversational faux pas.
Is living in this time loop turning me into a sex fiend? Maybe I should slow it down, take it easy. I’m going to lose my mind from the lust. I need to focus on talking to Alex. Just talking. To learn more about him.
Things other than what he tastes like. The way his firm, lean, muscular form fits so perfectly with mine. The way he smells, especially the warm place where his shoulder meets his neck and smells like soap and man and sex.
My entire body flushes with heat.
Stop it, Jane.
“Golden Boy Pizza is around the corner. Have you been?” He motions down the street with a head tilt.
“No. Pizza sounds great.” Anything to distract me from the never-ending thrum of desire burning under my skin.
Our steps synchronize as we head down the hill, passing restaurants emptying out, nightclubs filling up, dark laundromats, and a smattering of convenience stores. The storefronts are topped with second-story apartments, all of their Victorian-style bay windows casting creamy light down onto the street.
We hook a left on Green Street, and there it is.
The Golden Pizza Boy building is bright red, the name of the restaurant scrawled around the top in antique lettering. A giant neon sign in the shape of a hand hangs from the roof, pointing inside.
The bar is on one side, and on the opposite side a long countertop runs the length of the wall with a number of stools set close together.
I order a slice of pizza at the bar, settling on clam and garlic. Maybe if I smell bad, I won’t jump Alex at every available opportunity. It’s protection from my own dark impulses.
Alex insists on paying even though he just gets a water, and I take my food over to sit on one of the available stools. He grabs the free seat next to it and faces me, one elbow resting on the narrow counter next to us. It’s cozy, squeezed in together with people all around us, our knees brushing with every movement.
Once I’m done stuffing in a few bites of delicious pizza, I enact the talk to Alex and get to know more about him than his hands and mouth and body plan.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say.
“What do you want to know?”
What do I want to know? I want the good and the bad. I already know most of his success stories, and I want more. I want the dark and twisty. I want it all. “What’s something embarrassing you’ve done recently?”
“We aren’t pulling any punches, are we?” But he laughs and rubs his hands together and watches me, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Okay, I got it. Yesterday, I found out my neighbor’s name is Jerry.” He takes a sip of water.
“How is that embarrassing?”
“I’ve been calling him Ben for a year and a half.”
I laugh. “Ben? How did you get it so wrong?”
“I think it was the ice cream. Ben and Jerry. I knew it was one of those.” He grins and I can’t help but chuckle in response. “Now your turn.” He nods at me. “Most embarrassing thing you’ve done recently. Go.”
I sigh. “I do something embarrassing every day.”
“Oh really? Trying to one-up me?”
I nudge his knee with mine. “You’ve seen me in action.”
“What, you mean talking in front of people? A lot of people are nervous about that. It’s no big deal.”
I shrug, heat crawling up my neck. We’ve talked about this before, but I’ve never shared this bit. I want to share it with Alex though, even though it’s embarrassing. “People at work, they would, they would . . . they would make comments.” I shovel in a big bite of pizza so I can focus on chewing.
It was more than comments. They would roll their eyes when I stood up to speak, or they would whisper to each other while I was speaking, or they would chat in the break room, loud enough that I could hear from my desk, about how they suffered secondhand embarrassment on my behalf every time I had to talk. Poor them.
His jaw tightens. “That’s a reflection on them, not you.”
I wave it off, uncomfortable and prickly. “It’s no big deal.” How did we start talking about me? This is supposed to be about Alex. “Enough about me. Give me more embarrassing stories. Don’t hold back.”
He laughs and I eat while he regales me with stories about tripping off the stage during a performance, barfing in the middle of his senior prom, and sitting in the wrong class his first day of college and not realizing it until it was half over.
See? This is why I want to climb him like a pole.
No, Jane. Garlic breath. Wait. Aren’t clams an aphrodisiac? Or is that oysters?
After I finish eating, we walk back up the hill to the Saloon, hand in hand.
The darkness is softened by the lights of the street, nearby windows shining with illumination. Across the street from the Saloon, Alex stops and faces me.
His eyes are dark and intent in the streetlights. I know what this means.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Thanks for coming to my show.” He steps closer.
I gaze up at him.
He leans down.
“Wait!” I pull back, one hand pressed to his chest. His firm, defined chest that leads down to lean hips and a trim waist.
No, Jane. Bad Jane.
“We can’t kiss. I have garlic breath.” I cover my mouth with one hand.
He smiles. “I love garlic.”
“Even garlic lovers don’t want to make out with garlic eaters. It’s one thing to have garlic on your pizza, it’s another to taste it in someone else’s mouth.”
He chuckles, but then pulls me closer.
“Hey, pickle juice!” someone yells.
Alex turns his head and I follow his gaze. It’s Leon, waving at us from the doorway of the Saloon.
“Pickle juice?” I ask out the side of my mouth.
“It’s a term of endearment,” says Alex.
“Really?”
“It comes from a drunken night when I suggested using pickle juice chasers for whiskey. It led to a naked incident involving lightsabers. Don’t ask.”
I face him. “I’m intrigued. You can’t leave me hanging on naked lightsabers.”
“It was just me and Leon, and . . . then my parents showed up.”
A car honks and we both jerk in the direction of the sound.
“Hey!” Leon yells at the driver, arms flung up in the air. The driver must have been coming around the corner and nearly run into Leon crossing the street.
A second later, Leon is on the sidewalk next to us. He slings an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “We got another gig booked next month.”
Alex groans.
“Wait, wait, he was just about to tell me about naked lightsabers.”
Leon’s grin disappears, his exuberant countenance flipping to solemnity in the space of a second. “We do not speak of that night.”
I glance between them. “But I need to know. Why naked lightsabers?”
Alex chuckles. “A more relevant question could be why not naked lightsabers?”
“I need to hear this story,” I say.
“No story,” Leon says. “We made a pact that night and it was written in blood.” He presses a fist to his chest, gazing off into the distance, his expression somber.
Alex grins at him. “I think we actually tried to write it in urine on my parents’ front lawn.”
Leon nods, still solemn. “Right.”
I burst out laughing.
“Tell me about this gig.” Alex slaps him on the shoulder. “So I can try to get out of it.”
Leon steps back, bouncing around and shaking off the serious demeanor. “C’mon, man, we’re getting better. We’re going to have our big break. I can feel it.”
“He keeps saying that,” Alex tells me.
“How long have you been performing together?” I ask.
They exchange a glance.
Alex sighs. “Ten long years,” he says, the same way someone might describe a prison sentence.
I laugh. “Really?”
“Leon!” One of the leggy blondes is standing at the door of the Saloon.
Leon waves at her and then tosses me a cheeky grin, a dimple appearing in one cheek. He walks backward, arms extended. “My fan group awaits.”
Alex shakes his head. “Our fan group is your sister. And her two friends.”
Leon points at Alex. “Still better than none. Nice to meet you finally, Jane,” he calls out before he turns and jogs back across the street.
I turn back to Alex. “He’s funny.”
“He’s the best.” He gives me a wry smile.
“How long have you been friends?”
“I’ve known Leon since second grade. We started the comedy-music thing in high school, just for fun. And no matter what I do, it just never ends.”
I laugh, and he smiles in response, stepping closer and weaving his fingers through mine, making my heart jump in my chest.
My smile drops and I swallow. “That’s amazing. I-I don’t have many friends.”
Eloise was my best friend, but I haven’t talked to her in months.
His brows dip and he steps closer. “I find that hard to believe. You’re easy to talk to.”
I look up at him, only inches away, his eyes dark and focused on my mouth. “I am?”
“Yeah.” His head tilts.
I lean into him.
Then I remember. Garlic clam sauce.
I jerk away. “Sorry, I uh . . .”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Can I give you a ride home?”
This is new. Normally, we part ways and I take a cab. For some reason, not making out right away means I get a little more time with Alex. Note to self.
“Yes. That would be great.”
Also next time, bring gum. Why did I want to not make out with him again? I can’t even remember anymore.
His truck is parked up the block, a refurbished classic, the bright blue paint shining under the street lamps—a fancy vintage Ford Bronco. It has to be from the 1970s or something. He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the vinyl bench seat. The interior is spotless and looks completely new, but it’s all analog displays. Nothing electronic in here.
“This is a great car.” It feels like Alex. Lavish, sure, but at the same time unpretentious. He’s not the Porsche or Lamborghini type.
“Thanks.” He turns the key, engine rumbling to life. “It was my first major purchase after we went big time.” He shoots me a grin before checking the mirrors and pulling onto the street.
“Did you buy anything else fun?”
“I bought my parents a house.”
“Wow.” I can’t even fathom that kind of success.
Jane, you just don’t fit.
I slap the voice away, focusing on directions to my apartment. There has to be a way to get him to come upstairs with me. I mean, that’s why he’s taking me, right? Isn’t that what people do?
He pulls the Bronco up under a dull streetlight in front of my squat, two-story apartment building, leaving the engine idling.
My stomach flip-flops. I twist my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “At the risk of sounding presumptuous, do you want to come upstairs and have a drink? I have . . . water?” And toothpaste. I can brush my teeth and then we can make out on my couch. Or on the floor. Or in my bed. Or hell, right here, I’m not picky.
But what would happen if he did stay the night? Would he disappear in the morning? What if he is the key, the one to make time move forward, the love the psychic was talking about? I can’t really say I’m in love with Alex right now, but I could see myself falling for him. Who wouldn’t? I mean, look at him. I turn in the seat to eye him straight on.
He’s smiling, eyes crinkled—and full of reluctant remorse. “I better not.”
“Are you sure?”
He slides closer to me, tipping my chin up to meet my eyes. “This is too important.”
I nod. “You’re right.” I guess.
“Can I take you out again? Tomorrow? This time I’ll eat with you. And we can get something without garlic.” His lopsided grin makes me melt all over.
I want to argue, to push him harder so he’ll come upstairs and push me harder.
But he’s too cute to argue with.
I laugh. “Sure. Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
Sigh.
Can sexual frustration actually kill you?