We’ve turned into that annoying couple you see in public.
After we get churros, Henry rips off pieces and feeds them to me. At one point, my tongue grazes his thumb, and Henry waggles a finger at me.
“Naughty,” Henry says. “However, feel free to lick me again. Anytime.”
Not sure what possesses me, but I lick his ear, and he squirms with ticklishness and then he licks me back on my cheek.
If this isn’t some weird mating ritual, I don’t know what is.
This delicious treat is erasing all the drama of earlier—the stopped ride, the wave that nailed Henry, our teenage nemesis. It even makes me forget that I’m leaving.
My heart aches that this might be the only date I have with Henry.
A man I was convinced I wasn’t going to like. A man I agreed to go on a date with because I was sure it wouldn’t work out.
Henry travels the world, unattached, free to go where he pleases, and codes when he feels like it. His life sounds so romantic, but it also sounds like it has no room for me. Plus Henry is right; long-distance relationships aren’t ideal. I was in one when I was a foreign exchange student in Paris, and it was so hard. It inevitably crumbled under the pressure, and then I had a very fun three months being single in my favorite city in the world. Henry broke up with someone before even attempting long distance. I assume he dated her for longer than a day. What hope did I have?
“What are you thinking about?” Henry asks, dipping his churro into a tub of chocolate sauce.
“How I’m leaving. How I’m having such a good time with you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, chewing, looking off into dead space. He turns back. “I was skeptical when Erin insisted I meet you. I told myself, ‘there is no way this will work.’ I mean, look at you.”
“You could totally get it,” I say, leaning in. He leans in too, and we give each other a whisper of a kiss. I taste the sugar and cinnamon on his lips, and I try to catalog this memory forever.
The opening guitar chords of “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus play over the intercoms, and Henry freezes like a prairie dog.
“This is my jam,” he says, standing up. He offers a hand to me, and I slap mine with his. He leads me while dancing to the middle of a gazebo next to the eating area. Dancing in public can be nerve-wracking, but I don’t care.
It’s with Henry.
He grabs my hands and swings our arms together. He’s mouthing every word, and I join him, singing to him, badly. When the chorus plays, we throw our hands up, we nod our heads, we swing our hips. Henry was hustling earlier. He is a great dancer.
“How come you don’t dance with me in public like that, Josh?” a familiar voice says next to us. We turn and see Josh and Diana looking as happy as a couple in a waiting room at marriage counseling.
“Come on, Josh and Diana,” Henry yells, ushering them over.
“Wait, how do you know our names?” Diana asks with crossed arms.
“High school,” Henry lies and motions again. “Come on!”
Josh begrudgingly stands up after Diana basically rips his arm out. They join us as the chorus circles back and we mimic our hands in the air, the nodding, the hip shaking.
I look at Henry and smile as he takes me, dips me gracefully, and kisses me.
Am I in a musical? Am I in a romantic comedy?
He got Diana’s Josh to dance. It’s an amusement park miracle.
As the song winds down, I look at him. He’s flailing, like he said he did while we were stuck. He doesn’t care that it’s not an “appropriate” way to dance. He just wants to.
That’s how I live my life. I’ve never been someone who saves energy for the swim back, worried about drowning. I’ve always gone as hard as possible, giving my all, until I’m exhausted and spent.
Part of me wants to warn myself of the heartbreak to come if I throw myself into this. But I just don’t care right now.
I grab his face for a kiss, languidly slow as the song flips to the next one. He lifts my hair from my neck and laces my strands between his fingers. I sigh against his lips. He pulls away and looks into my eyes.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Henry asks.
I nod, and he smiles, pressing his lips to mine again. His kisses send shots of fireworks throughout my body, and the thought of being alone with him, away from this amusement park, thrills me to my toes.
We high-five Josh and Diana before walking out of the gazebo, back to my purse and our trays of trash.
“Let me tell Erin I’m not coming home with them,” I say. Henry nods once and takes the trays to throw them away.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket.
Me: Don’t worry about us for a ride home.
The bubble for her typing pops up immediately.
Erin: I was right, wasn’t I?!
Me: Yes.
Erin: Tell me everything at brunch tomorrow. Take detailed notes. Create a PowerPoint.
I laugh since PowerPoints are more my sister’s thing, not mine.
Me: Will do.
Henry grabs my hand as we exit Thrill Mountain, thanking the employees at the entrance. I fish out the leftover vouchers we received for being stuck on the roller coaster and hand them to a confused woman by the exit.
“I’m parked way out there,” Henry says, and I don’t respond. Anything to spend more time with him.
“Did you keep a car while you were in Singapore?”
Henry nods. “I lent it to my friend, and I just got it back. My condo has parking included.”
“I’m jealous. I’ll have to get a car when I go home. I haven’t driven in, like, a year.”
We walk leisurely, our interconnected hands swinging between us. Henry quietly asks, “Do you really have to leave?”
He turns his head and his eyes laser into me, but no matter how much I want to stay, no matter how much San Francisco feels like home to me, it’s time to be serious. Going back to Goldheart will center me, help me figure out what to do with the rest of my life. So when I meet a man like Henry in the future, I can give my whole heart. The timing will be better. I will be better.
It just sucks that we found each other now.
“It’s time to go home,” I say.
“I understand that,” Henry says. “The traveling was fun for a while. Now, I don’t know. I like the idea of staying put for a while. But I might take off again. Who knows.”
We find his car, a modest white sedan, and he opens my car door. I can’t remember the last time a guy did that for me. When he sits down in the driver seat, he syncs up his phone to the stereo and turns on the car.
“Just between you and me, I’m relieved to be out of that park.”
“Oh, me too. It’s so not my thing.”
“Me either. You know this, but Erin can be persuasive.”
“Yeah,” I say. “She wants details of what happens tonight.”
“Of course she does,” Henry says. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”
“Perfect,” I say. His smile simmers into a hungry gaze, and I bite my lip.
Oh, he’s totally getting laid tonight.
He pulls out of the parking lot of Thrill Mountain, and my excitement mounts.
I’m surprised with how light traffic is going back into the city. We arrive at his condo building in Potrero Hill, and we pull into an underground parking garage to a numbered spot. It’s the equivalent of Henry flashing several hundred dollar bills, since nothing is a flex in San Francisco like having parking for a car.
I would kill to live in a building like Henry’s. Sleek and modern, it seems to fit Henry’s personality, and I cannot wait to see the inside. We walk up two flights of stairs to his unit. When he unlocks his door, I beeline to the window. His condo feels like a well-kept secret that overlooks a courtyard with benches and trees.
His condo is a studio, sparse and bare. Nothing hangs on the walls, and the only furniture is a yellow couch, a queen-sized bed and a glass coffee table. The only clutter is his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. There’s a small dog crate in the corner.
“Do you have a dog?” I ask.
“Well, kinda,” he says. “I inherited a French bulldog from an old roommate before I lived with Landon. That dog has been living with my parents for the last year, and I think it’s my mom’s dog now.”
I giggle, and he wraps his arms tentatively around my waist.
“So, what do you want to do?” Henry asks. “I have wine, and I think I have some cheese. There’s year-old M&M’s in my pantry…”
“Wine is great,” I say. Usually, I don’t get nervous when I go home with a man after a date, but this feels important since this probably will be the only time with Henry. I cross my arms and pace around the studio. If I sit down, the weight of the day and the ill-timing of this meeting might crush me.
He hands me a stemless glass of red wine, and I sip. Wow.
“This is really good,” I say. I hold it up and examine it.
“Thanks, it’s our old favorite,” Henry says. I give him a confused look, and he says, “Trader Joe’s.”
“Our favorite,” I say.
Henry sits down on his couch and pats the seat next to him. He rests his arm along the couch’s back and I sit against his arm. His fingers play with my shirt’s sleeve. My heart pounds as I look at him. How could I not be attracted to him from the very first moment? My mind is telling me to be reasonable and reminds me that I’m leaving, but my vagina is telling me to think about consequences later.
My decision is made for me when Henry leans in and kisses me, testing the waters. Our lips and tongues and breaths intertwine, and the way his hands rest tentatively on my skin makes me feel that there are no expectations tonight.
But I want to have sex with Henry.
I want to have sex with Henry very, very badly.
So I pull at the bottom of his shirt, and he stops my hand.
“I didn’t invite you back here tonight to sleep with you. I hope you know that.”
“Shut up and take my clothes off,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, lifting my shirt over my head.