HOLLY
Joe and I spent much of Saturday texting, which was fun. We also decided to Facebook and Google stalk each other, which was even more fun.
You got to meet the prime minister of Canada?
I did. It was a fluke—I was guest starring on a show the week he came to Vancouver. You’ve been to the Gobi Desert? Impressive.
Not really. I was shooting a car commercial. And it was so cold, my snot froze.
Charming.
Hey, if you were a date, I would be much more genteel.
I had a blast learning all about him and seeing all of his pictures. I found some intriguing ones of his last commercial.
You worked with sharks? What was that like? Did you get to swim with them?
Yes. And I’m kind of chuckling right now. The difference between men and women: My male friends were impressed that I worked with Margot Robbie. You’re impressed with Jaws.
Very. And I’m so jealous. I was recently asked what I would do if I knew I couldn’t fail, and I said swim with sharks.
You’re a strange and wonderful woman.
As much fun as I was having, I specifically didn’t talk to him on the phone that day. This was intentional. There was a small part of me that had thought about kissing him Friday night, and I needed to silence that part of me. But texting seemed okay. Until Saturday night, while I was at work, and he wrote this:
Hey, you don’t have to be at work until 4 on Sunday, right?
Actually, we open at 3 on Sundays, so I need to be in at 2. Why?
Any chance your friends could cover for you for the first few hours?
I glanced at the text while I was behind the bar listening to Chris and Nat spar.
“So you’re telling me you would spend five hundred dollars on a blender,” Chris asked in dismay.
“If I was the maid of honor and my sister registered for it, yes,” Nat insisted.
“It’s a blender. Forget it, I’m giving her cash.”
“Of course you are. Because nothing says, ‘I don’t know a thing about you,’ quite like cash.”
At the time, I decided to suppress the urge to blurt out, “You guys are so going to hate fuck.” Instead I asked Nat, “Is there any chance you guys might be able to cover for me for a few hours Sunday?”
Jessie was suddenly beside me excitedly asking, “Why? Do you have a date?”
“How did you … No.”
“Then why are you looking at your phone?”
“Look, can you cover for me or not?” I snapped.
Fortunately, Nat saved me without requiring further explanation by saying, “Jess, leave her alone. And yes we can. Have fun, whatever you’re doing.”
I happily typed …
I’m good to go.
Awesome. We’re going somewhere casual. Wear a swimsuit under your clothes. Oh, and bring rock shoes.
Wow. It’s a nondate, and the man is still trying to get me out of my clothes. Why on earth do I need rock shoes?
(1) I said “Under your clothes.” I’ll pick you up at 10. (2) Not telling.
I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out where he was taking me.
Sunday morning, I spend about half an hour getting ready and debating which swimsuit to wear. I have a hot pink bikini that I really love. But when I try it on and look in the mirror, all I can see is my stomach protruding out like I’m two months along. I quickly change into a dark blue one-piece, which pushes everything in but makes my hips look huge. Next, I change into a pastel blue bikini top with matching swim skirt, which looks ridiculous. Why did I ever buy this? What idiot designer said, “You know what women really need when they’re swimming? A skirt to float up around them and make them feel like the hippo ballerina in Fantasia?”
I change back into the hot pink bikini, but add a cute light pink cover-up. I throw my rock shoes into my bag, but wear sparkly sandals that show off my pretty pedicure. Then I spend at least fifteen minutes on makeup, and I’m good to go when Joe rings my bell at exactly ten A.M.
The second I open the door, I wish I had spent a little more time on my makeup. I hate myself for thinking this, but damn! He looks cute. Nothing noteworthy about the outfit, just a dark blue T-shirt with khaki swim trunks and black rock shoes. But it shows off his semi athletic build: you know, in shape but not Schwarzeneggery about it or anything.
“Hi,” I say, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Am I dressed appropriately?”
“You are, and you look amazing.”
“Thank you. You too.” I hold up my straw beach bag, “Rock shoes are in the bag.”
As we head out and I lock the door behind me, I once again ask, “So, will you tell me now?”
“Nope. I said it was a surprise.”
“But I hate surprises,” I tell him as we walk out to his car.
“Why?”
“Because I’m neurotic and need total control over everything in my world at all times.”
“So naturally, you became an actress,” he jokes.
“That’s the neurotic part. Speaking of neurotic…” As we walk past Sven’s apartment, I grab Joe’s hand, pick up my pace, and command, “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”
Over the weekend, I told Joe every (nongraphic) detail about my disastrous night with Sven and even described how I’ve been avoiding him with the maturity of a fifteen-year-old.
Joe and I hightail it to the curb and stop in front of a bright blue Mercedes-Benz. “Wait, this is your car?”
He sighs. “You hate Mercedes.”
“No, I hate white BMWs,” I tell him. “A blue Mercedes is okay. I mean, ridiculously overpriced—”
“I’m sorry—am I sleeping with you?” Joe interrupts.
“What?” I ask, a little thrown.
He smiles and repeats his question, slower this time. “Am. I. Sleeping with you?”
“No,” I answer, a little offended.
“Then you don’t get to make fun of me for my car,” he says jokingly, as he opens my door for me.
“Touché,” I concede.
He walks around his car, gets in and turns on the ignition with the press of a button.
“It’s a hybrid,” I say, a little surprised.
“It is. And in your favorite color.”
As Joe pulls his car into the street, I ask, “How did you know blue was my favorite color? That can’t be on Google.”
“You told me after I told you my favorite color was plaid,” he tells me, referring to one of our many text conversations. “And speaking of things you told me … Behold!” Joe turns on his radio, and a screen pops up on his dashboard showing his Bluetooth has connected to his iPhone. Joe presses the square that reads “Playlist for Holly.”
And on comes Panic! at the Disco’s “I Write Sins Not Tragedies.”
“Whoa!” I squeal like a teenage girl. “You made me a mix tape!”
“I did. Not one song I would normally listen to on my own. Everything from Taylor Swift to *NSYNC … Pretty much if an artist could be asked to perform during the Super Bowl halftime show, it’s on there.”
I press the button on his screen to read the list. “Oh, Madonna! Where on earth did you find ‘Causing a Commotion’?”
“iTunes. I also found that song you mentioned from Morris Day and the Time. I kind of liked that one—sounded like Bruno Mars.”
“You like Bruno Mars?” I ask.
“He’s all right. Not as much as the Arctic Monkeys, but good.”
“Did I request the Arctic Monkeys?” I ask.
“Well, when one of their songs came on at the diner, you said you liked them, so … let’s say you did.”
* * *
An hour of midlevel Los Angeles traffic later we are on the 710 heading toward Long Beach. Joe pulls into the left lane, heading toward downtown.
I am intrigued. “Are we going to the pier?”
“Sort of,” he says, and pulls into a multi-tiered parking structure for the Aquarium of the Pacific.
“Hey, I’ve always wanted to come here,” I say, my face lighting up. “Do you know they have otters here?”
“Really? They also have sharks,” Joe tells me, giving me a smile.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait. This wouldn’t have anything to do with my wanting to swim with sharks, would it?”
He shrugs playfully. “Maybe.”
It totally did. On Sundays, the aquarium does what they call “Animal Encounters.” For a fee, you can go behind the scenes of the exhibits and interact with sea lions, penguins, sea otters, or (drumroll, please…) sharks.
As Joe and I sign liability waivers, I share my fear of sharks with our guide for the tour. She quickly calms me down by pointing out that there are over four hundred different species of sharks, but only ten to twelve of them are actually dangerous to humans. I tell her that makes me feel better, but in my head I’m hearing John Williams’s score from Jaws.
Well, if you can’t conquer the fear, feel the fear.
Our guide soon takes us on a behind-the-scenes tour, where we learn what it takes to care for and feed the many different types of sharks who call this home. We also get the opportunity to feed cownose rays and target feed trained bonnethead sharks.
Next, we are on to the main event: the big shark tank.
Okay, so we don’t scuba-dive into the huge tank filled with blacktip and whitetip reef sharks, and sand tiger sharks. What are we—mental?
Instead, we go to the shallow holding area (also knows as the husbandry area), off to the side of the large tank, which is about waist deep in water.
First, our guide puts out fish to try and coax a particular zebra shark into visiting us, and we watch a blacktip shark swim through, grab the food, and swim out. Eventually, a spotted shark slowly ambles in.
As the shark slowly swims around her, our guide closes the gate between the big tank and the holding area, then invites us to come in.
The zebra shark is actually spotted, not striped. If I had to guess, I would have called her a leopard shark, and I would be right. Scientists originally gave zebra sharks their name because when they are babies, they have stripes. Eventually, as they mature, their stripes disappear and spots begin to appear. Hence the confusion.
For the most part, zebra sharks are not dangerous to humans. There has only ever been one case of an unprovoked attack. These are odds I am willing to chance as Joe and I step in.
“Take a quick swim now,” Joe jokes, as the water is only waist deep. I kneel and mock-swim over to my guide.
And now, despite my fear, I have officially swum with sharks.
We are soon allowed to feed the shark (a female) with the help of light blue tongs holding larger pieces of fish that she seems to slurp in like a vacuum.
I ask Joe if he wants to take a turn feeding the shark, but he is too busy with his GoPro. “Come on,” I prod. “Are you going to live your life or film your life?”
“Fine,” he says, handing me the camera so I can film him feeding her. Our guide then turns the shark over and Joe rubs her belly (the shark’s, not the guide’s).
The tour is soon over (boo…). We thank our guide and head to our respective locker rooms for showers.
Half an hour later, I am practically dancing as we pass an aquarium of otters. “I can’t believe we did that!” I tell Joe. “I can’t believe you knew how to do that!”
“What can I say? I’m a man of many surprises.”
“I just realized,” I say as I watch an otter flip out of the water and onto a pile of ice cubes, “I never asked you: If you knew you couldn’t fail, what’s the one thing you would do?”
Joe watches a mother holding a baby at her side and being pulled by an excited toddler in a bright red dress. “Not sure. I think I’ve tried all of the things that are really important to me. Workwise, anyway.”
“What about in your personal life? Somewhere you’re dying to travel to?”
He gives me a weird look. “Actually, I want that,” he says, pointing to the mother.
“Pretty sure she’s taken,” I joke.
He raises his eyebrows as if to say, Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. But we both know what he meant.
“So kids,” I say. “Good for you. Have a number in mind?”
“I used to want all boys. Now I think I’d like to have a boy and then a girl. But I’m the oldest, with a younger sister, so that probably just shows a complete lack of imagination on my part. You?”
“I’ve always wanted three. I grew up an only child, and I always wished I had a sister.”
He nods. “Two girls and a boy, or all three girls?”
“My dad used to say, ‘I never cared. I just didn’t want a seven-pound foot.’”
“You had a very wise dad.”
“I guess I did,” I say proudly, but with a teeny bit of sadness washing over me. Which is a shame, because I’m having such a good day. “He’d have liked you,” I tell Joe. “You remind me a little of him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then quickly add, “But not the bald part. I like that you have hair.”
“I like that I have hair too,” he says, then stands up and puts out his hand to help me up. “You know what we should have for lunch? Ice cream.”
“They have ice cream here?”
“They do. Let’s grab some and keep walking.”
So we have ice cream for lunch and then see a room full of jellyfish, tanks and tanks of tropical fish, and a tunnel that goes through the seal tank. There is nothing more soothing than watching a seal glide past you on an easygoing Sunday.
Soon we have to leave. Sad emoticon.
On the trip back, I stare contentedly into space, listening to my music and being very happy to find such a cool new friend.
And then a song comes on that I recognize but can’t quite place. The song from the diner by…? What did Joe call them? The Arctic Monkeys?
As the song continues, I realize he is ever so quietly singing along. “I’m sorry to interrupt, it’s just I’m constantly on the cusp of try-ing to kiss you. But I don’t know if you feel the same as I do.”
He looks over to see me watching him, and smiles.
Then he stops singing.
“You can keep singing, you know,” I tell him.
“Nah. It just sort of slipped out. I don’t really sing.”
“Okay,” I say pleasantly, smiling and looking at L.A.’s downtown skyline ahead.
Twenty minutes later, Joe is dropping me off at the bar. “I had an amazing time today,” I tell him as I grab my bag filled with the change of clothes I need for work. “Do you have time to come in for a drink?”
“I actually have an eight-hour workday ahead of me,” he says (apologetically?) “I’m in preproduction and probably should not have taken today off. But they only do the tour on Sundays, and I couldn’t wait to bring you.”
Rats.
“Okay, well…” Hmmm … Should I kiss him good-bye? “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?”
He nods. “Absolutely. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“And I’m buying, right?”
He smiles. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”
“I’m buying!” I repeat.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t make me call my new friends the sharks to convince you.”
He laughs. “Okay, fine. You can buy me dinner.”
I stare at him, hoping he’ll be able to read my thoughts and kiss me.
He just stares back.
Finally, I give up. “Okay, bye,” I say, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, then quickly getting out of his car. He watches me use my key to go in the back way. I turn and wave to him, and watch him pull away.
Less than five minutes later, I use Jessie’s computer to download the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by the Arctic Monkeys.
It’s on our (now almost) all-girl playlist five minutes after that.
Sunday night, I play it over and over again until I fall asleep.