When the day of the date finally arrived, I was almost looking forward to it, almost. Cammie set up a grooming station at her study desk (which unfortunately had never been used for studying), and I sat obediently like a chimp, while she groomed me. She picked at my hair, buffed my nails, and dabbed obscene smelling potions on my face. When she started lecturing me on safe sex, I jammed my headphones into my ears and turned the volume on high.
At exactly seven fifty-five, there was a polite tap, tap, tap on the door. Cammie jumped up and down, her face grotesquely frozen in silent screams.
“He’s actually going to be in our room!” she hissed, dancing over to the door. She ran a tube of pink gloss over her lips before unlatching the door.
I stood back while slutty mother freshman let our date in.
“Oh, hello,” she said casually. “I’m Cammie,” she offered him her hand and he shook it smiling politely. When his eyes found me he did a double take. I looked nice. Cammie had outdone herself. I was wearing jeans and a slinky cashmere sweater that slipped off one shoulder. My hair, as usual, hung in ropey waves to my waist, but Cammie had taken the time to style a poof and spritz it with sinful amounts of hairspray.
“Well, let’s go then,” I said, walking past him and out into the hall. I turned to watch him say goodbye to Cammie.
“I won’t have her back too late,” I heard him say.
“Oh, keep her out as long as you like,” she said in her southern drawl, “She needs a firm hand so don’t be afraid to use one.” She looked directly at me with that last statement. I made plans to sabotage her English Comp paper when I got back.
“She’s a character,” Caleb said as the door shut behind us.
I grimaced.
Understatement.
“She’s from Texas,” I said, as if that explained her behavior and then I blushed. Why did I say that? I looked up at his face to see him half smiling at me.
It took all of my self -control not to turn around and go back to my room. In the end, pride kept my feet moving. I didn’t want him to think that I couldn’t handle myself.
We passed two cheerleaders on our way to the elevator. Their eyes grew large when they caught sight of Caleb. He nodded at them politely, but kept moving, his hand on the small of my back. I tried to scoot away, but he was pretty adept at keeping it there.
“Do you take compliments?” he asked as we stepped into the elevator and I pressed the down button before he had the chance.
“If they’re original.”
He snickered and rolled his eyes.
“Okay, okay,” he said. He was trying not to laugh at the expression on my face. “Let’s see. You can kill with a smile, you can wound with your eyes….”
“That’s not original, that’s a Billy Joel song,” I interrupted. “And what kind of compliment is that anyway?”
We were walking toward his car. His hands were now in his pockets as we strolled casually.
“I’d say that song was written for you, but if you’re going to be picky…” his voice trailed off. “Do you want the jock to compliment you or the guy who reads Great Expectations?”
“Both.” I was trying to appear like I wasn’t enjoying this little exchange but I could already feel my shoulders relaxing, and now that his hand wasn’t on my back, I could think again. We reached his car and I stood at the door with my back to him, waiting for him to unlock it.
“Whether I’m standing behind you or facing you, the view’s pretty nice,” he said.
I felt my face flush as the automatic locks clicked and he held the door open for me. I could hear the suppressed laughter in his voice so I climbed in without a word. I had never met anyone so intent on making me feel uncomfortable. He took his time walking around the car. I watched him intently. He was wearing another one of those impressively well put together outfits.
I sank into the seat and breathed in the scent of his cologne. It permeated the leather seats like skin, making it smell like he was everywhere. The smell was Christmassy, like Douglas firs and Bergamot oranges. I liked it.
“Put your seatbelt on,” he said, sliding in the driver’s seat.
I pursed my lips. No way. He was not going to order me around.
“I’m not putting it on.” The restored VW Bug that I owned didn’t even have seatbelts. One of its previous owners had cut them out. I silently chided myself for not taking my own car.
Caleb raised an eyebrow, something I was starting to notice he did quite often.
“Suit yourself,” he said shrugging. “If we come to any fast stops, I’ll just reach out my arm like this to stop you from jerking forward.” He illustrated his point by extending his arm across my chest where it came in direct contact with my B-cups.
I put my seat belt on. He didn’t even try not to smile.
“Where are we going anyway?” I asked bitterly. Hopefully, we could make this quick and I could be back to my room in time to watch Grey's Anatomy. Handsome, fictional men were so much easier to stomach than real life ones who smelled of Christmas and looked like a Calvin Klein model.
“To my favorite date spot.” He looked over at me as his hands shifted gears and I felt unwelcome warmth in my belly. I had a hand fetish. His hands were big, probably beneficial for that stupid sport he played. His were the kind of hands that made wedding rings look sexy—tan with vein lines that ran like snaking rivers to his wrist and disappeared under his sleeves.