“And you stopped eating meat because of that?”
“I wanted to be healthier. And yes, I do indulge in ice cream and wine, but I figure if I keep the bulk of my meals on the lighter side, I’ll be better off. I’m not saying being a vegetarian is a hedge against health problems, and obviously I’m indulging in corn ravioli tonight, but in general, I try to eat differently than she did. She kept eating processed meat and pastries and drinking Frappuccinos right up until the end.”
“Were you close to her?”
I make a seesaw gesture. “In some ways, yes. In other ways, no. She never really understood my desire to write comedy. She wanted me to do something more practical. To write technical manuals or press releases. She worried that I’d never have a stable job.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“Oh, it’s fairly accurate, but at the same time that’s the risk in my field, and I was willing to take it.”
He nods thoughtfully as he chews. “Would you consider yourself a risk-taker?”
I let that question rattle around before I answer. “I always wear a helmet when riding my bike, I don’t text and drive, and I try to limit my vices. But”—I lean closer—“I did go skydiving last year.”
His eyes widen. “What was that like? I’ve always wanted to go but never have.”
My eyes float shut briefly as I recall the summer day when Christine and I leaped from a plane. It was her birthday, and it had been on her bucket list. Her husband had refused to go, but she’d convinced me rather easily, not only luring me with the sheer thrill of it, but also with its creative powers—she said she’d bet it would inspire me to write a hilarious scene about skydiving.
She was right. Falling from the sky was a total rush, and I wrote a skydiving scene into my show.
I open my eyes. “Pure exhilaration.”
“And a little bit of fear?”
“Absolutely. That moment when you look out the door and the wind rushes by, and you can barely hear anything but the whoosh of your life roaring past you, and you ask yourself if you’re going to back down? That’s terrifying.”
He pops a piece of fish in his mouth and chews. “And how do you get past that?”
I shrug happily. “You give fear the middle finger.”
He laughs. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you skydive.”
“And when you’re falling, it’s the craziest, wildest, most thrilling thing you’ve ever done.”
He sets down his fork with a flourish. “Now I have no choice. I have to go skydiving.”
“You do. I dare you,” I say, challenging him.
“All you have to say to a guy is ‘I dare you,’ and we’re pretty much doing it. What about you? Does ‘I dare you’ work on you?”
“Try me.”
He raises an eyebrow, pointing to his fish. “This is fantastic. I dare you to take a bite.”
I chuckle. “You can’t dare me into eating fish. Again, I don’t eat anything that has a face.”
He smirks. “I like to eat certain things that have faces.”
My jaw drops. “You did not just make a joke about oral sex.”
“It wasn’t a joke. I’m very serious,” he says, completely deadpan.
And I’m completely off my game once more. He’s knocking me off-kilter, and I’m a fidgeting mess. I keep trying to reroute the night away from all the sex talk, because sex talk is the start of flirting, and flirting is the start of liking. That’s the real trouble.
I’m not attracted to him, he’s not attracted to me, and he’s interested in someone else.
But one of those things is a lie.
I am attracted to him.
But his heart belongs to someone else. After my last boyfriend ditched me because he was still in love with his ex, there’s no way I’m veering down that road again.
“Tell me what your high school was like,” I say, then pop in a piece of the ravioli.
“The guys there were cool. We totally bonded.”
Something clicks in my brain. “Did you go to an all-boys school?”
“Yes.” His eyes gleam with excitement. “How did you know?”
“My friend Christine. Her husband went to one, and she said you can tell guys who did because they resort to sex talk all the time. It’s like they were raised by wolves.”
He points his fork at me. “You started the sex talk. Did you go to an all-girls school?’
But I won’t let him distract me. I’m on a mission, and the puzzle pieces are clicking—he has three brothers, his mom died young, he attended an all-boys school. He hasn’t had a lot of female influences in his life. It truly is like he was raised by wolves. Since men are, well, wolfish.
“Listen, have you had a serious girlfriend?”
He looks down at his food like he doesn’t want to answer. “Here and there.”
For a moment, I think he sounds embarrassed. “It’s no big deal if you haven’t,” I say gently.
He raises his face, shrugging it off. “I’ve had a few somewhat serious girlfriends. Nothing to write home about though, and I’m cool with it. I’ve been pretty busy with work. I’ve dated though.”
“But not that much?”
He sets down his fork. “Look, even though my first time was in college with Cassie, I do know what women want. I know how to make a woman happy in bed.”
I hold up my hands, the sign for backing off. “My first time was in college too. But, Tom, I wasn’t talking about horizontally.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“I’m saying you might need practice. Not at sex, but at how to be a boyfriend.”
He scoffs. “I don’t need practice.”
“You spent most of the meal trying to get me to blush. And, trust me, I like sex.”
“You do?” he asks, and his gaze darkens.
“I do, but I also don’t want to talk about sex on a first date.”
He licks his lips, glances away, then turns back to me. “I promise no more sex talk. We can even practice that starting now.”
We spend the rest of the meal talking about where we grew up—we are both California natives and therefore addicted to sunshine and avocados; favorite books—I devour celebrity memoirs, and he adores how-stuff-works stories; and the all-time best flavors for ice cream—we both adore anything with coconut.
“Thanks for the practice, Finley. Let’s do it again,” he says as we leave.
“I’m up for a round two.”
Out on the main street, I say hello to Sandy Davidson, who owns Tren-day, a cute clothing shop next to the restaurant. “Hey, Sandy. How’s business?”
The Jane Lynch look-alike smiles and waves. “Can’t complain. I’m outfitting all the coolest cats in wine country.” She glances at Tom. “If you ever need anything stylish, come see me. I have a shop here and one in our sister town of Lucky Falls. That one has even more of the hippest duds.”
“I’ll be there,” he says.
She turns down the street and walks the other way, and I look at Tom, my pulse skittering as our eyes seem to lock for the briefest of moments. “So . . .”
“So . . .”
“That was fun,” I say.
“It was a lot of fun,” he adds, then drops a kiss to my cheek. It’s a chaste kiss. A mere brush of lips to skin. But there’s nothing chaste about my body’s reaction to it.
I force myself to focus on the goal—to help him win back the girl, and in doing so, to help myself. To save my show. “More practice tomorrow?”
He smiles in the lopsided way that threatens to weaken my knees again. “Tomorrow sounds good. Glad you liked the ravioli. I had a feeling you would.”
I laugh as I ride my bike home.
* * *
What tastes even better, though, is what I write into the episode that night.
With a little help from his lady friend, the hero preps to meet the yoga queen. He says he wants to sing a song to her, but his lady friend promptly nixes that idea over dinner. At said meal, the hero tries to order for both of them.