Page 102 of June: Jess' Story

“It’s what I need.”

“It’s not,” he replies.

“You don’t know me, Alex.”

“I know that your favorite colors are black and brown. I know your favorite movie is actuallyThe Godfather, but you tell people it’sCasinobecause you don’t want to seem basic and at least withCasinoyou can say it’s because of Sharon Stone.

I know that you sing your daughter classic Beatles songs at bedtime because that’s what your Dad used to sing to you. I know Christmas is your favorite holiday because gift giving, not receiving, is how you show love.

I know that your favorite perfume is Flowerbomb because I couldn’t get the fucking scent out of my head and I actually went to the store and smelled hundreds until I found it and then bought it so I can smell you whenever I miss you.

And I know that you’re a pjs girl. But ironically, nine times out of ten you’re actually commando in broad daylight. Shall I check now?”Nobecause I’m not wearing any underwear. I give a quick shake of my head.

“And I know that you go to Serendipity when you’re in New York at least once aweek because you saw the movie and dreamed of having a real-life meet cute which is why I wanted to propose to you there. And I know thatTheParent Trapis your comfort film because the parents get together in the end, and you always wanted that for your dad and mom even though, again, you claim it’s for aesthetics.”

“And you’re not a crier,” he wipes a tear off my cheek, “but I seem to make you cry quite a bit, don’t I?” I nod. Then sniffle. “Can I take you out for breakfast, please?”

“Umm, that depends,” I say, then sniffle again.

“On…?”

“Well, are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, yes? Or okay and no?”

“Okay, yes.”

And then he’s kissing me again.

It’s just a date. A casual breakfast date.

I’m nervous, but also feel like I should be more nervous. Somehow this feels normal, though I have to admit I wish he would’ve changed first.

“I still have to work today,” I tell Alex who’s driving us to The Grounds.

“No problem, I have a bunch of stuff to do today anyways.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, “Like breaking up with your girlfriend?”

“What?” He gives me a wild look.

I motion up and down his body. “You’re telling meyouput this look together?” He’s still wearing the black pants that are cut Italian-style with a (most likely cashmere) long-sleeved polo.

“Believe it or not, these clothes are actually old. And I picked them out myself.”

“I don’t believe you.” I don’t.

“I don’tlikethis look, but it’s how Europeans dress, and we just flew in yesterday, and I haven’t had a chance to change…”Oh.

“Oh, well, you clean up nice.” I try to say it without instinctively looking down at whatever the fuck it is you’d call what I’m wearing. It basically equates to a trash bag, though.

“I missed you.” He just says it. He just puts it out there and I feel myself blush uncontrollably. And my stomach drops in excitement.

I missed him, too, but I also think it’s hard to miss something you’re not really sure you’ve ever had. I did miss the tender moments. The way he touched me, when he did. But it was so short, I’m not sure there was enough worth missing.