Page 48 of Lessons in Lemonade

“I told you—the whole purpose of this is to meet new people and learn new things, not to find a forever-till-death-do-us-part. People are interesting. I’ve enjoyed it. You know, we can make you an account too. Maybe you need to get out, meet some new people, have a little fun.”

“I don’t want to meet new people. I like being here with you.” He reaches out and pulls one of my curls between his fingers. My brows draw down. He’s not touching me, just my hair, but it feels very intimate, and the strange feeling in my stomach, almost like butterflies, is back.

“You’re acting crazy, but if it makes you feel any better, I won’t go out with anyone next month.” I move to step around him, and he drops my hair then follows me to the front door.

When I turn to look at him one more time, his expression goes serious, and I pause with my hand on the doorknob.

“How about you go out with me instead?” He shifts the football so it’s now between both hands, and he compresses it.

“We go out all the time.”

“Not really,” he says. “And when we do, it’s casual. How about I plan something for us?”

Us.

I try not to linger on the word. There isn’t an us, not in the romantic sense, even if the idea of it does sound nice. He knows where I stand, knows I just want to be friends, but as he stares at me, waiting for my answer . . . if I didn’t know any better, I would say there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. What he has to be unsure of, I don’t know. At the end of the day, I would go anywhere with him.

“I think that sounds amazing, and I can’t wait.” I smile, his face finally relaxes, and he smiles too.

“Good.”

That one single word caresses my skin. As I wave goodbye and walk out the door, it finally dawns on me that I just agreed to go on a date with Jack.

A date with my best friend.

This date is not going well.

Instead of him meeting me at OBA, I thought it would be a good idea if we just met at the restaurant. I suggested High Cotton because they have an amazing drink called 199 that I adore. It’s made with a house-made pineapple-infused orange vodka, shaken, and served in a frosted martini glass. Just thinking about it has had my mouth watering all day, and I figured even if the date is a bust, I’ll at least get my drink.

Only now that we’re here, he’s talking and talking. He’s been talking nonstop for the last forty-five minutes about healthcare insurance plans, and now my drink and my dinner have lost their appeal.

Frequently, my mind drifts to Jack and his reaction to discovering I was heading out tonight. He was surprised and bothered, and the more I think about it, maybe he has a right to be. After all, he did come to Charleston to spend time with me, and from this angle it’s like I just left him there. It occurs to me that while I’ve moved him into the roommate category, he may not be staying all that long. I need to clarify with him, and I need to apologize.

“Our company recently switched to a PPO plan, a preferred provider organization. It’s great because now I can visit out-of-network providers and they’ll still cover some of the cost,” he says, breaking into my thoughts while speaking with his mouth full. As if I don’t know what that is. I am a business owner, and I do offer benefits for a few of my full-time employees.

I understand some topics are more interesting than others, but he has to know based on my body language that this is overkill. It would be like if I talked for just as long about lard. After all, in the south, fat is defined by bacon fat and lard.

To prove my point, I cut him off and start describing in detail different reasons why one should choose lard as their cooking oil. His face scrunches as I talk about how sustainable it is, and how it has one-third less cholesterol than butter. It’s right after I finish talking about how it’s higher in monounsaturated fats, which are good for cardiovascular health, and have moved on to how pasture-raised pigs are better than industrial-raised pigs that he cuts me off to ask the waitress for the bill.

Maybe he understands what I was doing, or maybe he doesn’t. Either way, we’re both polite and relieved in our goodbyes out front on the corner as we know this dinner is the end.

Letting out a deep sigh of freedom, I spot a stand across the street promoting carriage rides around the Battery. My night is now free, and as I walk down the block to the intersection, I think, Why not?

“Are you okay?” It’s the first thing he says after he answers his phone. Not hey or hello, but straight to a panicked voice.

“Of course I’m okay, silly.” I laugh, and in front of me the horse jerks his head away from a fly that’s bothering him then neighs.

“Then why are you calling me?” he asks, his tone a little bitter.

“Because I want you to put your shoes on and come outside.”

“Why?” he asks, but I can hear him moving through the house.

“Just do it and stop asking questions.” I grin. I also realize I’m nervous. That’s stupid, but for some reason I am.

“Fine.” He hangs up.

A few minutes later, the front door swings open, and he’s standing there not wearing the same thing I left him in. He’s showered, his hair is damp, and he’s shaved. He’s wearing jeans and a black button-down shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up, and he’s stuffed his feet into black boots that are only partly laced. He looks like he’s about to head out somewhere. My heart dips a little with an emotion that is foreign to me: jealousy.