The Trouble Is

Chapter 15: First Dates and Soap Smells

"Who lives here?" I ask.

"It's my uncle's place," East says. "I'm looking out for it while he's overseas."

"What's he doing there?" I ask just as East says "Work."

"Jinx," he says, and we both laugh a little as he takes my hand.

"I hope you aren't freaked out by being here with me," he says. He looks straight at my eyes just as though he's known me forever. I watch as his focus moves back and forth across my face. "It's probably not the right approach for a first date. It's just that I feel something for you. It's something that makes me think I shouldn't waste time with the whole 'pretending to be cool' thing. I've never been good at that, anyway. I'm just not that cool. So, please tell me you are OK with being alone with me here. I promise that I just wanted to be somewhere that I could just spend time with you—not in a crowd."

I hear him, but all I can do is nod my head. I can't seem to think anything other than HE'S HOLDING MY HAND!

We walk around the tree, checking out the rest of the house. There's a tiny kitchen and small bathroom along with the main living area. Everything is simple and functional. There are a few dishes in the sink, and a still-damp towel is hanging over the bathtub.

"Are you living here?" I ask.

"I'm staying here with my uncle," he says.

"Who is . . . overseas?" I ask.

"Just for a few weeks," he says. "I'll explain everything. But for now, maybe a few days, maybe just tonight, I'd like to just figure out who you are, not what your family is like, what your school is like, all that crap. I just want to know you, the person. And vice versa."

"And vice versa?" I ask, laughing just a little.

"I know," he says. "I'm speech-making here. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm not my parents or my uncle or my school or my college plans. And neither are you."

OK, I think. And then I jump right in.

"Do you believe in magic?" I ask. My brain has ceased its screaming about the whole hand-holding and now believes it's been bewitched by this boy.

"Most of the time," he answers quietly, never taking his eyes off of mine. "Right now, most certainly."

"Me too," I say. "Right now."

I'm not sure if it's really magic or just relief, but I'm filled with this overwhelming sense of wellbeing. I'm so tired of explaining my mom's diagnosis, dealing with Skip's sudden free-ranging-organic-eating mania, and scheduling all the church ladies who want to come pray over us all. I just want to find some moments in time that are not about all of that. I need a few moments where I can just breathe. It's not that I don't care or don't love my parents; it's more the opposite. I am so full of them every day, all day. I know that we need help right now, so it's not about that. It's just that all of it combined is a lot. Sometimes I think that it is going to overtake me and I will just disappear.

"I'm good," I say, looking up at him. No twitching or counting or holding my breath. And I am good with it.

"Good," he says with a smile. "Me too."

We play board games for a while, taking turns picking from the old-school games in the trunk that serves as a coffee table. East dominates the games of Chance, and I rule on Scrabble. We talk about favorite books, movies, and music. We compare childhood scars from skateboarding and general foolishness. It is a perfect first date.

We make it back to my house by eleven, which is mom's "first-date rule." East walks with me to the front door, where the porch is lit up like a high school football stadium on a Friday night.