“It’s just, you’re really good with the chopsticks.”
“Oh, that.” I click them together, admittedly showing off a bit. “You know how I got good?” I smile, taking another bite.
“How?” He leans in across the table, that pine scent hitting me again.
“Studying. And practice.”
“Damn it,” he smiles back. “Why does that seem to be the answer to everything?”
“It’s the harsh reality of life. Here.” I snap apart his pair of disposable sticks and give him one. “This will be your base stick. Rest this part against the top of your ring finger and hold the end in the joint between your thumb and index finger.”
He does as I say, and I hand him the second one. “Then with this one-”
“Wait. If I grab that, I won’t be able to hold on to the base one.”
“Like I said, it takes practice. Let me help you.” I reach across the table and place it in the correct position between his index and middle finger. “Steady it with your thumb like this.”
The sticks wobble and I take a second to move them all back again, but when I realize how I’m practically caressing his fingers, I automatically let go, showing him instead with my own chopsticks. “How do you normally eat sushi?”
“With my hands like a dumbass American,” he grins.
I smother my laughter with the back of my hand, and the rest of the meal proceeds in the same fashion, the conversation flowing as we swap stories, finding more similarities between us than I would have imagined. A nostalgic fondness for old Technicolor musicals that his mother still watches and my neighbor used to have on her TV when she babysat me. A mutual love of butter pecan as our favorite ice cream flavor that others can’t seem to comprehend. And most of all, it turns out he likes anime, a totally nerd thing I didn’t expect from him, and we delight in the adventures of One-Punch Man and commiserate over the ending of Death Note, which I’ve watched in secret on my laptop when Dad isn’t home.
As he drives me back to where my car is parked at school, he reaches over, brushing my arm briefly. Goosebumps race over my skin at his touch. Does he even realize what that does to me? “So you feel better about a date now?” he asks, no hint of anything other than friendliness in his tone.
“Yeah.” And I surprisingly mean it. Will it be this easy to talk to Michael, though? Will he give touches like this? Or is that just something Jake does with everyone?
“You ready to lay one on Miles at the end of your date?”
“Michael,” I correct him. “And what?”
“I was just teasing, sorry. You don’t have to kiss him on the first date if you’re not ready.”
Kiss him? “Oh God, there’s kissing, isn’t there?” My heart picks up its pace, suddenly frenzied. “How did that slip my mind? It’s in all the romantic comedies, a socially expected custom. And I don’t know what to do. He’ll lean in to kiss me and I’ll freak out or something.” I turn to him, clutching at the edge of the seat. “What if I ruin everything because of the kiss?”
“Eden,” he barks, making me freeze. “Chill out. It’s no big thing.”
No big thing? Sure, coming from the guy who has years and years of experience, it’s not. But for me, with a big, gaping lack of expertise, it is.
“What was your first kiss like?” I ask, trying to get an idea of what to expect.
“Hmm.” He rubs his jaw. “Well, I was in sixth grade.”
“Sixth? You were a child.”
“That’s not that early.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” he laughs. “Don’t you remember everyone starting to be interested in each other around then?”
No. But I always had my nose in a book. “Continue, please,” I tell him, not wanting to admit anything.
“It was Chelsea Garcia. We both had braces, though. It was horrible.”
A pang of jealousy runs through me at his mention of braces. I’ve always desperately wanted them. “It wasn’t good?”
“Neither of us had any idea what we were doing. I mean, we were twelve so obviously we didn’t.”
“So when did you know what you were doing?”
“Uh,” he scratches at his chin, “by high school. Had a lot more practice under my belt by then.”
I chew on my lip, reflecting on his words. It makes sense. Just like with any skill, you don’t get better without practice. I just told him that in the restaurant about using chopsticks.
“Crap,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean- I’m sure your first time...” He glances over at me anxiously. “Try not to worry too much about it.”
Easier said than done. “Could I ask you some questions so I feel more prepared?”
“Yeah, of course.”
A million thoughts race through my mind and I spend a minute trying to organize them as he takes the last turn onto campus, the ride so smooth I’ve forgotten we’re even in a car. Apparently there really is a difference in quality for luxury cars.
“Just throw out a question. Seriously, you can ask me anything.”
I mentally chuckle, imagining myself even a month ago interrogating a phenomenally gorgeous baseball player about kissing. I’ve gotten so much better at talking to people since making friends with Samantha, Natalie, and Charlotte last year, but a girl can only go so far so fast.
How have I ended up here in this situation with a guy eagerly asking me to talk to him?
“Well, what should I do with my mouth? How do I keep my tongue out of the way? Do I have my eyes open or closed?” Once I start asking, the questions keep coming.
“Eden,” he finally interrupts me, “that’s too many questions.” He rubs at his forehead with one hand while guiding the car into a parking spot not far from where my Kia is.
“I, um, I guess I just most want to know what to expect.”
He shuts the engine off and turns to me, the warm brown of his eyes barely visible in the dim light. “Kissing isn’t about following rules, it’s about feeling. Going with the flow. Discovering what your partner likes, doesn’t like. Theory will only take you so far with this.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt, pondering his words. “But there still have to be some universal things that people like, right?”
There’s a weight to his gaze. “What do you think you’d like?”
My mind flashes to Jake kissing me, one hand cupping my jaw, the other wrapped around my back, safe and secure in his embrace.
I immediately shake my head. Whoa, where’d that come from? Even in the dark of the car, I can tell my face is red, the sudden heat of it burning. “This isn’t about me,” I manage to stammer out. “It’s about what he’ll like. I need to know how I can be more appealing to him.”
“Well, I’m not sure how good words will be. It’s kind of a practical application thing.”
I nod slowly, defeated. “Okay.”
“You want to?”
I glance over at him. “What?”
“You want me to show you?”
My brow furrows down. What is he talking about? “Show me... kissing?”