Page 17 of It's a Love Story

“You like someone giving you a stern look?” he asked. He turned to me as he said it and locked on my eyes.

I made my sternest possible face—eyes pinched, forehead scrunched. “Yes, it’s my favorite.” I don’t know why I did this. But there was something about this stranger who’d just risked his life to take a photo of a bird for no reason in the middle of the day in West Hollywood. Something about the whole situation had me a little out of my body, out of my put-together Jane costume.

Dan matched my stern eyes and we both laughed. Later, when I recounted this meeting in more detail than necessary, Clem accused me of bringing Actual Jane into a flirting situation. And I know what she meant—there was an unprecedented amount of unplanned speaking and joking, particularly given how objectively attractive Dan was.

“Who do you think pays for that billboard? “ I asked Dan. “Who knows. Some kind of nut. A lot of nuts out here.”

“Out where?”

“California.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York. Long Island,” he said.

“No nuts there?”

He laughed again. “Just my family. Everyone else seems pretty normal. I’m Dan,” he said and extended his hand.

I looked at it for a split second before taking it. It was in that second that I realized we were in the middle of an actual meet-cute. A wonky, distracted meet-cute with a near hit-and-run. I’d just made him laugh twice, which is two more than the recommended number of times you should make a guy laugh if you want him to ask you out. But Dan was (and is) absolutely not my type, not partner material. He’s rough instead of smooth; his hair does not rest in a crescent over his ears. And yet, as previously established, he’s objectively handsome and I’m an idiot. “I’m Jane,” I said and took his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. Want me to send you the photo?” Okay, believe me when I say that Dan is the worst, but this was an impressive way to low-key ask for my number. I stand by my respect for it. I had never once given my number to an unvetted guy, but inexplicably, I said, “Sure,” and put my number into his phone.

He looked at his phone and then up at me. “Okay, Jane Jackson. See you later.” He turned and crossed the street toward his pink building, and I watched him go.

He texted the next day, which was a Wednesday. Not that this matters or is burned into my memory, but I still have the conversation on my phone. It seems impossible now how light we were being. He texted the photo and the words: Worth risking my life for, right?

Me: For sure. I’m glad to have it

And I remember thinking that I hope he knows I mean I’m glad to have the photo, not his life. I mean, obviously.

There was a long pause that made me think he was done with the conversation, then he texted: What should we call him? Our hawk?

The “our” changed the tenor of the conversation. I replied: Tails

Dan: Tails? Like he has more than one tail? I don’t see it

Me: No, look at the back of a quarter

Unnecessarily long pause. Then: Oh I get it. I like that. Tails

Now it was back in my court. I have never been good at small talk and keeping things going. Of course the second I started typing I would have committed to a comment because he’d see the three little dots of anticipation there. I remember I started to sweat, and then he called.

“Hi,” I answered.

“Hey. Hi. It’s me.”

“I know.”

“I was going to try to keep the conversation going by texting another thing about the hawk. But to be honest I’m sort of out of hawk talk.”

“Hawk talk.” I actually repeated it.

“Yeah, so I was wondering if I could take you to dinner on Friday. Do you eat seafood?”

“I do. Sure.” I said something like this. I remember being flustered, both by the fact that I’d been asked out by this stranger and that I’d let him slide in under the radar. He said he’d text me Friday, and we got off the phone. And maybe I was excited. Well, I probably was. I mean, I didn’t know any better.

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