Page 25 of Not Your Valentine
We decide to call it quits after the second game and get something to eat. The food in the bowling alley doesn’t appeal to me, but Taylor suggests a nearby place that specializes in poutine.
As I drive to the restaurant, I feel very aware of the fact that he’s sitting next to me. It’s probably just because I’m not used to having someone else in my car.
“If I remember correctly,” he says, “you really like poutine.”
“Um, who doesn’t?” I ask.
“My dad doesn’t like how the gravy makes the fries soggy.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
“And I think cheese curds have a slightly strange texture, but you’ll enjoy this place. The curds are fresh and squeaky.”
There’s something very earnest in his voice, as though he wants whatever will make me happiest; he’s chosen this place specifically for me.
I often get that sense with Taylor. We may not be best friends, but whenever we meet up—usually just a few times a year instead of every week—I feel like he’s chosen me as his companion for whatever restaurant he wants to try because he thinks it’s something I’ll particularly like.
Having more of his focus on me is rather intoxicating.
“How are the flowers doing?” he asks.
“One kind wasn’t doing so great, so I threw those out, but the rest of the bouquet is looking good.”
“I’m glad. Carnations last longer than roses—that’s part of the reason I chose them—and I figured you wouldn’t want roses anyway.” Apparently, Taylor knows more about flowers than I do, which shouldn’t be surprising.
And once again, it was clearly a decision he made with me in mind.
At the restaurant, we go to the counter and place our order. It’s good to split poutine with someone; a medium order for myself is too much.
We grab a table as we wait for our food. When he leans forward, my heart beats faster, as though I’m halfway through a brutal workout. I feel a keen sense of disappointment when I realize he’s just reaching for a napkin. He’s not going to kiss me.
Why am I thinking about kissing? And why am I looking at his hands and imagining how they’d caress my cheeks?
Our poutine arrives, and he picks up a fry and pops it in his mouth. I can’t help but watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, can’t help but notice the way his eyes flutter closed, just for a split second, as though he’s really savoring it. My skin feels prickly and warm.
“I have to go to the washroom.” I jump up and hurry to the left, then realize the washroom is the other direction and switch course, narrowly avoiding a teenage girl.
When I’m safely in the single-unit washroom, I lock the door and force myself to take deep breaths.
Okay, I have to admit the truth: I’m attracted to Taylor. I’m not simply getting into my role or doing a good job at acting, or any of that nonsense. I really do think he’s cute.
I picture him picking up a bowling ball, sliding his fingers into the holes…And then I imagine him touching something other than a bowling ball, parting my legs and—
Seriously, what’s wrong with me? This is Taylor. I’ve known him for years and I’ve never thought of him this way before. I’m a sensible twenty-nine-year-old who usually just lusts after people she sees on the internet or on her TV screen. This is the first time I’ve lusted after someone in person since the Valentine’s Incident.
And he (in)conveniently happens to be my fake boyfriend. Who, doubtless, has no such thoughts about me, even if I thought he was the tiniest bit flirty with me last weekend.
Or maybe the same thing is happening to him. Maybe he’s having such thoughts about me for the first time, too.
Yeah, no. That’s not the kind of coincidence that occurs in my life. And if I bring it up, it’ll make things weird, and it’s not like I have tons of friends; I don’t feel like I can afford to lose one. Plus, I need him to be willing to continue this fake relationship.
Ugh. These feelings of attraction were not part of the plan.
After splashing water on my face, I return to our table and try not to think about giving Taylor another long hug…and this time, sliding my hands down to cup his ass.
Nope, I definitely don’t do that.
Instead, I take a picture of our poutine, and Taylor lets me eat most of the cheese curds.
