Page 32 of Kissing is the Easy Part
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About a week after the double date from hell, Flora and I are hanging out in her room. I’m on the floor flipping through my German vocab list while she sprawls on the mattress, scrolling through shorts about Korean skincare trends.
“What are we doing this weekend?” Flora asks.
“Can we go skating again?” I was so proud when I came up with the idea, because Flora had skied but never ice-skated. Seeing her delight as she clung to my arm, laughing every time she lost her balance, made me feel like I had given her something new.
“Again?But we already did that.”
I swallow the disappointment and shift gears. “What doyouwant to do? I’m fine with anything.” And it’s not a lie. Flora likes arranging our dates, and I prefer leaving it to her, as long as we can spend time together. She’s so fun and knows everything about everything.
“Let’s go to a themed party!”
She’s so excited I can’t bring myself to refuse. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t mind watching Netflix at home, but with Flora that seems to be the last resort. Deep down, I miss when it was just the two of us, grabbing coffee and talking for hours. Keeping up with her whirlwind energy is so far out of my comfort zone.
Doubt lingers at the back of my mind. Between her short attention span, the pull of her overflowing social life, the flood of unread texts lighting up her phone, and that natural flirt gene wired into her DNA, there’s always that fear.
What if I’m not enough?
But I’m fascinated by Flora. Most of the time I simply give in and accept the fact that I’m one among her many fans. “If that’s what you want to do, I—”
“Yay! Then it’s decided. Oh, before I forget, I got you something. I saw this and thought of you.” She hops off the bed and dives into the mountain of shopping bags piled in the corner. After rummaging through a few, she pulls out a small paper bag and hands it to me.
I have limited fashion knowledge, but this one I recognize.
“Gucci?” I ask, alarmed.
“You know? I’m so proud of you.” Flora beams. “Open it.”
I pull out a palm-sized key ring. It’s metal, shaped like a heart, with intricate toothed gears inside, the exposed mechanics resembling the inner workings of a clock.
Flora leans in, studying my reaction. “Is it too girly? Gucci is all about maximalism and gender fluidity now.”
“No, it’s not that. But this had to cost a lot, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, this is the least expensive thing you can possibly find in the store.”
“Thank you, baby. But I don’t feel comfortable when you spend money on me.”
“Please. This is nothing. Let’s be happy you have a rich girlfriend, okay?” She touches my face and smiles, so dazzling that she should be in a Gucci ad campaign.
“I’m not dating you for your money.”
“I’m not dating you for your looks, either, but I sure won’t complain about them.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure you aren’t dating me for my looks.”
“Busted.” She laughs. “Oh, come on, it’s to symbolize that you have my heart. I offer you the best two things I can give you”—she pauses dramatically before holding out her arms—“label, and love.”
I should correct her, but I don’t want to come off as too serious. I can joke too. “That’s not the best you can give me. You can give me something that starts with ab—” . . .and ends with job.
“Bacon? Binoculars?” She frowns, pretending not to get it. “Ah, a baby! We barely know each other. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
That part’s true. We really don’t know enough about each other.
She throws the best parties with a snap of her fingers, gives me expensive gifts, buys everyone caramel macchiatos at Starbucks as she pleases, takes me on the craziest dates . . .
But ungratefully, sometimes I worry. Even with all the science trivia in the world, I’m not interesting enough for her.
