“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” I ask.
Even though he’s been texting me questions all day, Dax has been vague about what exactly we’re doing on our big date, although this Dax now knows my favorite cheese, chilling-out album, and shoe size: a dainty seven.
“I packed us a picnic,” he says. “Thought we could hang out at the harbor. Eat cheese. Watch the sunset. Does that work for you?”
When Stuart took me on our first date, it was at a restaurant in Toronto’s Ossington neighborhood where he knew the chef. The food was delicious, but the vibe was pretentious. I both loved it and felt completely out of place. The beach with Dax feels comfortable. Like slipping into a pair of perfectly worn-in shoes.
Speaking of shoes. “Why did you need my shoe size then?”
Dax opens my door and holds out his arm, waiting for me to exit ahead of him. “That was to throw you off. I wanted our date to have an air of mystery.”
Strangely, it does. Surprises from a man I thought I knew everything about.
We take Dax’s car to Bayfront Park on the lake. I love Bayfront because 90 percent of it is waterlocked, so it’s only accessible on foot.
We park the car near the marina, grab the basket from the trunk, and walk the small paved trail that cuts through the center.
Bayfront is a pretty chill and serene spot in the city. Aside from the trail, the park’s other features include a grassy area in the middle and a small strip of beach on the west side.
It’s a bit of a hike to get from the car to the sand, but since it’s a cooler August evening, we arrive and find the beach deserted. Though I’m not normally a fan of PDA (both watching and participating), with the beach empty and Dax looking all fancy and handsome in his button-down, I’m more than willing to make an exception should the opportunity present itself.
“I brought a blanket.” Dax lifts the basket slightly. “Want to hang out here? Or there’s a gazebo just back there.” He points to the grassy area, where there’s a small, covered, modern-looking gazebo.
“Beach sounds great to me.”
We find a spot in the sand near some large rocks that provide shelter against the breeze that has picked up since we arrived. Dax lays out one of his mom’s quilts (I smile because I know he’s amassed quite a collection since she started taking classes at the community center), then pulls a bottle of white wine, a French-style baguette, an assortment of olives, hummus, and a large wheel of Camembert from his basket.
“Did I do okay?” He holds up the cheese.
“You’ve found my weakness. There’s very little I won’t do for a soft cheese.”
The Dax in my timeline would not have let me get away with a comment like that. He’d demand clarifications with implied innuendo. We’d be talking about sex without talking about sex in that safe, third-party way that never implied that the two of us could actually have it.
Even with this Dax, I can see him holding back. It’s in the way he bites his lip and avoids my eyes as he asks, “Would you like some?”
I’m in a weird place. Because part of me misses that ease that comes with four years of friendship. How we can communicate entire thoughts with a glance or an eyebrow raise. But these last two weeks, I’ve seen a whole new side of Dax. I love him because I’ve always loved him, but I’m also falling for him at the exact same time—if that makes any sense.
“You seem to be thinking awfully hard about the cheese.” He holds out a small plate with two pieces of Camembert, some baguette, and what I hope is red pepper jelly.
“Just got lost in my head for a second. But everything is good. Everything is great, actually.”
He reaches into the basket and pulls out two wineglasses, offering one to me.
“And now we’re getting drunk.” I take the glass from his hand. “My kind of evening.”
Dax screws open the bottle and fills my glass. “Not quite drunk. I was going for buzzed enough to make some questionable decisions but sober enough to know we’re making them.”
He’s definitely talking about sex. I know I’ve been thinking about sex since he showed up this evening looking all sexy and adorable. I’ve for sure been thinking about sex since our hot little kitchen make-out, where I was both ready and willing to let him have his way on my countertop. However, as we sit here now, the thought hits me. Do I really want to have sex with Dax?
I’ve never been one to put a whole lot of meaningful weight into the act of sexual intercourse. This timeline’s Gemma seems to have also embraced this principle. However, unlike her, it’s been four whole years since I considered doing the deed with anyone other than Stuart. Still, my rules haven’t changed: be safe, be fully into it, but it doesn’t have to be some big meaningful gesture. Sex can be just sex.
But with Dax, it’s different. For one, it will mean something. The sex will be more than sex. And on top of that, if I do go back to my reality, I will never be able to forget that we did it. I won’t be able to unsee Dax’s penis.
Oh god, if we have sex, I’m going to see Dax’s penis.
“You are really thinking hard about something.” Dax looks at me, concerned.
Somehow I don’t think he wants to hear that I’m contemplating the future ramifications of seeing his dick.
“Those clouds.” I point to the darkening puffs of gray gathering out on the water. “They’re looking a little ominous.”
Dax follows my gaze and sighs. “I think you’re right. I was hoping they’d hold off for an hour, but it’s not looking good.”
And as if the sky was waiting for that perfect cue, it lets out a slow, low rumble.
“Shit,” Dax says. “Probably not a great idea to be out in the open on this beach, eh?”
“Probably not—” My answer is cut off by a crack of thunder so loud it sounds as if the sky above us is tearing open. I look up in time to see thousands of big, thick raindrops make their way toward earth.
“Make a run for it?” Dax asks.
I look around frantically and point. “Gazebo?”
Dax whips his head around and reaches for my hand, his other still holding the wine bottle.
We get to our feet and start to run, but I stop when we’re halfway there. “The cheese!”
Dax drops my hand and passes me the wine bottle. “Here.” He reels around and sprints back toward the blanket.
But he doesn’t just grab the cheese.
His arms reach for the four corners of the picnic blanket. Gathering them together, he sweeps it over his shoulder like a sack, then grabs the basket with his other hand and runs back to meet me. We make it all the way to the gazebo before the next boom of thunder cracks above us.
I’m soaked down to my underpants. Dax is so wet he’s got raindrops dripping off the end of his nose. He sets the blanket down in the middle of the gazebo. Our poor little picnic—decimated by rain.
“Thank you for saving the cheese.” I manage a straight face.
Dax holds up the half-wrapped wheel, also soaked.