She beams and then throws open the door, barely waiting for the car to be in park before she hops out.
I laugh, trying not to be disappointed that she wasn’t looking for a place to simply park. When I join her, she faces me, camera in hand. The corners of my mouth twitch into a grin, helpless against her inexplicable whimsy.
“Smile!” she yells, my only warning before the click of the instant camera. “You, while you’re still on the right side of the law,” Maggie says, waving the developing photo in the air. “You are on the right side of the law, Fancy Pants, aren’t ya?”
I smile to let her know I am. But that tiny mention of the law brings me right back to where I was this evening, when dinner with my parents left me needing something stronger than coffee. I know enough about rules and expectations. And obligation. Would finding myself on the wrong side of the law be enough to release me from mine? It’s a theory I haven’t tested yet, one that might be too far even for me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You too good not to pay?”
This makes me laugh, her teasing obliterating thoughts of anything that came before the café. From the second she raised a caring hand to my face this morning, I knew she was different—unlike any girl I’ve met before. She may have an agenda, but it’s more than physical, or we wouldn’t be here right now, sharing this experience. I’m all for having a good time, but if she thinks she sees more than that in me, she’s setting herself up for disappointment.
“I’m just second-guessing what I’m getting myself into here. You might be more trouble than I am.”
She walks around the front of the truck to meet me, brandishing the now-developed photo.
“This guy is trouble,” she insists, looking at the photo before grabbing my hand. “But I do consider myself a worthy adversary.”
I let her lead me toward the theater’s entrance, but before we make it to the front door, she skirts around the side of the building to a place where a metal door with no outside handle greets us.
She lets go of my hand, but instinct makes me squeeze hers tighter, and I tug her close, looking down at her lips, her teeth grazing the bottom one again. I dip my head toward hers, but she leans back, only slightly, though enough to halt my movement.
“Okay, we need ground rules,” she says, her voice shaky and a little breathless. Momentary thoughts of rejection are replaced by intrigue. She may have pulled away, but we’re both still here, her voice admitting her nervousness.
“Ground rules?”
“Yes. The first one is a definition. Of tonight.” She pauses as her eyes search mine. She must trust that I’m following her because she continues. “The definition of tonight is not a date. It’s nothing personal. I’m just not the dating type.”
Again she tries to back away, her expression composed, but when I hold my ground—and her hand—something in her eyes softens, and her fingers curl around mine again.
“Funny,” I say, hoping my smile will coax one from her. “I’m not the dating type, either.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that from your buddy.”
And from an incoming text. I wonder how much of her declaration is truth, how much of a reaction to a name on my phone. Either way, it’s self-preservation, and if anyone can appreciate that, it’s me.
I shrug. “You knew what you were getting into with me. How about you give me all the ground rules and let me know what I got into with you. So far doesn’t date and steals movies are all I have.”
I pull her hand around my waist, letting go only when I feel her thumb hook into a belt loop. My hands cup her cheeks, and she closes her eyes. A street lamp casts enough light to illuminate her face. And I stare, her freckle-dotted lids and auburn lashes hypnotizing me for a few seconds. Then I remember my question. I lower my head toward hers and kiss each eyelid.“Is this within the boundary of the rules?”
She nods, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“What about this?” I kiss the tip of her nose, and she giggles. Fucking giggles, the sound of it doing shit it shouldn’t inside of me.
Another nod.
Not sure I have enough in me to ask permission again, the only word that makes it out is a questioning “This?” before my lips find hers again.
She falls into me…right as the handle-less door swings open. Maggie jumps back at the sound while the heavy edge nails me in the shoulder.
“Fuck!” I yell, my hand flying to the point of impact.
“Shhhhh!” I look up to find both Maggie and the door-wielder, a girl with long, black pigtails and matching black-framed glasses, in shushing unison.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” But my question comes out as a strained whisper, a clear sign that I’m on board with the whole shhhhh business.
“Thanks…” Maggie hesitates, like she’s about to say the girl’s name, but she just stops mid-introduction. A strange silence hangs in the air until pigtails fills it.