Elevator Kiss

“Amanda?” I slowed for the corner. “Why did you leave last night?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re heading home soon. You’ll go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine.”

I parked and we got out, then walked to the waterfall overlook area. The waterfall rumbled and sprayed, a dazzling sight. No wonder she wanted to see this. It looked like something she could paint. She stared at the mists, not looking at me.

I touched her arm. “You’re not answering my questions.”

With a set jaw, she turned to me. “Not that I’m counting, but you’ve dated a dozen women at SolutionX—for less than two weeks each.”

“Sandra was for three.” Obviously, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Have you ever even called a woman your girlfriend?” The challenge hovered between hope and doubt.

Was this her way of asking me to define our relationship? I could—if she wanted. Except, like all fools, I went into a stupor when asked point blank. “Um …”

Her mouth crumpled into a wavy line, and the moment was gone. “You don’t even have a pet,” she muttered, then spoke up as she marched off. “Thanks for showing me the waterfall. We’re going to be late.”

What was the pet thing about? I chased her back to the car. “Hey.”

“Let’s just go play Ellen’s game.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I want to win something on this trip.”

By game, did she mean the scavenger hunt or the Calvin and Amanda are a real couple game? “You said you’re not good at games.”

“I said I’m not experienced at them.” She let herself into the car. “But I can still tell when they’re almost over.”

Over!

As we drove, my mind hit speed-bump after speed-bump. Clearly, she’d always assumed the truth about me—that I was nothing more than the guy who painted cloud pictures in the sky for women but the pictures dispersed or distorted with the first breeze. The guy who skipped town the second anything lost its fun or started to look like it could develop into something real. I’d even told her about Dad and his penchant for a buffet selection of women.

I wanted to be different—just this once. To make it work.

But what if, like Dad, I couldn’t?

What if she’s right?