Yep, I’m risking a lot here, but damn if I’m not gambling on a sure thing because I have no doubt that one night with Blake would be enough to get me through a long dry spell.
“You’re killing me, Zo. But no, I didn’t call for a booty call.” It sounds like it physically hurts him to say that because he takes a deep breath before continuing, “I called to ask you out.”
“Out?” I squeak in shock. “Like a date?”
Blake chuckles. “No.”
My heart sinks to my toes like gravity just got a super-boost of strength, and then for shits and giggles, someone flips the gravitational pull switch off, making my heart fly up and try to come out my mouth.
“Oh.”
“No, not like a date. That’s what we did before—eat dinner, have a drink, get to know each other—but it wasn’t planned the way a date should be. What I want to do is take you out on an actual date. It can look the same—dinner, drinks, conversation—but it’s different because of the intention from the get-go.”
Wow, he’s good.
Dangerously good.
“That sounds . . . awesome,” I say honestly, but before I can get carried away with things I can’t have, I make myself say, “but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
For such a flat sound, it’s painfully sharp to my heart. “I thought we had a good time?”
He sounds so unsure of himself, something I would’ve never thought a good-looking, smart, sweet guy like Blake would feel. It makes him seem a bit more real somehow. And he deserves more than a no.
I sigh heavily, not prepared for this conversation but diving in anyway. “It’s for your own good, not because I don’t want to.”
“Can you explain that, please?”
I don’t know why. I should just tell him that it’s not going to happen. Or that I was joking. Anything other than give him a peek behind my curtain. I haven’t let anyone back there in ages, and while some of the basics have become the basis for folklore around town, nobody other than Jacob knows the whole truth.
But that’s what I suddenly start telling him. The truth, not the overinflated stories.
“When I was eleven, I went to summer camp. One of those sleepaway deals where you make fire with flint rocks, row canoes around the lake, and roast marshmallows over campfires.” I pause, the memories washing over me.
“Sounds fun?” Blake hedges.
“It was. At first. But one night, after the camp counselors went to bed, a bunch of us snuck out into the woods. We were just stupid kids, telling ghost stories and playing spin the bottle. His name was Michael Wilson. It was my first kiss, his too, I think, because we didn’t know what to do. We basically just tried to eat each other’s face. But I didn’t know he . . .”
“He what?” Blake prompts when I don’t continue.
“He was allergic to peanut butter and I’d had a PBJ for dinner. One second, we’re kissing, sloppily getting saliva everywhere because we were horrible kissers. And the next, his lips are swelling up and turning red, and he looks like a Jessica Rabbit caricature. It was awful.”
“Was he okay?” Blake’s voice sounds choked, as if he understands how traumatic that was for younger me.
“Yeah, they gave him an epi shot and took him to the ER. He was fine, came back to camp even. And he got invited the next time everyone snuck out to the woods, but I didn’t.”
“This kid, Michael, needed an epi shot from a peanut butter-infected, sloppy, secret kiss? That was your first kiss?” Blake recaps. “Damn, that sucks.”
Before I can answer, try to explain that I didn’t know about Michael’s allergy because I didn’t even know him or I would’ve never kissed him, Blake busts up in laughter.
I’m stunned into shocked silence. He’s laughing? I almost killed a kid!
“Did anyone else kiss him that summer, or were they all too scared to? Holy shit, I bet the counselors got reamed out for that. Kids sneaking out, unauthorized make-out sessions, and what was probably described as a near-death experience when Michael’s mom heard about her ‘precious boy’s peanut butter exposure’.” His voice pitches high, mimicking this mythical mother, and he’s still laughing, actually laughing harder and rougher with every word as he paints a picture that’s similar to my story but also very different.
“No, it was . . . I almost killed him!” I exclaim, trying to make him understand the seriousness. But suddenly, I can’t help it. I start laughing too. “Oh, my God! I almost killed him with a peanut butter kiss!”
Twisted sense of humor aside, I’m horrified that I’m donkey-braying over some kid’s medical emergency. But mostly, I’m laughing at my own trauma. It was truly horrifying back then, and worse, it was the start of everything that happened after.