Smitten

Fish: You’ve got a couple days. And then I’m going to start nagging you mercilessly.

I smile broadly to myself. He’s assuming we’re going to keep in touch after this conversation?

Me: Deal. But only if you sing me “Delightful Damage.”

Fish: Uhhhh. The thing is . . . I’ve never sung that song for anyone but Dax and Colin.

Me: Cool. I can’t wait to be your first.

I wait. And wait. And, finally, Fish sends me a thumbs-up emoji, followed by this message:

Fish: So, heeeyyyyy, girl. Before you bounce to Boston tomorrow, you want to come to my place for dinner tonight? No bull will be on the menu. Only fish. (Note the lowercase spelling.)

“Oh my God!” I whisper-shout to the ceiling of my bedroom. I can’t believe I just got asked out on a date by someone I actually like for the first time in my life—and I have to turn him down.

Me: Thanks SO MUCH for the invitation. I’d loooooove to come to dinner tonight. But, unfortunately, I promised my mom I’d hang out with her on my last night here, since I’m not coming back until Thanksgiving.

As I press send, I literally whimper with distress, even though a piece of my brain knows it’s probably for the best. If I were to go to Fish’s place tonight, and finally kiss him, I’d surely fall hard for him. Even harder than I already have. And what good would that do me, with me in Boston and Fish traipsing around the world, playing arenas?

Fish: No worries. Family first. Have a good time with yo momma. Hopefully, I’ll get to make you that fish dinner when you’re back in LA for Thanksgiving. Although I usually go to Seattle for T-Day, so . . .

He adds a frownie-face to the end of his message—which accurately reflects my actual facial expression in this moment. The good news, though? It seems Fish is willing to stay in touch with me for months!

Me: If you’re in LA when I’m back, then I’d LOVE to see you again. Even if it’s only five minutes! And, of course, if you’re ever in Boston, or anywhere on the East Coast, let me know and I’ll come see you, if that’d be okay.

Fish: I’d LOVE it! Hey, would you want to FaceTime with me tonight after you’re done hanging out with your mom? I’m a night owl, so you could call me any time. I’d love to say a proper goodbye to you.

Me: YES!

He sends me a dancing-man emoji with his phone number, so I reply with a dancing-woman emoji and my number, along with the following message:

Me: If you’re a night owl, maybe we could watch This Is the End together on Zoom tonight? It’s one of my all-time favorites.

Fish: OMFG! Calling you now.

Even as I’m reading his message, my phone rings with an incoming call from an unknown number—and when I quickly compare the number to the one Fish just gave me, it’s a match.

“Alessandra’s Pizzeria,” I say in greeting.

“Hello, yes, I’ll take twenty large cheese pizzas. Hold the cheese. Hold the sauce. Extra crust.”

I laugh. “So, you want a Frisbee, then?”

“No, I want twenty.”

We both laugh.

“I know you have to go, but I had to call real quick,” Fish says. “I had to tell you I love This Is the End more than I love taking air into my lungs!”

I giggle. “Me, too!”

“Dude! That movie, more than any other, is a litmus test for me. If people hate that one, then I hate them.”

“Amen. My other litmus test movie is The Incredible Burt Wonderstone.”

“I love that one, too!”

“Oh, thank God. What a pity if I had to hate you. Isn’t that movie the best?”

“The best. Second only to This Is the End.”

And we’re off. Talking about our favorite scenes from both movies in a rapid-fire back and forth that makes me feel like we’re right back at the party last night. Like our hands are clasped and all’s right with the world.

But, crap, mid-sentence about Rihanna slapping the shit out of Michael Cera in This Is the End, I’m interrupted by a knock on my door.

“Ally?” Mom says. She pokes her head into my room. “Are you coming? Dinner is ready.”

I point at the phone against my ear and raise my index finger, and, thankfully, she quietly dips out of the room.

“That was my mom,” I say as the door closes. “I promised her we’d have dinner and design floral arrangements tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. You said your mom’s a florist.”

“I’m surprised you remember that.”

“I remember everything you said.”

My heart skips a beat. “One of our favorite things to do together has always been designing flowers for her wedding clients.”

“That sounds fun.”

“It is. Besides the obvious considerations—color and shape and scent, et cetera—there’s a whole language of flowers, dating back to Victorian times, that’s super fun to decode and send secret messages with.”