Should I Fall Out of Love?

We got to Applebee's a few minutes later. Getting gout of the car was easier said than done. First, it took me a few seconds to find the door handle. And once I found it, I could not get the door popped oven.

Jeremy pulled the key from the ignition, and sighed. "I hate that door handle. That is going to be the next thing I fix, if it's the last thing I do. Let me get that for you."

I leaned back as Jeremy leaned over me. I smiled when he was not looking—thinking that if anyone was going to do the leaning tonight, I would have thought it to be me. Jeremy gave the handle three hard jerks—hard enough that the car swayed with inertia. On the fourth jerk, the door popped open, and Jeremy lost his balance. He braced himself by placing a hand on my thigh. He pushed himself up, and mumbled an apology.

"Don't be sorry," I said, stepping out of the car. "I'm just happy that you got me out of this thing without having to use the jaws of life to do it."

"Still, that thing is a pain in the ass," Jeremy said. "And I just sprayed it down, Tuesday. Usually with some WD-40, it'll open pretty smooth for a couple of weeks. It must be getting bad."

We walked to Applebee's side by side. I found myself wishing he would have held my hand through the parking lot. I smiled at how ridiculously my thoughts were getting out of hand.

"What are you smiling about?" Jeremy asked.

"Oh, nothing," I replied. "Just random stupid thoughts."

I was glad when Jeremy let it go. I do not know what answer I could have possibly made up if he pressed me. I definitely could not have gone with the truth. Never in a thousand years could I have told the guy I wanted him to hold my hand. I came to realize that Jeremy was very intuitive; a huge plus in my book. Although we had gone through nothing together but a car ride, and some small talk, I felt as though I had learned a lot about him. And I liked everything I learned about the guy. Before heading out, I expected the opposite. I expected to spend the car ride with him exposing faults, and me keeping score. I found it incredible that I started counting things that I liked about the guy. I even found that I liked the sound of his footsteps; soft, yet sure. When Paulie mentioned Jeremy coming over, I thought that I was going to have to beat him off with a stick. I now knew that if one of use was getting stick time, it would be me. And this revelation cost me dearly. I felt that I was getting carried away with myself. I had been around the guy for fifteen minutes, and thought that I was falling for him. I kept trying to tell myself to get a hold of things, and to act logically—maturely. I knew I risked getting hurt acting like this. And as Jeremy held the door open for me, I thought that I had two options. I could run like hell, or step into the restaurant and face some unknowns. With my next step, my foot touched carpet. Ahead of me in the restaurant—lurking at every table and empty booth—were enough unknowns to make me dizzy.

A small, petite hostess grabbed two menus from the slot. "A table for two?"

I did not hear a word that she said, and was grateful when Jeremy spoke up. "Yes. And can we have a booth please?"

"Sure thing," the hostess said. "Right this way."

We followed the hostess to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. The nearest people were an elderly white couple four tables away. It felt as though we had the place to ourselves. The place—an hour from closing time—was sparsely populated, and on a Wednesday night in the middle of June there were no sporting events large enough to attract much of a crowd. There was a Diamondback's game playing on a couple of the televisions, and televised poker on the TV above our table. As we sat, Jeremy looked to the screen, and I thought that he was interested in watching other people play cards.

"I think that I'm going to have the server change the channel," Jeremy said. "I can't stand televised poker. Never saw the point in it. Here is a game that we'll never get a chance at the table. You know? And there is just something about watching other people win money that gets me. I'm not the type that just wants to wait around and watch others become successful."

"I pretty much feel the same way," I said.

"Don't get me wrong," Jeremy said. "I'm up for a card game. But only if I'm going to be an active participant. It's no fun standing on the sideline."

Our waitress came over, and asked us what we would like to drink. Jeremy handed me the cocktail menu.

"I'm driving, so I'd like to have a Coke," Jeremy said. "And whatever he wants."

"I think that I'll take a Sprite," I said.

Jeremy shook his head, and took the small menu away from me. "We'll take a Sprite, and an electric lemonade."

The waitress scribbled on her pad, and turned away without looking up.

"I'm not a big drinker," I said. "I think that last time I drank was last Paulie's birthday last November. And even then, I didn't get wasted. Paulie did though. He threw up in the bathtub."

"Well, we'll try to avoid that outcome tonight," Jeremy said. "Maybe we'll share the electric lemonade. I'm not a huge drinker, either. Kind of lost its appeal over time. But I don't mind having a drink or two after work once in a while to help unwind. Work's been rough the last few weeks—especially after Johnny lost a hand."

I creased my eyebrows. "What do you do for a living?"

Jeremy scoffed. "More like scraping by by the skin of my teeth than a living. But I work at my uncle's sheet metal factory, and I work on motorcycles on the side. It was in the factory where the guy lost a hand."

"That's pretty horrible," I said. "Is it really that dangerous?"

Jeremy shook his head. "Not really. Johnny was good. Hard working. But he also gets in a hurry and cuts corners. And it finally caught up with him. There are guys who have worked at the plant 30 years, and have not lost so much as a hangnail. It's not bad, if you can stay focused. I think it's more dangerous at the garage than at the factory. A lot of sketchy people ride motor cycles. And believe it or not, auto or bike mechanics have stressful jobs. People always breathing down their necks to hurry up. Gripes about the bill being too expensive. Those sort of things. And at the garage, I'm dealing with people who have been to prison and aren't afraid to go back if I fuck up their bikes. So at the plant I may lose a digit or two, but in the garage I can wind up buried in the desert or stuffed in someone's crawl space. And you?"

I looked down, knowing that my reply would pale in comparison to his job. "I'm an office manager for a law firm in Scottsdale."

"Manager, huh?" Jeremy said. "Pretty impressive."

"Not so much," I replied. "Mostly I'm the one who orders the post-its, and changes the ink toner of the printer. I occasionally pick up a phone. There is zero danger or heroics in my job."

"Believe me," Jeremy replied. "It's better that way. Like look at me. I go in every day knowing if I lose a hand I am royally screwed. There aren't that many one-handed mechanics or machine operators. That's what Johnny has learned. The guy has been working for my uncle since he got out of high school. And that was more than 30 years ago. So, now, he is a 50-year old man with little other job experience. I mean if he is lucky, my uncle will keep him around as a broom man, but I don't know. I just don't want to turn out like Johnny."

"Why don't you just go to school then?" I asked. "There are thousands of technical degrees out there—once that aren't so dangerous."

"Because I'm poor," Jeremy said. "And poor boys go to work. It's what we do. I think maybe eventually I will get into something. But I need to get my life together for a minute. Get things steady first."

"I don't know," I said. "You seem to have it together pretty well."

Jeremy smiled sadly. "Not as well as you think. I got out of a bad relationship a few months back, and I'm still stepping on the pieces of my life. But I'm getting to the point where I'm starting to feel better about things. The worst part is that my ex took my daughter out of state. That's hard to deal with."

"You have a daughter?" I asked.

"Yeah," Jeremy said, pulling out his cell phone. "She'll be four in a few weeks. She lives with her mom in Texas."

Jeremy showed me a picture of his daughter.

"She's very pretty," I said.

"Yes," Jeremy said. "Looks just like my mom. I only get to see her like twice a year. So that kind of sucks. But I just keep pushing on."

Our waitress came with a small tray with our three drinks on it. She placed our soft drinks on square coasters in front of us, and the electric lemonade in the center of the table. She then asked if we wanted something to eat.

"I'm not all that hungry," I replied.

"I think we'll just go for the appetizer sampler," Jeremy said. "That should tide us over."

The waitress did not scribble anything on her pad. I figured that it was easy enough to remember. It was not as though we had just ordered half the menu, or anything.

"Is that going to be fine?" Jeremy asked.

"Yeah, like I said, I'm not that hungry."

I looked at my drink, and the blue cocktail at the center of the table. I reached for the electric lemonade, and nearly knocked it over. I thought that if anything, it would help calm my nerves. I thought that maybe, I'd be a little more fun if I had a slight buzz going on. I took the first sip and winced.

"Is it strong?" Jeremy asked.

I swallowed hard. "Yeah, but it's still not bad. I think all the alcohol settled on the bottom or something."

I took another pull from the straw, though I did not draw as much of the drink in. But this mouthful was just as strong as the first. And I knew that if I did not pace myself, I would catch more than a buzz off this glass.

"Let me try it," Jeremy said.

He reached across the table, and lifted the glass to his lips, pinning the straw to the side so as to not poke himself in the eye with it. He took a small sip and winced as well.

"Electric lemonade?" he said. "That's more like

nuclear

lemonade. You don't have to drink that if you don't want it. I can send it back if you want."

I shook my head, and pulled the glass back to me—taking another sip from the straw. I was careful not to wince this time around. Actually, this swallow went down much easier than the two before it. I sat back in the chair, and already I could feel the alcohol take effect.

"No, it's fine," I replied. "It's really not that bad." I took another sip as though to prove a point. I tried hard not to wince. I winced, anyway.

A few minutes later, the waitress came back with our appetizer platter in hand. When she asked if we needed anything, I surprised myself in ordering another electric lemonade. I still had about a third of my glass to go, but the alcohol was starting to get to me. It spoke in soothing tones:

You came this far, why not a little further?

It felt like the thing to do at the time.

Jeremy picked up a chicken strip, and dunked it in ranch dressing. "Careful, these are hot. They were quick. I like when they're quick. I'm not the waiting around type."

I picked up a mozzarella stick, and bit it in half. I wish that I had listened to Jeremy. The molten cheese felt like napalm in my mouth. I took a large gulp of electric lemonade to sooth things. I was already well enough soothed as it was. I turned my head, and blew out—half-expecting to see smoke or steam.

"You all right?" Jeremy asked. "I told you things were hot. It's like they turned the ovens up to about 600 to get them out quicker."

I wiped my mouth with a cocktail napkin. "No, I'm okay. I was just a little surprised, that's all. They were probably in a hurry to close. They want us out of here by ten."

Jeremy checked his cell phone. "Well, we still have more than a half hour. They're not going to push us out the door. It's not healthy to eat in a hurry."

"I guess not," I replied.

The waitress came back yet again with my second electric lemonade. She set it on the table, and told us that we could pay any time with the card reader at the table.

I looked at the last couple ounces of my drink, and felt compelled to finish it, so I could work on the next. I figured that these drinks were going for six or eight bucks a pop, and was simply not up for wasting money. I downed the last two ounces from the first glass, and sipped from the second. My conscience was telling me to slow down, but I was drinking against a deadline. And though strong as the cocktails were, it was not as though I was pounding shots. I told myself to not be such a chicken, and promptly blew on a the mozzarella stick for thirty seconds before braving a bite.

Jeremy and I picked at the appetizer platter for twenty minutes, before Jeremy slid his card. I offered to help, and he denied me—balked even when I offered to cover the tip. A part of me clung to the fact that this was not a date, until this point. Watching him slide his card through the slot, I had no other choice than to consider myself dated. I drank the rest of the electric lemonade, as Jeremy entered his email address for the receipt.

I thought that I was keeping things together well. While, I felt very much buzzed, I was warm and relaxed—until I stood up. The buzz then trebled closer to an all-out inebriation, and I was struck with a sense of drink vertigo. I was not certain whether I needed to or not, but I clutched onto the edge of the table for balance. I wanted to err on the side of caution. A face plant in front of Jeremy would have been near-fatal. Especially after only two drinks.

I tried to play things off. I did not want to reveal just how drunk I was. And after taking a wobbly first step, I thought I was doing a lousy job at that. I did not want Jeremy to think I was a lightweight, and I was still not a hundred percent sure about the guy. I've known too many guys over the years for blind trust. While I felt safe with Jeremy, I knew that it was not a great idea to get stupid drunk with a man looking to score.

As we left the restaurant, I drifted to the left—coming dangerously close to a row of shrubs. And if a face plant was fatal, a stumble into the hedges would have certainly landed me with a brush with death. A face plant is one thing, but falling to shrubs could cut me up. There was no way I could possibly explain it to Paulie without a near fatal dose of shame.

But Jeremy stayed with me. He placed an arm behind the small of my back, and guided me down the walkway. I looked over to him and smiled.

"It's the concrete," I said. "Whoever poured it did a crappy job leveling it."

"Right," Jeremy replied, smiling in a way that to show he saw right through my bullshit.

"Okay, you got me," I replied. "Just get me to the car. Because the lot's pavement is even worse."

I plopped down into the passenger seat hard enough that the car bounced. Jeremy told me to watch my toes, and closed the door behind me. I leaned back into the seat, and watched him walk around the car and get in. As he put the keys into the ignition, I made the mistake of talking.

"You know, I can see myself going places with you," I said.

Jeremy pulled out, and looked at me sideways as he checked the rear view mirror. "Well, I hope so. It's either that or you're walking home."

"It's too far for that," I replied.

"Get your seatbelt on," Jeremy said, peremptorily. His tone was so serious that I immediately latched my seatbelt.

"I'm crazy when it comes to seatbelts," he said. "My old man let me ride without one as a kid, and we got into a pretty bad car crash. My vision has been shit since. I can't see shit without my glasses or contacts."

"That's pretty intense," I said.

"Yeah, it was," Jeremy said. "I hear that people say they don't remember traumatic events. But I remember everything. The moment of impact, the crashing into the guard rail—everything. It was when we hit the guard rail that messed me up. My head bounced off the window, and I saw a flash of lights. They were the last thing I ever saw clearly again. I remember afterward, I kept rubbing my eyes. My vision was cloudy, and I had thought that I had gotten the air bag dust in my eyes. But it never cleared. Crazy, huh?"

I could say nothing. For this I was grateful. I knew that anything that would have come out of my mouth would have been clumsy and wooden. But I could not help but look into his eyes. His damaged eyes. For some reason, I found such a flaw incredibly attractive. It always ingratiates people to me when I learn that they are damaged, too.

"Yeah, but it is no big deal," Jeremy said. "You learn to adjust. That happened when I was eight years old. So, I've been dealing with it for the majority of my life. You know what else is crazy?"

I shrugged. "No, what?"

"My dreams," Jeremy said. "The last year my dreams are being effected. All the while—these last fourteen—fifteen years, my dreams have been clear. The last year, my vision is failing in my dreams as well. Sometimes, I have nightmares that my glasses break and can't find my contacts. Sometimes I lose my glasses, and spend the rest of the dream blind, until I wake up. The funny thing is, without my glasses in my dreams, I am more blind that I am in real life. What a pain in the ass dreams can be. You know?"

"Oh, I know it," I replied—me, no stranger to cruel dreams, myself. "You don't need to tell me."

"We going back to your place?" Jeremy said.

"Yeah, sure," I replied. "You have to work in the morning?"

I then regretted the question. While I did not mind the prospect, I was not sure whether I wanted Jeremy to spend the night. I felt the question implied that I had wanted him to do just that.

"No," Jeremy replied. "I go back in the day after, but it's only a plant day. It's been kind of slow out at the garage. I can hang out for a while, if you want."

I did not respond for a few seconds. I did not want to seem too eager. "That's cool. At least until Greg has to go. Paulie said he had to go in at something like four am."

"Yeah," Jeremy said. "But I know that guy. He can work on fumes. I've seen him play video games the second he gets home from work until the next day when he has to go back in. We'll give him some time. And when you get tired or something, I'll bang on Paulie's door."

"Sounds like a plan," I said.

We got back to the house in ten minutes. We did not say much more on the way back. I was lost in my buzz, and wondering where to take things from here. As Jeremy drove, I stole a few glances at his crotch—though I do not know just how secretive these glances actually were. That the interior of the car was dark, I could not see much. I considered placing my hand on his hip, and working my way over, but I talked myself out of it. That would have been much to forward on my part. I thought that there was a pretty good chance I would wind up at least blowing Jeremy tonight, but I did not necessarily want to do so in Greg's car. Not that I'm totally against exhibition, but I did not want to appear desperate—though that word clearly defined me.

Though I maintained my balance down the walkway to the house, Jeremy still placed a hand at the small of my back. And this drove me wild. It felt as though he was taking possession of me. And I did not fail to register that his hand was merely inches from my ass.

I slid my key into the lock, and opened the front door. With our first step into the house, we both stopped and listened for sounds of Paulie and Greg. Thankfully the house was quiet. Though sounds of sex would have been suggestive, they also would have made things awkward—the way people sucking face in public does.

"Sounds like they got it out of their system," I whispered.

"Good," Jeremy said, closing the door behind us. "We can use some peace and quiet. I don't know how you do it."