Weathered Love

DEREK II

On our first date, which was the evening of my last day of classes, Derek took me out for Mediterranean Tapas. It was at a cozy, underground type of place. I thought these only existed in the movies.

He was the perfect gentleman: he picked me up, opened up all the doors for me, held my hand as I walked over ice in stilettos... the stilettos were a bad idea, but he had told me to dress up, and I wanted to impress. I wore my favorite dress that I rarely had occasion to wear, and I even put on some makeup and straightened my hair.

The most shocking thing that happened that night was my parents agreeing to let me go out on a date. I guess they were worried about me, because my mom kept assuring me that I looked stunning even when I didn't ask and I could have sworn I heard my dad mumble something about someone finally seeing my worth. But that last part might have just been in my head.

"So, what do you want to do with your life?" Derek asked me after we had gone through the little chit-chat about our days and telling each other about our families.

"Not sure," I automatically lied. It was a habit.

"Really?" he asked. But his reaction wasn't one of surprise. Somehow, his expression told me that he didn't believe me. Oh well, I'd might as well tell him. I'd probably scare him off at some point during this date and I'd never see him again anyway. Besides, I liked talking about my passion, and I rarely get a chance to do so.

"Fine," I said. "Honestly, I just want to write. If I could become a successful novelist, I will be happy in my life."

It looked like he was trying not to smile. "Why do you want to do that?" he asked. He seemed genuinely curious.

"Because, then I get to create my own world with my own people and I can control what they do and say and I can determine the outcome. I know I sound like a control-freak, but in a world where even my own actions aren't the exclusive determinative of the outcome, it's nice to have a place where I know exactly what will happen," I started.

Then I stopped. "Sorry, you probably don't care to know about that." When did I become so outwardly insecure and scared? I was usually the brave and strong one on the outside, regardless of what I felt on the inside.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't care," he said, not breaking his gaze. I looked down in embarrassment. "And if anyone asks and then doesn't care, they're an idiot," he continued. I looked up. Was he being for real? "What happened?" he asked after a few tense seconds.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Who made you feel bad about dreaming?"

I shrugged. "Nobody and everybody. You know how it is. I need to grow up and find a real job. Get my head out of the clouds. Stop dreaming and start acting my age," I explained.

"Ah," he said, dipping a piece of pita into the hummus sitting in the middle of our table. "There's nothing wrong with dreaming. Imagine if all the great writers 'stopped dreaming'," he said, putting his free hand up and doing air-quotes. "We wouldn't have all the great literature that we have out there."

"Probably not," I said, shrugging and eyeing the food.

"Do you not like hummus?" he asked.

"I do," I replied.

"You're not going to turn me off if you eat," he said, reading my mind.

"What about you?" I asked, changing subjects. "What do you want to do with your life?"

"I'm going to be a trainer," he said. "I'm just waiting to finish high school, and then I'm going to get my certification." I started to feel insecure again.